Personal Reminiscences in Book Making, and Some Short Stories

The state of quiescence culminated at the dinner-table, for there the silence was total! I never saw anything like it! When we had all assembled in the cabin, at the almost whispered invitation of the steward, and had stood for a few minutes looking benign and expectant, but not talking, the captain entered, bowed to the company, was bowed to by the company, motioned us to our seats, whispered “ver so goot,” and sat down.

Now this phrase “ver so goot” merits particular notice. It is an expression that seems to me capable of extension and distension. It is a flexible, comfortable, jovial, rollicking expression. To give a perfect translation of it is not easy; but I cannot think of a better way of conveying its meaning, than by saying that it is a compound of the phrases—“be so good,” “by your leave,” “what’s your will,” “bless your heart,” “all serene,” and “that’s your sort!”

The first of these, “be so good,” is the literal translation—the others are the super-induced sentiments, resulting from the tone and manner in which it is said. You may rely on it, that, when a Norwegian offers you anything and says ver so goot, he means you well and hopes you will make yourself comfortable.

Well, there was no carving at that dinner. The dishes were handed round by waiters. First we had very thin rice soup with wine and raisins in it—the eating of which seemed to me like spoiling one’s dinner with a bad pudding. This finished, the plates were removed. “Now,” thought I, “surely some one will converse with his neighbour during this interval.” No! not a lip moved! I looked at my right and left-hand men; I thought, for a moment, of venturing out upon the unknown deep of a foreign tongue, and cleared my throat for that purpose, but every eye was on me in an instant; and the sound of my own voice, even in that familiar process, was so appalling that I said nothing! I looked at a pretty girl opposite me. I felt certain that the youth beside her was about to speak—he looked as if he meant to, but he didn’t. In a few minutes the next course came on. This was a dish like bread-pudding, minus currants and raisins; it looked like a sweet dish, but it turned out to be salt,—and pure melted butter, without any admixture of flour or water, was handed round as sauce. After this came veal and beef cutlets, which were eaten with cranberry jam, pickles, and potatoes. Fourth and last came a course of cold sponge-cake, with almonds and raisins stewed over it, so that, when we had eaten the cake as a sort of cold pudding, we slid, naturally and pleasantly, into dessert, without the delay of a change of plates.

There was no remaining to drink at that dinner. When the last knife and fork were laid down, we all rose simultaneously, and then a general process of bowing ensued.

In regard to this proceeding I have never been able to arrive at a clear understanding, as to what was actually done or intended to be done, but my impression is, that each bowed to the other, and all bowed to the captain; then the captain bowed to each individually and to all collectively, after which a comprehensive bow was made by everybody to all the rest all round—and then we went on deck to smoke. As each guest passed out, he or she said to the captain, “tak for mad,” which is a manner and custom, and means “thanks for meat.” With the exception of these three words, not a single syllable, to the best of my belief, was uttered by any one during the whole course of that meal!

Of course the gentlemen of our party performed many wonderful exploits in fishing, for sea-trout and salmon abound in Norway, and the river beds are very rugged.

In that land fishing cannot be styled the “gentle art.” It is a tearing, wearing, rasping style of work. An account of the catching of one fish will prove this.

One morning I had gone off to fish by myself, with a Norwegian youth to gaff and carry the fish. Coming to a sort of weir, with a deep pool above and a riotous rapid below, I put on a salmon fly and cast into the pool. At once a fish rose and was hooked. It was not a big one—only 12 pounds or thereabouts—but quite big enough to break rod and line if not played respectfully.

For some time, as is usual with salmon, he rushed about the pool, leaped out of the water, and bored up stream. Then he took to going down stream steadily. Now this was awkward, for when a fish of even that size resolves to go down stream, nothing can stop him. My efforts were directed to turning him before he reached the rapid, for, once into that, I should be compelled to follow him or break the line—perhaps the rod also.

At last he reached the head of the rapid. I put on a heavy strain. The rod bent like a hoop and finally began to crack, so I was compelled to let him go.

At the lower end of the pool there was a sort of dam, along which I ran, but soon came to the end of it, where it was impossible to reach the shore owing to the dense bushes which overhung the stream. But the fish was now in the rapid and was forced down by the foaming water. Being very unwilling to break the line or lose the fish, I went slowly into the rapid until the water reached the top of my long wading boots—another step and it was over them, but that salmon would not—indeed could not—stop. The water filled my boots at once, and felt very cold at first, but soon became warm, and each boot was converted into a warmish bath, in which the legs felt reasonably comfortable.

I was reckless now, and went on, step by step, until I was up to the waist, then to the arm-pits, and then I spread out one arm and swam off while with the other I held up the rod.

The rapid was strong but deep, so that nothing obstructed me till I reached the lower end, when a rock caught my legs and threw me into a horizontal position, with the rod flat on the water. I was thrown against the bank, where my Norwegian boy was standing mouth open, eyes blazing, and hand extended to help me out.

When I stood panting on the bank, I found that the fish was still on and still inclined to descend, but I found that I could not follow, for my legs were heavy as lead—the boots being full of water. To take the latter off in a hurry and empty them was impossible. To think of losing the fish after all was maddening. Suddenly a happy thought struck me. Handing the rod to the boy I lay down on my back, cocked my legs in the air, and the water ran like a deluge out at the back of my neck! Much relieved, I resumed the rod, but now I found that the fish had taken to sulking.

This sulking is very perplexing, for the fish bores its nose into some deep spot below a stone, and refuses to budge. Pulling him this way and that way had no effect. Jerking him was useless. Even throwing stones at him was of no avail. I know not how long he kept me there, but at last I lost patience, and resolved to force him out, or break the line. But the line was so good and strong that it caused the rod to show symptoms of giving way.

Just then it struck me that as there were several posts of an old weir in the middle of the stream, he must have twisted the line round one of these, broken himself off and left me attached to it! I made up my mind therefore to wade out to the old weir, and unwind the line, and gave the rod to the boy to hold while I did so.

The water was deep. It took me nearly up to the neck before I reached the shallow just above the posts, but, being thoroughly wet, that did not matter.

On reaching the post, and unwinding the line, I found to my surprise that the fish was still there. At first I thought of letting go the line, and leaving the boy to play him; “but,” thought I, “the boy will be sure to lose him,” so I held on to the line, and played it with my hands. Gradually the fish was tired out. I drew him slowly to my side, and gaffed him in four feet of water.

Even then I was not sure of him, for when I got him under one arm he wriggled violently, so that it was difficult to wade ashore with him. In this difficulty I took him to a place where the shoal in the middle of the stream was about three inches deep. There I lay down on him, picked up a stone and hammered his head with it, while the purling water rippled pleasantly over my face.

The whole of this operation took me upwards of two hours. It will be seen, therefore, that fishing in Norway, as I have said, cannot be called “the gentle art.”

One extremely interesting excursion that we made was to a place named the Essé Fjord. The natives here were very hospitable and kind. Besides that, they were fat! It would almost seem as if fat and good-humour were invariably united; for nearly all the natives of the Essé Fjord were good-humoured and stout!

The language at this place perplexed me not a little. Nevertheless the old proverb, “where there’s a will there’s a way,” held good, for the way in which I conversed with the natives of that region was astounding even to myself.

One bluff, good-humoured fellow took me off to see his house and family. I may as well admit, here, that I am not a good linguist, and usually left our ladies to do the talking! But on this occasion I found myself, for the first time, alone with a Norwegian! fairly left to my own resources.

Well, I began by stringing together all the Norse I knew, (which wasn’t much), and endeavoured to look as if I knew a great deal more. But I soon found that the list of sentences, which I had learned from Murray’s Handbook, did not avail much in a lengthened conversation. My speech quickly degenerated into sounds that were almost unintelligible to either my new friend or myself! and I terminated at last in a mixture of bad Norse and broad Scotch. I have already remarked on the strong family-likeness between Norse and broad Scotch. Here are a few specimens.

They call a cow a coo! A house is a hoose, and a mouse is a moose! Gaae til land, is go to land, or go ashore. Tak ain stole is take a stool, or sit down. Vil du tak am dram? scarcely needs translation—will you take a dram! and the usual answer to that question is equally clear and emphatic—“Ya, jeg vil tak am dram!” One day our pilot saw the boat of a fisherman, (or fiskman), not far off. He knew we wanted fish, so, putting his hands to his mouth, he shouted “Fiskman! har du fisk to sell?” If you talk of bathing, they will advise you to “dook oonder;” and should a mother present her baby to you, she will call it her “smook barn”—her pretty bairn—smook being the Norse word for “pretty,” and barn for child; and it is a curious fact, worthy of particular note, that all the mothers in Norway think their bairns smook—very smook! and they never hesitate to tell you so—why, I cannot imagine, unless it be that if you were not told you would not be likely to find it out for yourself.

Despite our difficulty of communication, my fat friend and I soon became very amicable and talkative. He told me no end of stories, of which I did not comprehend a sentence, but looked as if I did—smiled, nodded my head, and said “ya, ya,”—to which he always replied “ya, ya,”—waving his arms, and slapping his breast, and rolling his eyes, as he bustled along beside me towards his dwelling. The house was perched on a rock close to the water’s edge. Here my host found another subject to expatiate upon and dance round, in the shape of his own baby, a soft, smooth, little imitation of himself, which lay sleeping in its crib, like a small cupid. The man was evidently extremely fond of this infant. He went quite into ecstasies about it; now gazing at it with looks of pensive admiration; anon, starting and looking at me as if to say, “Did you ever, in all your life, see such a beautiful cherub?” The man’s enthusiasm was really catching—I began to feel quite a fatherly interest in the cherub myself.

“Oh!” he cried, in rapture, “det er smook barn!”

“Ya, ya,” said I, “megit smook,” (very pretty)—although I must confess that smoked bairn would have been nearer the mark, for it was as brown as a red-herring.

I spent an agreeable, though I must confess mentally confused, afternoon with this gentleman, who, (when he succeeded in tearing himself away from that much-loved and megit smook barn), introduced me to his two sisters, who were stout and good-humoured like himself. They treated me to a cup of excellent coffee, and to a good deal more of incomprehensible conversation. Altogether, the natives of the Essé Fjord made a deep impression on us, and we parted from their grand and gloomy but hospitable shores with much regret.

I had hoped, good reader, to have jotted down some more of my personal reminiscences of travel—in Algiers, the “Pirate City,” at the Cape of Good Hope, and elsewhere—but bad health is not to be denied, and I find that I must hold my hand.

Perchance this may be no misfortune, for possibly the “garrulity of age” is descending on me!

Before closing this sketch, however, I would say briefly, that in all my writings I have always tried—how far successfully I know not—to advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the life to come.

Chapter Seven

The Burglars and the Parson

A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in at the large bay-window of the dining-room.

“Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this ’ouse is broke into, it will be by the dinin’-room winder.”

So spake the gardener of the mansion—which was also the parsonage—to his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in question. “For why?” he continued; “the winder is low, an’ the catches ain’t overstrong, an there’s no bells on the shutters, an’ it lies handy to the wall o’ the back lane.”

To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He was also strong.

The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets—though in regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one—but if any person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.

“Bill,” growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost inaudible tone, “I’ve bin up to look at the ’ouse, an’ the dinin’-room winder’ll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look at it.”

“You are the man for cheek an’ pluck,” growled the other man, over his beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. “How ever did you manage it, Dick?”

“The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the ’ousemaid; said I was a gardener in search of a job, an’ would she mind tellin’ me where the head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o’ the ’ouse five minutes before. ‘I don’t know as he’s got any odd jobs to give ’ee,’ says she; ‘but he’s in the front garden at this minute. If you goes round, you’ll find him.’ ‘Hall right, my dear,’ says I; an’ away I goes right round past the dinin’-room winder, where I stops an’ looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse I glanced in, an’ saw the fastenin’s.

“They couldn’t keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t’other end, with a lookin’-glass over it—to help folk, I fancy, to see what they look like w’en they’re a-eatin’ their wittles. Anyhow, it helped me to see the gardener comin’ up one o’ the side walks; so I wheels about double quick, an’ looked pleased to see him.

“‘Hallo!’ cries he.

“‘I was lookin’ for you,’ says I, quite easy like.

“‘Did you expect to find me in the dinin’-room?’ says he.

“‘Not just that,’ says I, ‘but it’s nat’ral for a feller to look at a ’andsome room w’en he chances to pass it.’

“‘Ah,’ says he, in a sort o’ way as I didn’t quite like. ‘What d’ee want wi’ me?’

“‘I wants a job,’ says I.

“‘Are you a gardener?’ he axed.

“‘Yes—leastwise,’ says I, ‘I’ve worked a goodish bit in gardings in my time, an’ can turn my ’and to a’most anythink.’

“‘Oh,’ says he. ‘Look ’ere, my man, what d’ee call that there tree?’ He p’inted to one close alongside.

“‘That?’ says I. ‘Well, it—it looks uncommon like a happle.’

“‘Do it?’ says he. ‘Now look ’ere, you be off as fast as your legs can take you, or I’ll set the ’ousedog at ’ee.’

“W’en he said that, Bill, I do assure you, lad, that my experience in the ring seemed to fly into my knuckles, an’ it was as much as ever I could do to keep my left off his nob and my right out of his breadbasket. But I restrained myself. If there’s one thing I’m proud of, Bill, it’s the wirtue o’ self-restraint in the way o’ business. I wheeled about, held up my nose, an’ walked off wi’ the air of a dook. You see, I didn’t want for to have no more words wi’ the gardener,—for why? because I’d seen all I wanted to see—d’ee see? But there was one—no, two—things I saw which it was as well I did see.”

“An’ what was they?” asked Bill.

“Two statters.”

“An’ what are statters?”

“Man alive I don’t ye know? It’s them things that they make out o’ stone, an’ marable, an’ chalk—sometimes men, sometimes women, sometimes babbies, an’ mostly with no clo’es on to speak of—”

“Oh! I know; but I call ’em statoos. Fire away, Dick; what see’d you about the statoos?”

“Why, I see’d that they wasn’t made in the usual way of stone or chalk, but of iron. I have heerd say that sodgers long ago used to fight in them sort o’ dresses, though I don’t believe it myself. Anyhow, there they was, the two of ’em, one on each side of the winder, that stiff that they could stand without nobody inside of ’em, an’ one of ’em with a big thing on his shoulder, as if he wor ready to smash somebody over the head. I thought to myself if you an’ me, Bill, had come on ’em unbeknown like, we’d ha’ got such a start as might have caused us to make a noise. But I hadn’t time to think much, for it was just then I got sight o’ the gardener.”

“Now my plan is,” continued Dick, swigging off his beer, and lowering his voice to a still more confidential tone, as he looked cautiously round, “my plan is to hang about here till dark, then take to the nearest plantation, an’ wait till the moon goes down, which will be about two o’clock i’ the mornin’—when it will be about time for us to go in and win.”

“All right,” said Bill, who was not loquacious.

But Bill was mistaken, for it was all wrong.

There was indeed no one in the public at that early hour of the day to overhear the muttered conversation of the plotters, and the box in which they sat was too remote from the bar to permit of their words being overheard, but there was a broken pane of glass in a window at their elbow, with a seat outside immediately below it. Just before the burglars entered the house they had observed this seat, and noticed that no one was on it; but they failed to note that a small, sleepy-headed pot-boy lay at full length underneath it, basking in the sunshine and meditating on nothing—that is, nothing in particular.

At first little Pat paid no attention to the monotonous voices that growled softly over his head, but one or two words that he caught induced him to open his eyes very wide, rise softly from his lair and sit down on the seat, cock one ear intelligently upward, and remain so absolutely motionless that Dick, had he seen him, might have mistaken him for a very perfect human “statter.”

When little Pat thought that he had heard enough, he slid off the seat, crawled close along the side of the house, doubled round the corner, rose up, and ran off towards the parsonage as fast as his little legs could go.

The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which “came over with the Conqueror” were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors—of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family. Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.

One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.

Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman’s chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.

The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began—slowly at first—to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief—which the boy named “fun”—had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amusement to his people—and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.

It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.

“Plaze yer honour,” said Pat—who was an Irishman, and therefore “honoured” everybody—“there’s two tramps at the public as is plottin’ to break into your house i’ the mornin’.”

“You don’t mean it, do you?” returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.

“That’s just what I do, yer honour. I heard ’em reel off the whole plan.”

Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.

“You’ve not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?”

“Niver a sowl but yersilf, sir.”

“You’re a sensible boy, Pat. Here’s a shilling for you—and, look here, Pat, if you keep dark upon the matter till after breakfast to-morrow and don’t open your lips to a living soul about it, I’ll give you half a crown.”

“Thank yer honour.”

“Now mind—no hints to the police; no remarks to your master. Be dumb, in fact, from this moment, else I won’t give you a penny.”

“Sure I’ve forgot all about it already, sir,” said the boy, with a wink so expressive that Harry felt his word to be as good as his bond, and went back to the parsonage laughing.

Arrived there, he went in search of his sister, but found that she was out.

“Just as well,” he muttered, descending to the dining-room with his hands deep in his pockets, a pleased expression on his handsome mouth, and a stern frown on his brows. “It would not be safe to make a confidant of her in so delicate a matter. No, I’ll do it all alone. But how to do it? That is the question. Shall I invite the aid of the police? Perish the thought! Shall I consult the Pater? Better not. The dear, self-devoted man might take it out of my hands altogether.”

Harry paused in profound meditation. He was standing near the window at the time, with the “statters” on either hand of him.

They were complete suits of armour—one representing a knight in plate armour, the other a Crusader in chain-mail. Both had been in the family since two of the Stronghand warriors had followed Richard of the Lion Heart to the East. As the eldest brother of the Reverend Theophilus was in India, the second was on the deep, and the lawyer was dead, the iron shells of the ancient warriors had naturally found a resting-place in the parsonage, along with several family portraits, which seemed to show that the males of the race were prone to look very stern, and to stand in the neighbourhood of pillars and red curtains in very dark weather, while the females were addicted to old lace, scant clothing, and benign smiles. One of the warriors stood contemplatively leaning on his sword. The other rested a heavy mace on his shoulder, as if he still retained a faint hope that something might turn up to justify his striking yet one more blow.