COPENHAGEN--BERGEN--THE BLACK DEATH--SIGURDR--HOMEWARDS.
Copenhagen, Sept. 12th, 1856.
Our adventures since the date of my last letter have not been of an exciting character. We had fine weather and prosperous winds down the coast, and stayed a day at Christiansund, and another at Bergen. But though the y of the cruise had ceased since our arrival in lower latitudes, there was always a certain raciness and oddity in the incidents of our coasting voyage; such as--waking in the morning, and finding the schooner brought up under the lee of a wooden house, or--riding out a foul wind with your hawser rove through an iron ring in the sheer side of a mountain,--which took from the comparative flatness of daily life on board.
Perhaps the queerest incident was a visit paid us at Christiansund. As I was walking the deck I saw a boat coming off, with a gentleman on board; she was soon alongside the schooner, and as I was gazing down on this individual, and wondering what he wanted, I saw him suddenly lift his feet lightly over the gunwale and plunge them into the water, boots and all. After cooling his heels in this way for a minute or so, he laid hold of the side ropes and gracefully swung himself on deck. Upon this, Sigurdr, who always acted interpreter on such occasions, advanced towards him, and a colloquy followed, which terminated rather abruptly in Sigurdr walking aft, and the web-footed stranger ducking down into his boat again. It was not till some hours later that the indignant Sigurdr explained the meaning of the visit. Although not a naval character, this gentleman certainly came into the category of men "who do business in great waters," his BUSINESS being to negotiate a loan; in short, to ask me to lend him 100 pounds. There must have been something very innocent and confiding in "the cut of our jib" to encourage his boarding us on such an errand; or perhaps it was the old marauding, toll-taking spirit coming out strong in him: the politer influences of the nineteenth century toning down the ancient Viking into a sort of a cross between Paul Jones and Jeremy Diddler. The seas which his ancestors once swept with their galleys, he now sweeps with his telescope, and with as keen an eye to the MAIN chance as any of his predecessors displayed. The feet-washing ceremony was evidently a propitiatory homage to the purity of my quarter-deck.
Bergen, with its pale-faced houses grouped on the brink of the fiord, like invalids at a German Spa, though picturesque in its way, with a cathedral of its own, and plenty of churches, looked rather tame and spiritless after the warmer colouring of Throndhjem; moreover it wanted y to me, as I called in there two years ago on my return from the Baltic. It was on that occasion that I became possessed of my ever-to-be-lamented infant Walrus.
No one, personally unacquainted with that "most delicate monster," can have any idea of his attaching qualities. I own that his figure was not strictly symmetrical, that he had a roll in his gait, suggestive of heavy seas, that he would not have looked well in your boudoir; but he never seemed out of place on my quarter-deck, and every man on board loved him as a brother. With what a languid grace he would wallow and roll in the water, when we chucked him overboard; and paddle and splash, and make himself thoroughly cool and comfortable, and then come and "beg to be taken up," like a fat baby, and allow the rope to be slipped round his extensive waist, and come up--sleek and dripping--among us again with a contented grunt, as much as to say, "Well, after all, there's no place like HOME!" How he would compose himself to placid slumber in every possible inconvenient place, with his head on the binnacle (especially when careful steering was a matter of moment), or across the companion entrance, or the cabin skylight, or on the shaggy back of "Sailor," the Newfoundland, who positively abhorred him. But how touching it was to see him waddle up and down the deck after Mr. Wyse, whom he evidently regarded in a maternal point of view--begging for milk with the most expressive snorts and grunts, and embarrassing my good-natured master by demonstrative appeals to his fostering offices!
I shall never forget Mr. Wyse's countenance that day in Ullapool Bay, when he tried to command his feelings sufficiently to acquaint me with the creature's death, which he announced in this graphic sentence, "Ah, my Lord!--the poor thing!--TOES UP AT LAST!"
Bergen is not as neat and orderly in its architectural arrangements as Drontheim; a great part of the city is a confused network of narrow streets and alleys, much resembling, I should think, its early inconveniences, in the days of Olaf Kyrre. This close and stifling system of street building must have ensured fatal odds against the chances of life in some of those world-devastating plagues that characterised past ages. Bergen was, in fact, nearly depopulated by that terrible pestilence which, in 1349, ravaged the North of Europe, and whose memory is still preserved under the name of "The Black Death."
I have been tempted to enclose you a sort of ballad, which was composed while looking on the very scene of this disastrous event; its only merit consists in its local inspiration, and in its conveying a true relation of the manner in which the plague entered the doomed city.
THE BLACK DEATH OF BERGEN.
I.
What can ail the Bergen Burghers That they leave their stoups of wine? Flinging up the hill like jagers, At the hour they're wont to dine! See, the shifting groups are fringing Rock and ridge with gay attire, Bright as Northern streamers tinging Peak and crag with fitful fire!
II.
Towards the cliff their steps are bending, Westward turns their eager gaze, Whence a stately ship ascending, Slowly cleaves the golden haze. Landward floats the apparition-- "Is it, CAN it be the same?" Frantic cries of recognition Shout a long-lost vessel's name!
III.
Years ago had she departed-- Castled poop and gilded stern; Weeping women, broken-hearted, Long had waited her return. When the midnight sun wheeled downwards, But to kiss the ocean's verge-- When the noonday sun, a moment Peeped above the Wintry surge,
IV.
Childless mothers, orphaned daughters, From the seaward-facing crag, Vainly searched the vacant waters For that unreturning flag! But, suspense and tears are ended, Lo! it floats upon the breeze! Ne'er from eager hearts ascended Thankful prayers as warm as these.
V.
See the good ship proudly rounding That last point that blocks the view; "Strange! no answering cheer resounding From the long home-parted crew!" Past the harbour's stony gateway, Onwards borne by sucking tides, Tho' the light wind faileth--straightway Into port she safely glides.
VI.
Swift, as by good angels carried, Right and left the news has spread. Wives long widowed-yet scarce married-- Brides that never hoped to wed, From a hundred pathways meeting Crowd along the narrow quay, Maddened by the hope of meeting Those long counted cast away.
VII.
Soon a crowd of small boats flutter O'er the intervening space, Bearing hearts too full to utter Thoughts that flush the eager face! See young Eric foremost gaining-- (For a father's love athirst!) Every nerve and muscle straining, But to touch the dear hand FIRST.
VIII.
In the ship's green shadow rocking Lies his little boat at last, Wherefore is the warm heart knocking At his side, so loud and fast? "What strange aspect is she wearing, Vessel once so taut and trim? Shout!--MY heart has lost its daring; Comrades, search!--MY eyes are dim."
IX.
Sad the search, and fearful finding! On the deck lay parched and dry Men--who in some burning, blinding Clime--had laid them down to die! Hands--prayer--clenched--that would not sever, Eyes that stared against the sun, Sights that haunt the soul for ever, Poisoning life--till life is done!
X.
Strength from fear doth Eric gather, Wide the cabin door he threw-- Lo! the face of his dead father, Stern and still, confronts his view! Stately as in life he bore him, Seated--motionless and grand, On the blotted page before him Lingers still the livid hand!
XI.
What sad entry was he making, When the death-stroke fell at last? "Is it then God's will, in taking All, that I am left the last? I have closed the cabin doorway, That I may not see them die:-- Would our bones might rest in Norway,-- 'Neath our own cool Northern sky!"
XII.
Then the ghastly log-told them How-in some accursed clime, Where the breathless land-swell rolled them, For an endless age of time-- Sudden broke the plague among them, 'Neath that sullen Tropic sun; As if fiery scorpions stung them-- Died they raving, one by one!
XIII.
--Told the vain and painful striving, By shot-weighted shrouds to hide (Last fond care), from those surviving, What good comrade last had died; Yet the ghastly things kept showing, Waist deep in the unquiet grave-- To each other gravely bowing On the slow swing of the wave!
XIV.
Eric's boat is near the landing-- From that dark ship bring they aught? In the stern sheets ONE is standing, Though their eyes perceive him not; But a curdling horror creepeth Thro' their veins, with icy darts, And each hurried oar-stroke keepeth Time with their o'er-labouring hearts!
XV.
Heavy seems their boat returning, Weighted with a world of care! Oh, ye blind ones--none discerning WHAT the spectral freight ye bear. Glad they hear the sea-beach grating Harsh beneath the small boat's stem-- Forth they leap, for no man waiting-- But the BLACK DEATH LANDS WITH THEM.
XVI.
Viewless--soundless--stalks the spectre Thro' the city chill and pale, Which like bride, this morn, had decked her For the advent of that sail. Oft by Bergen women, mourning, Shall the dismal tale be told, Of that lost ship home returning, With "THE BLACK DEATH" in her hold!
I would gladly dwell on the pleasures of my second visit to Christiansund, which has a charm of its own, independent of its interest as the spot from whence we really "start for home." But though strange lands, and unknown or indifferent people, are legitimate subjects for travellers' tales, our FRIENDS and their pleasant homes are NOT; so I shall keep all I have to say of gratitude to our excellent and hospitable Consul, Mr. Morch, and of admiration for his charming wife, until I can tell you viva voce how much I wish that you also knew them.
And now, though fairly off from Norway, and on our homeward way, it was a tedious business--what with fogs, calms, and headwinds--working towards Copenhagen. We rounded the Scaw in a thick mist, saw the remains of four ships that had run aground upon it, and were nearly run into ourselves by a clumsy merchantman, whom we had the relief of being able to abuse in our native vernacular, and the most racy sea-slang.
Those five last days were certainly the only tedious period of the whole cruise. I suppose there is something magnetic in the soil of one's own country, which may account for that impatient desire to see it again, which always grows, as the distance from it diminishes; if so, London clay,--and its superstratum of foul, greasy, gas-discoloured mud--began about this time to exercise a tender influence upon me, which has been increasing every hour since: it is just possible that the thoughts of seeing you again may have some share in the matter.
Somebody (I think Fuller) says somewhere, that "every one with whom you converse, and every place wherein you tarry awhile, giveth somewhat to you, and taketh somewhat away, either for evil or for good;" a startling consideration for circumnavigators, and such like restless spirits, but a comfortable thought, in some respects, for voyagers to Polar regions, as (except seals and bears) few things could suffer evil from us there; though for our own parts, there were solemn and wholesome influences enough "to be taken away" from those icy solitudes, if one were but ready and willing to "stow" them.
To-morrow I leave Copenhagen, and my good Sigurdr, whose companionship has been a constant source of enjoyment, both to Fitz and myself, during the whole voyage; I trust that I leave with him a friendly remembrance of our too short connexion, and pleasant thoughts of the strange places and things we have seen together; as I take away with me a most affectionate memory of his frank and kindly nature, his ready sympathy, and his imperturbable good humour. From the day on which I shipped him--an entire stranger--until this eve of our separation--as friends, through scenes of occasional discomfort, and circumstances which might sometimes have tried both temper and spirits--shut up as we were for four months in the necessarily close communion of life on board a vessel of eighty tons,--there has never been the shadow of a cloud between us; henceforth, the words "an Icelander" can convey no cold or ungenial associations to my ears, and however much my imagination has hitherto delighted in the past history of that singular island, its Present will always claim a deeper and warmer interest from me, for Sigurdr's sake.
To-morrow Fitz and I start for Hamburg, and very soon after--at least as soon as railrand steamer can bring me--I look for the joy of seeing your face again.
By the time this reaches Portsmouth, the "Foam" will have perfomed a voyage of six thousand miles.
I have had a most happy time of it, but I fear my amusement will have cost you many a weary hour of anxiety and suspense.
This book is provided by FunNovel Novel Book | Fan Fiction Novel [Beautiful Free Novel Book]