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smoking resumed, till the national song of Norway is commenced, and sung in loud chorus by all with the greatest enthusiasm. This air and song, composed by Bishop Nordahl Bruun, of Bergen, are truly national, and so well express the feelings of a Norwegian, combining, at the same time, so much simplicity and even sublimity of expression, that we shall present the reader with a literal translation.
Boer Jeg paa det hoie field
Hvor en Finn skjod en reen med sin rifle paa skien.
Should I dwell on the lofty mountains,
Where the Laplander on his snow-skaits, with his rifle shoots the
Where a fountain bubbles up,
And where the ptarmigan flutters in the heath;
With my song will I bring forth
Every treasure concealed in the fissures of the rocks;
With them am I happy and rich,
Buy wine and pay my expenses.
The summit of the rock which bears the pine
Is the free town of jovial souls;
The noise of the world beneath
Reacheth not to my cloud-capt' dwelling.
Should I dwell in the green valley,
Where a river meanders gently through rich grassy meadows;
Where my saloon is a cottage of leaves,
And the produce of the earth satisfies me;
Where the playful sheep and lambs
Skip about and nibble leaves, and where the oxen low;
I there laugh beartily at the boastings of fashion,
And at interest of money, which increases riches.
From my lowly, peaceful dale
I see the fall of many of the migbty,
Sit in safety on my grassy sod,
And empty my goblet to friendship!'
Should I live near the naked beach,
On a holm abounding with eggs, in the midst of the rolling
Wbere a flock of birds on the water
Pursues the herring, sprat, and morten;
If I then get a draught of fish,
So full of roes that my boat is in a fair way of sinking,
I am happy, rich, and satisfied.
Let the miser complain as long as he pleases,-
One dish suffices for the table of the contented.
Long may fish swim ! that was the toast
On which I took my glass,
Sang, and drank ' Long may the fisheries flourish!'
Let us sing, then, the mountain, the valley, and the strand;
Gold from the rocks, bread from the valley, and fish in abundance
from the shores.
Fill your glass with wine to the brim!
Norway is not a desert;
Joy is there cherished, even by Nature herself.
Let who that will be a Turk,
Sit thirsty, peevish, and ill-natured!
We drink Norway's bonour and prosperity,
Sing of our valleys, mountains, and shores,
And wish that every thing may prosper with those
To whom our country and society are dear.
During the concluding verses, the fishery of Finmark, upon the success of which the welfare of these convivial brethren so much depends, is invariably drunk with loud acclamations. As the glasses are replenished, fresh toasts are proposed, and the contents are speedily emptied. Many of the toasts, says Mr. de Brooke, were expressive of their kind feeling towards me as a stranger; and Gammel Engeland, • Old England,' Welkommen til Finmarken, - Welcome to Finmark, and a lucky journey over the mountains,' formed constantly a part. Tea is generally taken at the commencement of these entertainments, and about three hours afterwards the mellem mad served. This, which means the middle meal, and is merely a kind of interlude, is brought in on a tray, and handed round to all, consisting of brandy, smoked salmon or halibut, with sandwiches made of thin slices of German sausage. not the least interruption to what is going forward; and about ten o'clock, the aftensmad, or supper, is announced; upon which the party retire to an adjoining room, if there happens to be one, to partake of it. The aftens mad consists, almost invariably, of a large dish of boiled fish, accompanied in summer with a ren stek, or piece of rein-deer venison, roasted, and
eaten with jam of the preserved möltæbær, or cloudberry, and different pickles. Nothing but punch is drunk during this time, and, the cloth being removed, the bowls are replenished, and the carousal seldom ends before midnight. These parties, on a larger or smaller scale, are carried on throughout the year. In the summer, the convivialities commence at six o'clock. All the gentlemen take a cup of coffee in bed, about seven in the morning, smoke their pipe, and go to sleep again for three or four hours. De Brooke's Winter in Lapland and Sweden. See also T.T. for 1827, pp. 23-29, 56-59, for further illustrations of northern winters.
As contrasts are productive of amusement, our readers may compare the method of passing the nights in Norway, just described, with An Evening Walk in Bengal,' as beautifully depicted by the late lamented BISHOP HEBER:
Our task is done! on Gunga's breast
The sun is sinking down to rest;
And, moored beneath the tamarind bough,
Our bark has found its harbour now.
With furled sail, and painted side,
Behold the tiny frigate ride.
Upon her deck, 'mid charcoal gleams,
The Moslem's savoury supper steams,
Wbile all apart, beneath the wood,
The Hindoo cooks his simpler food.
Come, walk with me the jungle through;
If yonder hunter told us true,
Far off, in desert dank and rude,
The tiger holds his solitude:
Nor (taught by recent harm to shun
The thunders of the English gun),
A dreadful guest, but rarely seen,
Returns to scare the village green.
Come boldly on! no venomed snake
Can shelter in so cool a brake.
Child of the sun! he loves to lie
'Mid Nature's embers, parched and dry,
Where o'er some tower in ruin laid,
The peepul spreads its haunted shade ;
Or round a tomb his scales to wreathe,
Fit warder in the gate of death!
Come on! Yet pause! bebold us now
Beneath the bamboo's arched bough,
Where, gemming oft that sacred gloom,
Glows the geranium's scarlet bloom,
And winds our path through many a bower
Of fragrant tree and giant flower;
The ceiba's crimson pomp displayed
O’er the broad plantain's humbler shade,
And dusk anana's prickly blade;
Wbile o'er the brake, so wild and fair,
The betel waves his crest in air.
With pendent train and rushing wings,
A loft the georgeous peacock springs;
And he, the bird of hundred dyes,
Whose plumes the dames of Ava prize.
So rich a shade, so green a sod,
Our English fairies never trod;
Yet who in Indian bow'r has stood,
But thought on England's good green wood”
And blessed, beneath the palmy shade,
Her hazel and her hawthorn glade,
And breathed a prayer (how oft in vain!)
To gaze upon her oaks again?
A truce to thought! the jackall's cry
Resounds like sylvan revelry:
And through the trees yon falling ray
Will scantly serve to guide our way.
Yet mark! as fade the upper skies,
Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes.
Before, beside us, and above,
The fire-fly lights his lamp of love,
Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring,
The darkness of tbe copse exploring ;
While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast,
Of fragrant scent and virgin white,
A pearl around the locks of night!
Still as we pass, in softened hum,
Along the breezy alleys come
The village song, the horn, the drum,
Still as we pass, from bush and brier,
The sbrill cigala strikes his lyre;
And, what is she whose liquid strain
Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane ?
I know that soul-entrancing swell!
It is it must be Philomel !
Enough, enough, the rustling trees
Announce a shower upon the breeze,
The flashes of the summer sky
Assume a deeper, ruddier dye;
Yon lamp that trembles on the stream,
From forth our cabin sheds its beam;
And we must early sleep, to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But ob! with thankful hearts confess
Ev'n here there may be happiness;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth-bis hope of heaven!
THE BAYA OF INDIA. This bird is called tenawwit in Arabic, from its remarkably pendent nest. It is rather larger than a sparrow, with a yellow-brown plumage, a yellowish head and feet, and a conic beak, very thick in proportion to its body. This bird is exceedingly common in Hindustan; he is astonishingly sensible, faithful, and docile, never voluntarily deserting the place where his young were hatched, but not averse, like most other birds, to the society of mankind, and easily taught to perch on the hand of his master. In a state of nature he generally builds his nest on the highest tree that he can find, especially on the palmyra, or the Indian fig-tree; and he prefers that which happens to overhang a well or a rivulet. He makes it of grass, which he weaves like cloth, and shapes like a large bottle, suspending it firmly on the branches, but so as to rock with the wind; and placing it with its entrance downwards, to secure it from birds of prey. His nest usually consists of two or three chambers; and it is the popular belief that be lights them with fire-flies, which he catches alive at night, and confines with moist clay, or with cow-dung. That such flies are often found in his nest, where pieces of cow-dung are also stuck, is indubitable; but as their light could be of little use to him, it