There are one or two peculiarities about the Bergen market, too, which are noteworthy, and which account in some degree for the frantic excitement that reigns there. The sellers of the fish, in the first place, are not women but men. The pier and fleet of boats beside it constitute the market-place. The fishermen row their cargoes of fish direct from the sea to the pier, and there transact sales. There is a stout iron railing along the edge of that pier--a most needful safeguard--over which the servant girls of the town lean and look down at the fishermen, who look up at them with a calm serio-comic "don't-you-wish-you-may-get-it" expression that is deeply impressive. Bargains, of course, are not easily made, and it is in attempting to make these that all the hubbub occurs. The noise is all on the women's side. The men, secure in their floating position, and certain of ultimate success, pay very little attention to the flaxen-haired, blue-eyed damsels who shout at them like maniacs, waving their arms, shaking their fists, snapping their fingers, and flourishing their umbrellas! They all carry umbrellas--cotton ones--of every colour in the rainbow, chiefly pink and sky-blue, for Bergen is celebrated as being the most rainy city in Europe. The shouting of the girls is not only a safety-valve to their feelings, but is absolutely necessary in order to attract the attention of the men. As 15 or 20 of them usually scream at once, it is only she who screams loudest and flourishes her umbrella most vigorously that can obtain a hearing. The calm unruffled demeanour of the men is as much a feature in the scene as is the frenzy of the women. During one of my visits I saw a fisherman there who was the most interesting specimen of cool impudence I ever encountered. He wore a blue coat, knee-breeches, white worsted stockings, and on his head of long yellow hair a red night-cap with a tall hat on top of all. When I discovered him he was looking up with a grave sarcastic expression into the flushed countenance of a stout, blue-eyed lass who had just eagerly offered him _syv skillings_ (seven skillings), for a lot of fish. That was about 3 and a half pence, the skilling being half a penny. The man had declined by look, not by tongue, and the girl began to grow angry. "Haere du, fiskman," (hear you, fisherman), she cried, "vil du har otte skillings?" (will you have eight skillings?) The fisherman turned away and gazed out to sea. The girl grew crimson in the face at this. "Fiskman, fiskman!" she cried, "vil du har _ni_ (nine) skillings?"