SIXTH LETTER

“At Nidarholm the monks are all singing,Two ghastly heads on the gallows are swinging;One is Earl Haakon’s and one is his thrall’s,While the people are shouting from windows and walls,And alone in her chamber swoons Thora, the fairest of women.”

“At Nidarholm the monks are all singing,

Two ghastly heads on the gallows are swinging;

One is Earl Haakon’s and one is his thrall’s,

While the people are shouting from windows and walls,

And alone in her chamber swoons Thora, the fairest of women.”

These were hard old times. But the influence of a few noble kings like Haakon the Good and Olaf the Saint wrought in time a great change on these brave Norsemen. They were of too fine a stock to be permanently satisfied with a god who delighted in bloodshed anddeceit. Christianity eventually gave them higher ideals without robbing them of their indomitable courage.

I will tell you in my next letter a little about the better days of Norway, particularly in connection with this old city. Of course I can only skim along, picking out a bit here and there. The reading of Boyesen’sStory of Norwayhas left me with a tremendous respect for the caliber of the Norwegians, from the days of Hasting the Pirate to the days of King Haakon VII, who was crowned in Trondhjem Cathedral in 1905.

Good-by. As ever,

Aylmer.

The “thermometer of Norway”; the Reformation in Norway; the caliber of the early Reformation pastors; the register of the “Hospitset”; “fladbröd” and “mysost”; a type of Norwegian gentleman.

Trondhjem, February 23.

My dear Judicia,

I have spent over a month now in Trondhjem, and I like it better and better every day. It bristles so with memories of the past, and yet it is such a wide-awake, modern city. Our old friend, Olaf Tryggvesson, founded it in 996, and ever since then the Norwegians have considered it the heart of their nation, even though Christiania is now the nominal capital. If Trondhjem is the nucleus of Norway, then the cathedral is the nucleolus. The Norwegians appropriately call it their national thermometer. It has been burned in whole or in part no less than seven times, and once it was struck by lightning and partly destroyed. It was built originally by King Olaf the Quiet in the eleventh century, and after every catastrophe some succeeding king has rebuilt it. If it happen that the cathedral has not been destroyed for several decades, the people occupy themselves with making additions. If hard times come to Norway, the cathedral is left as it may chance to be. If times are prosperous, money is given by state and private subscription to enlarge or beautify it. Just now times areprosperous, and strangely enough there has been no fire for over a century. Consequently there are now to be seen dozens of the most hideous gargoyles reposing in one part of the church, waiting to be put up.

Trondhjem Cathedral.

I don’t suppose you have any idea of the beauty and grandeur of this historicDomkirke. I never dreamed of finding anything like it way up here near the arctic circle. We Americans get into the habit of thinking that Cologne and Milan and Rome and Florence and one or two other places of continental Europe have all that is worth looking at in the line of cathedrals. But this Trondhjem Dom is as fine as any of them, though much smaller than most. It is built entirely of a bluish, slaty stone, except for the marble pillars, which contrast beautifully with the blue. It is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, and the entire church is as delicately fashioned as any in Europe.

My British author, before quoted, says of it: “This is supposed to be the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia. It is built largely of bluish soapstone and white marble, and it is mostly Gothic in architecture. A service, apparently for children, was in progress, so we were not able to walk around the interior.” I am forced to think that the gentleman did not possess quite the average amount of ingenuity, or he might have somehow obviated the difficulty and seen the interior in spite of the service “apparently for children.” Well, thisissupposed to be the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia, and it bears out the supposition.

To me its greatest interest lies in its history. Theone great king particularly associated with this cathedral was Olaf the Saint. He was the king who finally achieved the conversion of his country to Christianity, and because of his devoted life and heroic death at Sticklestad he has been made the patron saint of Norway. Cold, relentless history reveals the fact that he was not in reality as near sainthood as Harald the Good, but his saintliness was of a more romantic character and appealed to the imagination of the people. After spending many years at the court of the Russian king, Jaroslav, he believed that he was called by a vision to go back to Norway and attempt to complete the conversion of his native land. He went to Sweden and collected all the men he could. They might be robbers and outlaws, but they must be baptized Christians, and he was courageous and consistent enough to dismiss a great many brave soldiers who refused to be baptized. At Sticklestad, in Norway, he met the opposing forces, but was beaten and finally killed, fighting bravely to the last. At the very moment when he was slain, there occurred a total eclipse of the sun. “The sun grew blood-red, and a strange red sheen spread over the landscape. Darkness fell upon the fighting hosts, and the sun grew black.”

Of course nothing more than this was needed to convince the people that Olaf’s god was angry with them. Stricken with terror, they did their utmost to atone for their guilt. They later built a great cathedral in his honor. They made him the national saint, and they laid his bones in a costly silver reliquary in the cathedral,where for six centuries devout pilgrims visited his shrine.

Better times did indeed come to Norway with the introduction of Christianity, but some centuries later, when the countless claimants to the throne had ruined the nation’s unity, and Denmark had taken possession of Norway virtually as a province, Christianity suffered a horrible relapse. Denmark introduced into Norway the Reformation, but the Danes considered their Norwegian subjects scarcely worth salvation. They sent to Norway the very lowest scum of their clergy. As Boyesen says, “Ex-soldiers, ex-sailors, bankrupt traders, all sorts of vagabonds, who were in some way disqualified for making a living, were thought to be good enough to preach the word of God in Norway.” Just as England once sent its criminal class to Australia, so Denmark in the Middle Ages sent its vagabond class to Norway in the form of Protestant pastors. For a long time physical strength was the Norwegian pastor’s only requisite. As a general rule he could scarcely read, and cared little or nothing for the religion he taught except as a means of keeping the wolf from his door; but if only he could thrash the strongest ruffian in his parish he was sure of success.

I am staying at theHospitset, which corresponds somewhat to thehospitzesor Christian hotels in Switzerland and Germany. When I arrived here I had to sign a sort of register that seemed to me unwarrantably inquisitive. It must know my name, my destination, my last previous address, my permanent address, my age,my occupation, and I don’t know what other items of gossip. Some of the guests have used the opportunity to exercise their native wit.Exempli gratia.Michael O’Shaughnessy writes that his permanent address is care of the king of Siam; his occupation, plumber; his age, thirty-two; his destination, heaven. Many other humorists, mostly signing themselves under obviousnoms-de-plume, have thought fit to enliven the dull pages for future readers. This register is a government institution, at least in many places, and the hotel keeper must not be blamed for such inquisitiveness.

The food in thisHospitsetis excellent, both as to quality and quantity. One Norwegian feature of the meals is the cheese. You know Norway is famous for itssæters, or mountain dairies, where butter and cheese are made. The most delicious, to my mind, and certainly the most typically Norwegian, is a brown cheese calledmysost. It looks like brown Windsor soap, as English authors never fail to remark, and it is sweetish. It is made from goat’s milk, and tastes as though all the cheese part had been extracted. That does not sound particularly attractive, perhaps, but honestly I like it immensely. A great cube of it, measuring something less than a foot on all sides, is put on the table, and each guest is supposed to pare off as many thin slivers of it as he can eat. It is most delicious when taken with Norwegianfladbröd. This is a sort of oat cake, and when well made is as crisp and delicious as anything I know of in that line.

I admit that both themysostand thefladbrödaresomewhat unique. There is nothing like either of them in England or America, or anywhere except in Scandinavia, and unless you are something of an adventurer you may not like them at first. Several very conservative authors write most disparagingly of it: of course they do, formysostandfladbrödare new to them.Mysostthey liken to brown soap, “which however will not lather.”Fladbröd, they say, “resembles in appearance and consistency old boot-leather.” I, personally, have never tasted old boot-leather or brown soap, but if it is really true that they taste likefladbrödandmysost, then I shall begin cultivating my appetite for them as soon as I get home.

I have met a good many of the Norwegians. Most of them speak English, at least here in Trondhjem. Particularly I am impressed with the stateliness and nobility of the old men. You have seen pictures, haven’t you, of Björnstjerne Björnson, and Grieg, and some of the others. Well, they are typical. I have talked with several of these old, patriarchal Norwegians, and they are the finest, truest gentlemen you can imagine. Benevolence and good will seem to radiate from them.

Doctor J. D. Forbes calls the Norwegians “a free, intelligent, and fine-hearted people,” and certainly he is right. Another author finds that “sincerity, honesty, and freedom from conventional cant are the chief national virtues.” If you combine these two opinions you will come near to describing the Norwegian of to-day.

The other day I hired a very good violin at a shop here, and had to pay the exorbitant sum of onekroner. I didn’t have to make any deposit, and the shopkeeper asked me no questions. When I was going out he inquired at what hotel I was staying. I told him, and he said in English: “Never mind, then, about returning the violin. I’ll come around to the hotel some time and get it.” Can you imagine such confidence in any other country? The Norwegians expect you to trust them, and in return they trust you.

I intend to go to Christiania in a few days and will write to you from there.

As always,

Aylmer.

On the Sognefjord.

Holmenkollen, the skiing center of the world; the throng of sport-seekers; Holmenkollen Day; the stuff from which Norsemen are made; Veidirektör Krag; Harald Hardruler; how to manufacture a halo.

Holmenkollen, March 15.

My dear Judicia,

I have found the home of winter sport. Its name is Holmenkollen. Of course all Norway is known as the birthplace of the ski, and Holmenkollen is the sporting center of Norway. To-day a heavy mantle of fog has settled over Christiania, but up here at Holmenkollen we don’t know what fog means. It is as bright and crisp and clear as possible. Winter has not thought of passing the first flush of its youth, though it is the middle of March. It is often good skiing here until the end of April.

Every day and many times a day the electrics from Christiania bring up a load of sport-seekers, the skis and sleds being strapped on to the outside of the car. There is a winding course, five miles long, which is crowded every minute of these long, bright afternoons with an endless procession of boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and old women, on skis or sleds or toboggans. Really the most doddering, toothless grandma is no more out of place at Holmenkollen than the toddling, toothless babe, and neither of these twoextremes is more out of place than the stalwart youth of “collegy” age and appearance. Every one comes to Holmenkollen. If you are a beginner and can’t stand up on skis, you will have company, and if you are a world’s champion you will have plenty of other aspirants to dispute the title with you.

You could hardly find a more jumbled and heterogeneous collection of humanity anywhere than you can find any bright winter afternoon on the slopes of Holmenkollen. I have just been out for an hour or so, taking an “inventory” of the sport-seekers. It was an average crowd, and I must describe its appearance as it slid by my place of inspection, by the roadside.

First came three girls, each clad in most brilliant sweaters, and each on a separate sled, dragging behind her a pole twenty-five or thirty feet long, which served as rudder and also as brake. After a little pause a very buxom, oldish woman appeared around the bend in the course. She had two little children on the sled with her, who were fairly chortling with delight. A solemn old man next passed by. I have seldom seen a face which exhibited such profundity of thought and such deep concentration on his occupation as the face of this old man showed. He was dragging his feet so hard that he barely crept along. He gave the appearance of being absorbed in a very dangerous undertaking, which he was going to “see through” if it killed him.

While he was trundling by, a pair of skiers appeared, flying at tremendous speed. They were a man and a woman, and the most graceful pair you can imagine.They swirled around the corner, and when they came to the old man went one on either side, making a bridge over him with their hands. He continued on his precarious course without the slightest indication that he had seen them.

The next in the procession was a man on a sled, smoking a pipe as he went and actually reading a paper. But a very self-conscious smile betrayed his suspicion that he was being watched. I fear he was guilty of an attempt to “show off.” Next came two tottering English girls on skis. They fell every few yards, and as they passed me one of them reeled and tremblingly cried: “Oh dear, I’m going again.” She did “go,” and I had the opportunity of rescuing her. She said “tak tak” very sweetly, which was probably all the Norwegian she knew, and I was so delighted to have palmed myself off as a native that I said nothing for fear of spoiling her illusion. After this several men went sailing by on skis. They turned down a very steep side path and whirled out of sight like lightning. There is nothing like the beauty and grace of a ski artist who is absolutely sure of himself. His knees do not totter, he doesn’t reel about, he takes the turns smoothly and easily with a confidence which is wonderful to behold. A good skier seems to me nearer to a bird than a good aëronaut.

All this which I have described passed by my station of inspection in about two minutes, and the kaleidoscope continued hour after hour.

The greatest sporting day of the year is what is called Holmenkollen Day. Then all Christiania adjourns tothe neighboring hill. The shops are closed, and it is virtually a holiday for all. It usually comes early in March, and on it are held annually the greatest contests in Norway, and perhaps the greatest in all Europe. All the best ski runners and ski jumpers from all over Europe assemble for the test. The most coveted prize is the King’s Prize, which is given for the best aggregate of marks for any single competitor in the two big events, the fifteen-kilometer ski race and the ski jump. No one who does not compete in both these events is eligible for the King’s Prize. The fifteen-kilometer race is held on the day before the big jumping contest and is comparatively uninteresting. The competitors start at intervals of thirty seconds, and each one is timed separately. There is no excitement at the finish, and for all the spectator can tell the last man in may be the winner.

On the big day the crowds begin to assemble about eleven o’clock, though the contest does not begin for two hours. Boxes are built all along the side of the jump to accommodate the wealthy aristocrats who can afford to pay for them. Some forty thousand “plebs” take their stand around the great “horseshoe,” which is roped off as a landing and stopping place for the jumpers.

Ski Jumping. An Absolutely Perfect Jump.

Promptly at one o’clock a tremendous cheering announces the arrival of King Haakon, Queen Maud, and little Crown Prince Olaf. This trio constitutes the first real royalty of their own that the Norwegians have had for five or six centuries, and they go wild with enthusiasm whenever any one of the party appears at a public gathering. Little Prince Olaf is all but worshiped byhis future subjects, and if they don’t look out I fear they will some day have a spoiled crown prince on their hands. However, he seems to be at present a very natural and normal boy.

As soon as the royal party arrives, the jumping begins, and this year, though there were fully two hundred competitors, and each one had two jumps, the whole contest was run off in a little over two hours. Of course that meant three or four jumps to a minute, and so there was a steady stream swooping down from the hill to the take-off, then sailing out into the air and landing a hundred feet or so down the slope, where, if the jump was successful, they continued their course at express-train speed.

Of course the great majority of the jumpers were Norwegians. It takes years and years of practice to become skillful, and only those who have been at it since babyhood reach the highest pinnacles of skill. No matter how many times you see ski jumping, the thrill never seems to wear off.

As each jumper took his place at the top of the hill, a huge number on a blackboard announced to the spectators who was coming. All the competitors were numbered, as they are in races, and printed lists were distributed for the convenience of the onlookers.

The jumpers would come tearing down the hill and crouch low as they approached the take-off. Then, with arms outspread, they would shoot out into space, straightening themselves quickly and bending forward. While they were in the air, they would put one ski a little aheadof the other; with a little “spat” the skis would strike the snow far down the slope; agile and light as a feather, the jumper would sink down almost on his heels, and then, if he kept his balance, he would fly ahead for a second or two, then make a beautiful “Telemark” or Christiania swing, coming to a dead stop. Telemark and Christiania are in skiing parlance two methods of coming to a sudden stop.

As I understand it, a Telemark means a wide, sweeping curve, with one foot considerably in front of the other, while the Christiania is a quick snap at right angles accomplished by a sudden swing of the arms and of the whole body. However, nobody quite understands how it is done unless he has been practicing it half a lifetime. There is a great knack about it, and it was beautiful to watch the ease with which many of the jumpers did it.

Of course there were unfortunates who fell. There would be a wild whirl of arms and legs and skis and snow, and, when the whirl gradually resolved itself into a man, he would crawl to one side to get out of the way of the next comer.

The distance some of these men jump is appalling. A leap of one hundred and forty-eight feet such as that made by Harald Smith (a Norwegian in spite of his surname) is certainly more like flying than jumping.

Compared with these thrilling exhibitions the mild daily procession down the five-mile slope of Holmenkollen seems rather tame, but it is interesting nevertheless. In the restaurant here, which overlooks the cityand fjord of Christiania, there is a huge picture of Nansen. He was once a competitor in ski jumping, and perhaps it was here that he developed the courage which later made him famous the world over as an explorer.

The modern Norwegians have inherited their love of sport from their viking ancestors. I have lately been reading in Du Chaillu’sThe Viking Agean account of viking sports, and the prowess of the present-day Norwegians is explained in my mind. A viking, it seems, had to be athletic if he would amount to anything. Courage, skill, and dexterity were the necessities of his life.

Once there was a viking named Kari who saved his life by means of his high-jumping ability. His enemy Sigurdson ran at him with a spear from behind, but Kari saw him just in time, jumped high in the air so that the spear went under his feet, and then came down on top of it, smashing the handle.

The sagas abound with tales of athletic prowess, and, even if these sagas were apt to become a little over enthusiastic in dealing with their heroes, nevertheless we can see easily enough how it is that the modern Norwegian comes by his wonderful athletic skill and courage.

Nansen is not the only explorer to whom Norway does honor. You know it was not long ago that Amundsen’s name was on all lips, because of his discovery of the South Pole. He, too, has the stuff in him of which vikings were made.

Up near the top of this five-mile road stands a bronzefigure leaning carelessly against a milestone. He rests his bronze fist on his bronze waistcoat, and a bronze felt hat and a bronze cane complete the picture of calm self-satisfaction. On close inspection I learned that this was no other than Veidirektör Krag, who long ago directed the building of this road and now stands contentedly surveying his work. Besides having a good view of the sports, he has a wonderful prospect out over the fjord and the national capital.

If Veidirektör Krag had stood there four or five centuries ago he would have seen not Christiania, but Oslo. Five times the city has been burned, and after one of its destructions, in 1624, Christian IV rebuilt it and modestly named it for himself.

The original Oslo was founded for a very practical purpose by Harald Hardruler in 1051. Oslo was in the heart of the province of Viken, which had formerly belonged to Denmark and had never been fully amalgamated with Norway. At the period when Harald ruled, things were in a particularly precarious state in Viken, owing to the fact that the shrine of St. Olaf, in Trondhjem, was proving a magnet and drawing prosperity from Viken to that section of the country. Accordingly the practical Harald said there ought to be a local saint in Viken—a saint who should rival Olaf and make Viken as important a center as Tröndelag. He soon discovered that a cousin of his, named Hallvard, had recently died, and was said to have been a good man. Harald decided to kill several birds with one stone. By creating Cousin Hallvard a saint hecould bring prosperity to Viken, and he could greatly hasten the unification of his kingdom. Therefore he built a shrine for Hallvard, after first canonizing him (without the aid of the pope), and around the shrine he laid the foundations of the city of Oslo. As an historical fact, Hallvard was scarcely worthy of the honor which was thrust upon him. He was probably rather a good man for those times, but he certainly had done nothing unusual, and the halo which was thrust about his memory was a masterpiece of human ingenuity.

I expect soon to go over to the Hanseatic city of Bergen on the west coast of Norway, and I will write to you from there. Auf wiedersehen.

As ever,

Aylmer.

Written on the train crossing the great Christiania-Bergen route. The prophet of Norway; Nicholas Breakspeare; a typical Norwegian hotel; the Gogstad ship takes us back a few centuries; Odin as poet; the practical opening of the Earlier Frostathing’s Law; the advertising propensities of the Norwegians; the liquor laws of Norway; the musical Spirit of the North; Ole Bull and Edvard Grieg.

En route.ChristianatoBergen, April 3.

My dear Judicia,

Again I seem to be writing to you from a train. I have traveled all day over one of the finest railroads, from a sightseeing point of view, in all Europe. At last darkness is settling down, and I have several hours yet before I reach Bergen, so I may as well employ my time in writing to you, not that I write to you on principle only when there is nothing else to do.

I am traveling on a circular ticket which I bought at Trondhjem of Bennett, “the traveler’s guide, philosopher, and friend,” as Mr. John L. Stoddard styles him in one of his lectures on Norway. Bennett is, to my mind, the final authority on Scandinavian travel. In Norway Thomas Cook is dwarfed into insignificance by Bennett. The same lecturer whom I have quoted goes on to say: “And who is Bennett? you perhaps exclaim. My friends, there is but one Norway, and Bennett is its prophet. Bennett is the living encyclopædia ofNorway! Its walking guide book! Its animated map! He sketches lengthy tours back and forth as easily as sailors box the compass! And to still further aid the general public, he has begotten four young Bennetts who act as courteous agents for their father in Bergen, Trondhjem and Christiania.”

His most entertaining guide book contains testimonials from various celebrities. Ex-President Theodore Roosevelt writes a typical letter, bursting with half-suppressed energy and vehemence, in which he thanks the prophet of Norway for his courtesy. Other celebrities, such as the Zemudar of Palavipat (Judicia, don’t tell me you never heard of him!) write in glowing terms, and one anonymous enthusiast, with a poetic turn of mind, writes:

“So be you a clerk or a lord of the SenateYou’ll always do well to rely upon Bennett.”

“So be you a clerk or a lord of the Senate

You’ll always do well to rely upon Bennett.”

I seem to be using a great amount of stationery in singing the praises of this tourist agency, but really, Judicia, Bennett is one of the “institutions” of Norway. Everywhere appears the signBenyt Bennett’s Billetter, which command I have gladly obeyed.

I should have told you before that in coming from Trondhjem to Christiania we passed through a very interesting historic region, the district of which Lake Mjösen is the center. A few miles south of Lake Mjösen is Eidsvold, where the famous nationalthingwas held on various occasions.

Christiania is distinctly a city of the modern type.Scarcely anything venerable remains. I stopped while I was there in a pleasant though modest hotel on Carl Johan’s Gate. Certainly part of the attraction lay in the name, for it is called Fru Bye’s Hotel. Right across the street Fru Bye’s daughters, Fröknerne Bye, keep aPrivat Hotel. What a pleasure it must be to the good Fru to have the Fröknerne in business right across the street. The freedom of Fru Bye’s Hotel is delightful. Meals are apparently served at all hours. Supposedly breakfast, orfrukost, comes about mid-forenoon; dinner, ormiddag, from two till four o’clock; and supper, oraftensmad, from eight until ten. On several occasions I got home to the hotel about eleven o’clock and had a full supper. Everything was spread out for me on the table, includingmysostandfladbröd, and no one was hovering around anxiously to count the number of pieces I ate, or the number of glasses of milk I drank.

All around the wall are hung huge old copper platters, highly ornamented. The whole hotel is cozy and typically Norwegian.

The Railroad between Bergen and Christiania.

Carl Johan’s Gate, on which it is situated, is the most important street in the city, as it runs straight up to the royal palace. Not far from the palace are situated the National University, the National Theater, the Parliament orStorthingbuilding, and various other public buildings very similar to those of any other European capital. The city has suffered so frequently from fire that it has given up the picturesque for the substantial. Among other buildings of particular interestto Americans is the headquarters of the Nobel Peace Commission.

There is only one place (outside of Fru Bye’s Hotel) in all Christiania where I felt I was truly in Norway rather than in any other European city. That was when I was in the presence of the famous Gogstad viking ship, which is placed in a shed back of the University. This ship was found near the entrance to the Christiania fjord, buried in blue clay, where it had lain for a thousand years or so, and it convinced me that the marvelous tales which the sagas relate are tales of actual heroes; for certainly the sagas did not invent this Gogstad ship. In the center is the Death Chamber, where the captain was buried in his beloved ship. Here one may see just how the viking made his marauding expeditions, how the oars were arranged sixteen on a side, how the square sail was attached by means of pulleys to a mast fastened in the center, and how the rudder was attached on the right side (whence “starboard” or steerboard). The whole ship is only about eighty feet long and sixteen feet wide, and how the ancients managed to navigate the North Sea and the Bay of Biscay and sail far around into the Mediterranean in such primitive craft I cannot understand.

In this old Gogstad ship were found the bones of a dozen horses, several dogs, and a peacock. The owners of these bones were to be the chieftain’s bodyguard during his voyage to the next world. Du Chaillu says of this ship:

“Very few things in the north have impressed memore than the sight of this weird mausoleum, the last resting place of a warrior, and as I gazed on its dark timber I could almost imagine that I could still see the gory traces of the struggle and the closing scene of burial when he was put in the mortuary chamber that had been made for him on board the craft he commanded.”

This same author has written a book of two volumes of some twelve hundred pages about the vikings, and since I saw the Gogstad ship I have been intensely interested in reading of their customs. Their Bible was a long poem calledHávámal, supposed to have been written by Odin himself, containing much worldly wisdom. Odin, it seems, was the precursor of Horace Fletcher as an advocate of “dietetic righteousness.” He says:

“A greedy manUnless he has senseEats ill-health for himself;A foolish man’s bellyOften causes laughterWhen he is among wise men.“Herds knowWhen they shall go homeAnd then walk off the grass;But an unwise manNever knowsThe measure of his stomach.”

“A greedy manUnless he has senseEats ill-health for himself;A foolish man’s bellyOften causes laughterWhen he is among wise men.

“A greedy man

Unless he has sense

Eats ill-health for himself;

A foolish man’s belly

Often causes laughter

When he is among wise men.

“Herds knowWhen they shall go homeAnd then walk off the grass;But an unwise manNever knowsThe measure of his stomach.”

“Herds know

When they shall go home

And then walk off the grass;

But an unwise man

Never knows

The measure of his stomach.”

The same god also poses as an authority on matters of the heart. He says:

“The words of a maidenOr the talk of a womanShould no man trust;For their hearts were shapedOn a whirling wheel,And fickleness laid in their breasts.”

“The words of a maiden

Or the talk of a woman

Should no man trust;

For their hearts were shaped

On a whirling wheel,

And fickleness laid in their breasts.”

Many epigrammatic gems of wisdom the poet utters, under the name of Odin. Most of them have rather a cynical turn, such as the following:

“A day should be praised at night;A woman when she is burnt;A sword when tried;A maiden when she is married;Ice when crossed;Ale when drank.”

“A day should be praised at night;

A woman when she is burnt;

A sword when tried;

A maiden when she is married;

Ice when crossed;

Ale when drank.”

Many other quotations from the old Norse writers are extremely entertaining. The first item in the Earlier Frostathing’s Law, Section I, Article I, begins in a very practical way with the following words:

“Every child which is born into this world shall be raised, baptized, and carried to the church, except that only—whose heels are in the place of his toes, whose chin is between his shoulders, the neck on his breast with the calves on his legs turning forward, his eyes on the back of his head, and seal’s fins or a dog’s head.—It shall be buried in the churchyard and its soul shall be prayed for as well as is possible.”

Apparently there used to be considerable doubt whether a deformed child could be legitimately an object for prayer, but nevertheless the experiment was to be tried.

The Norwegians are great advertisers. I have never seen in any other country such a complete utilization of every inch of available space. Inside the electric cars layers of “ads,” three deep, line the car above the windows. A clock in the middle of the car is surrounded by them; the electric lights and windows have advertisements wrought into their very being. Every available inch and much that we should not consider available is used to instruct thepassenger as to his needs, which range from insurance companies and banks all the way through cash registers and skates and lamp chimneys to bananas and margarine and Mellin’s Food.

The one thing which it is difficult to get in Christiania is liquor—not that I have personally tried to get any, but I have learned through my oft-quoted British author that he found it very difficult. He was considerably annoyed at finding himself unable to buy whisky anywhere in Christiania from 1P.M.on Saturday until Monday morning. The liquor laws of Norway are very strict indeed, and cause annoyance to many tourists, who find themselves deprived of their “nip.” However, I hope they remember that these laws, which have been enacted in the last thirty or forty years, have, in a great degree, reduced drunkenness, poverty, crime, and disease. It would seem that a tourist who has a spark of unselfishness in him, however much he may long for his cocktail, would not grudge Norway the laws that have proved such a blessing to the whole country.

Besides forbidding the sale of liquor on Sundays and holidays, and on the eve of festivals, many districts, under government permission, have absolutely prohibited it. There is not a saloon in Norway, but in the larger towns a few of the hotels and restaurants are allowed to sell liquor under certain restrictions. All profits from its sale, with the exception of the company’s expenses and five per cent interest, must be devoted to public and philanthropic purposes. Consequentlythe trade does not offer great inducements to ambitious merchants.

My train has already passed Voss and is rapidly nearing old Hanseatic Bergen, and I have not even begun to tell you of the glories of this day’s ride. We left Christiania soon after daylight, and in a little less than three hours reached the town of Hönefos, which is one of the centers of the Norwegian wood-pulp industry. There is a great mill here which receives trees in its capacious maw and turns them out again in the form of pulp. Gigantic letters on the side of a barn announce that from here comes the pulp which eventually is made intoLloyd’s Weeklyand the LondonDaily Chronicle.

A little farther on we catch a glimpse of some lofty pine forests which inevitably bring to mind Milton’s lines:

“His spear, to equal which the tallest pineGrown on Norwegian hills, to be the mastOf some great admiral, were but a wand,He walked with.”

“His spear, to equal which the tallest pine

Grown on Norwegian hills, to be the mast

Of some great admiral, were but a wand,

He walked with.”

Soon after leaving Hönefos, we begin to climb and leave the tall, Norwegian pine and even the scrubby, Norwegian birch far below. This is the only regular railway in Europe which travels above the tree line. To get beyond the tree line in Switzerland, the railway would have to reach an altitude of at least seven thousand feet, but here of course the line is much lower. The resort of Finse has not a single wild tree to its name, though it is only four thousand feet above sea level.Finse is the most unique sporting center in the world, for its winter season lasts from August 1 to July 31, inclusive. Every year there is held a Midsummer Skiing Contest, which attracts people from all over Europe. Here one may ski at midnight by daylight on soft, feathery snow. Of course it is too far south to afford a midnight sun, but it is not too far south to afford midnight daylight.

To-day our train started out in a light rain, ran through a terrific blizzard, and into a bright, sunlit afternoon. I have never seen such concentrated essence of winter as I saw at Finse. The snow must have been four or five feet deep on the average, and in drifts it was ten or twelve feet deep. Finse’s freight house was buried; a big white mound showed where it ought to be, and where it might some day appear if the sun, by its heat, or men, by their shovels, ever attained energy enough to remove the white shroud. Giant snow plows kept the track clear, and our train ignored the blizzard. We “skirted” several invisible valleys, absolutely shut out by the driving snow, and, as Baedeker would say, “threaded” several tunnels, and to my infinite surprise emerged from one of them into a bright, sunny afternoon at Myrdal. We had passed the highest point of the line and had left our blizzard on the other side of the watershed.

From Myrdal I could look far, far down the Flaam Valley, which is one of the finest in Norway. Here and there, clinging to the rocky sides of the valley, weresæterhuts. It would be easy enough for one of themilkmaids to “fall out of hersæter,” as the peasant of Mark Twain fame once “fell out of his farm.”

Whenever I think of asæter, my mind invariably jumps to the romantic figure of Norway’s greatest violinist, Ole Bull. Are you acquainted with a plaintive Norwegian air calledSæterjentens Söndag? You must have heard it, even though you may not recognize it by name. Well, that was written by the great Ole Bull, and it is unquestionably the most familiar and the most beloved of Norway’s national melodies. Ole Bull was born at Bergen, so I am less than a half-hour’s journey from the place which this musician, whose tones thrilled all Europe and America, called home.

He is not the only musician who achieved world-wide fame, with Norway as a starting point. Every one who loves music knows Grieg’s famousPeer Gynt Suite, with itsAnitra’s Dance, which seems to reflect the wild, free spirit of the north. Nordraak and Kjerulf and many other lesser musical lights have made all the world familiar with the music of the northland.

I must “pack up” now, as we are fast nearing Bergen. I shall be in an atmosphere there almost as historical as that of Trondhjem, so if some history creeps into my next letter I hope you will forgive me. I shall write you soon from there.

As ever yours,

Aylmer.

Bergen, a Hanseatic city; an interesting museum; “Little Sir Alf”; the greatest military genius Norway ever had; the struggle between “Birchlegs” and “Baglers”; further historical connections of Bergen; Haakon Haakonsson.

Bergen, May 1.

My dear Judicia,

I am comfortably situated in Hotel Norge, on Ole-Bulls-Plads. Directly beneath my window stands Ole Bull himself, continually though silently playing his violin, through rain and hail and snow and vapor and stormy wind. Bergen is a thoroughly old-world city. To be sure, it has a modern section, but the whole flavor of the place is ancient. Like all other towns in Norway, it has suffered time after time from fire, but, strangely enough, it has been built up on the old lines. Another thing that lends a flavor of antiquity is the fact that it is surrounded (supposedly) by seven hills, like the seven hills of Rome, though it is an unfortunate geographical fact that there are not seven but four in the case of Bergen. Of course there are countless little unevennesses in the ground, some of which might even be called hillocks. With more romance than accuracy the citizens have selected three of these mounds, added them to their four real hills, and put seven on their armorial bearings.

There is a wide street, which assumes the proportions and name of a square, which separates the old town from the new and also serves in the capacity of fire road. When we cross this square, which bears the name of Torv-Almenning, we are in fairyland—a dirty, medieval, Hanseatic fairyland. The streets are very narrow, and the white timber houses with their red-tiled roofs certainly lay claim, along with the Lofoten Islands and the Damascus rag fair and the Nile dahabiyeh, to the right of being called picturesque. Thevaagen, or harbor, is inclosed on all sides by ancient warehouses, suggesting fish. At the end of the harbor is a market, where fish are sold with considerable bargaining.

A great part of Norway’s fish trade passes through Bergen, though the principal reason for this seems to lie in the fact that it always has been so. Formerly it was compulsory. The German merchants settled in Bergen and succeeded in gaining an absolute monopoly on the trade, which they maintained for nearly three centuries. At one end of the market lies the Hanseatic House, now made into a museum. It is the only genuine house of its kind now in existence, anywhere, and gives a good idea of the manner in which these selfish old merchants conducted their business. Here we find the merchant’s office and his manager’s bureau, the clerk’s apartments, and even the common bedroom. An old ledger is exhibited, which, as Goodman says, “contains, no doubt, the record of many a fraudulent transaction.” The whole house, inside and out, is profusely ornamented and painted in lurid colors, which make not the slightestpretense of harmonizing. All sorts of articles are exhibited, which formerly made up the merchant’s office and household property, “such as their scales and weights, the latter [here a little sidelight on Hanseatic methods] being of two sorts, for buying and selling; their cloaks, lanterns, candlesticks, fire engines, snuff boxes, washing bowls, drinking cups and tankards, machines for chopping cabbage, and staves with bags for making collections in church.”

The arms of the leaguers were half an eagle and half a codfish, or a cornucopia with a cod supplanting the usual fruit or flowers.

The merchants trusted each other no more than they trusted outsiders, and their strong-box is fitted with three locks, the keys to which were possessed by three different members of the league.

These “crooks” were very modest about some things. Their bedrooms were arranged in a peculiar way, with the beds along the side of the wall, each bed opening out through a sort of lattice work to a main corridor. This was to enable the female domestic to make the gentleman’s bed without having to enter his room.

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