STAVE.A.Oh! fair is the sight to see,When the lads and the lasses are dancin’;The cuckoo, he calls from the tree,And the birds through the green wood are glancin’!B.Oh! ’tis fair in Vining-town,When to kirk the lovers repair:Of other light need they have none,So light is the bride’s yellow hair.A.Oh! fair is the sight I trow,When the bride the kirk goes in,No need of the torch’s glow,So bright is her cherry chin.[5]B.Her neck’s like the driven snow,Her hair’s like the daffodil,Her eyes in their sockets glow,Like the sun rising over the hill.
STAVE.
A.Oh! fair is the sight to see,When the lads and the lasses are dancin’;The cuckoo, he calls from the tree,And the birds through the green wood are glancin’!B.Oh! ’tis fair in Vining-town,When to kirk the lovers repair:Of other light need they have none,So light is the bride’s yellow hair.A.Oh! fair is the sight I trow,When the bride the kirk goes in,No need of the torch’s glow,So bright is her cherry chin.[5]B.Her neck’s like the driven snow,Her hair’s like the daffodil,Her eyes in their sockets glow,Like the sun rising over the hill.
A.Oh! fair is the sight to see,When the lads and the lasses are dancin’;The cuckoo, he calls from the tree,And the birds through the green wood are glancin’!
A.Oh! fair is the sight to see,
When the lads and the lasses are dancin’;
The cuckoo, he calls from the tree,
And the birds through the green wood are glancin’!
B.Oh! ’tis fair in Vining-town,When to kirk the lovers repair:Of other light need they have none,So light is the bride’s yellow hair.
B.Oh! ’tis fair in Vining-town,
When to kirk the lovers repair:
Of other light need they have none,
So light is the bride’s yellow hair.
A.Oh! fair is the sight I trow,When the bride the kirk goes in,No need of the torch’s glow,So bright is her cherry chin.[5]
A.Oh! fair is the sight I trow,
When the bride the kirk goes in,
No need of the torch’s glow,
So bright is her cherry chin.[5]
B.Her neck’s like the driven snow,Her hair’s like the daffodil,Her eyes in their sockets glow,Like the sun rising over the hill.
B.Her neck’s like the driven snow,
Her hair’s like the daffodil,
Her eyes in their sockets glow,
Like the sun rising over the hill.
The whole winds up with a description of the married life of the pair.
A.The cock he struts into the house,The bonder gives him corn,The flocks on the northern lea browse,And the shepherd he blows his horn.B.The shepherd the mountain ascends,And the setting sun doth bide,As blithe, when night descends,As the bairns at merry Yule-tide.
A.The cock he struts into the house,The bonder gives him corn,The flocks on the northern lea browse,And the shepherd he blows his horn.B.The shepherd the mountain ascends,And the setting sun doth bide,As blithe, when night descends,As the bairns at merry Yule-tide.
A.The cock he struts into the house,The bonder gives him corn,The flocks on the northern lea browse,And the shepherd he blows his horn.
A.The cock he struts into the house,
The bonder gives him corn,
The flocks on the northern lea browse,
And the shepherd he blows his horn.
B.The shepherd the mountain ascends,And the setting sun doth bide,As blithe, when night descends,As the bairns at merry Yule-tide.
B.The shepherd the mountain ascends,
And the setting sun doth bide,
As blithe, when night descends,
As the bairns at merry Yule-tide.
A lone farm-house—A scandal against the God Thor—The headquarters of Scandinavian fairy lore—The legend of Dyrë Vo—A deep pool—A hint for alternate ploughboys—Wild goose geometry—A memorial of the good old times—Dutch falconers—Rough game afoot—Author hits two birds with one stone—Crosses the lake Totak—A slough of despond—An honest guide—A Norwegian militiaman—Rough lodgings—A night with the swallows—A trick of authorship—Yea or Nay.
A lone farm-house—A scandal against the God Thor—The headquarters of Scandinavian fairy lore—The legend of Dyrë Vo—A deep pool—A hint for alternate ploughboys—Wild goose geometry—A memorial of the good old times—Dutch falconers—Rough game afoot—Author hits two birds with one stone—Crosses the lake Totak—A slough of despond—An honest guide—A Norwegian militiaman—Rough lodgings—A night with the swallows—A trick of authorship—Yea or Nay.
At Kos-thveit, on the lake Totak, stands a lone farm-house, the proprietor of which procured me a man and a maid to row me over the dreary waters, now rendered drearier by a passing squall which overcast the sky. Pointing to the westward, where the lake narrowed, and receded under the shadows of the approaching mountains, the ferryman told me that yonder lay the famous Urebro Urden,[6]where the god Thor, when disguised by beer, lost his hammer, and cleared a road through the loose rocks while engaged in searching for it. Indeed, with the exception of Nissedal, in another part of Thelemarken, which is reputed as the head quarters of trolls and glamour, this gloomy lake and its vicinity abound, perhaps more than any part of Norway, in tales of Scandinavia’s ancient gods and supernatural beings. The man also mentioned the legend of Dyrë Vo, which has been put into verse by Welhaven.
The following version will give some idea of the legend—
The bonniest lad all Vinje thro’Was Dyrë of Vo by name,Firm as a rock the strength, I trow,Of twelve men he could claim.“Well Dyrë,” quoth a neighbour bold,“With trolls and sprites, like Thor of old,To have a bout now fear ye?”“Not a bit, were it mirk,” said Dyrë.Full soon, they tell, it did befalThat in the merry Yule-tide,When cups went round, and beards wagg’d all,And the ale was briskly plied:All in a trice the mirth grew still:Hark! what a sound came from the hill,As a hundred steers lowed near ye.“Well, now its right mirk,” quoth Dyrë.Then straightway he hied to Totak-vand,And loosened his boat so snell;But as he drew near to the other strandHe heard an eldritch yell.“Who’s fumbling in the churn? What ho!”“But who art thou?—I’m Dyrë Vo,—All in the moor, so weary;And so dark as it is?” asked Dyrë.“I’m from Ashowe, and must awayTo Glomshowe to my lady;Bring the boat alongside, and do not stay,And put out your strength: so; steady.”“You must shrink a bit first,” was Vo’s reply,“My boat is so little, and you so high;Your body’s as long as a tall fir-tree,And, remember, its dark,” said Dyrë.The Troll he shrunk up, quite funny to see,Ere the boat could be made to fit him,Then Dyrë—the devil a pin cared heFor Trolls—began to twit him.“Now tell me, good sir, what giant you are.”“No nonsense—you’ll rue it—of joking beware,”Growled the Troll, so dark and dreary.“Besides, it is mirk,” laughed Dyrë.But the Troll by degrees more friendly grew,And said, when he over was ferried,“In yourtroughI’ll leave a token, to shewThe measure of him you’ve wherried.Look under the thwarts when darkness wanes,And something you’ll find in return for your pains;A trifle wherewith to make merry.”“For now it is mirk,” said Dyrë.When daylight appeared, a glove-finger of woolHe found in the boat—such a treasure—Four skeps it did take to fill it full,Dyrë uses it for a meal-measure.Then straight it became a proverb or saw,Dyrë Vo is the lad to go like Thor’Gainst Trolls, and such like Feerie.“Best of all when it’s mirk,” thought Dyrë.
The bonniest lad all Vinje thro’Was Dyrë of Vo by name,Firm as a rock the strength, I trow,Of twelve men he could claim.“Well Dyrë,” quoth a neighbour bold,“With trolls and sprites, like Thor of old,To have a bout now fear ye?”“Not a bit, were it mirk,” said Dyrë.Full soon, they tell, it did befalThat in the merry Yule-tide,When cups went round, and beards wagg’d all,And the ale was briskly plied:All in a trice the mirth grew still:Hark! what a sound came from the hill,As a hundred steers lowed near ye.“Well, now its right mirk,” quoth Dyrë.Then straightway he hied to Totak-vand,And loosened his boat so snell;But as he drew near to the other strandHe heard an eldritch yell.“Who’s fumbling in the churn? What ho!”“But who art thou?—I’m Dyrë Vo,—All in the moor, so weary;And so dark as it is?” asked Dyrë.“I’m from Ashowe, and must awayTo Glomshowe to my lady;Bring the boat alongside, and do not stay,And put out your strength: so; steady.”“You must shrink a bit first,” was Vo’s reply,“My boat is so little, and you so high;Your body’s as long as a tall fir-tree,And, remember, its dark,” said Dyrë.The Troll he shrunk up, quite funny to see,Ere the boat could be made to fit him,Then Dyrë—the devil a pin cared heFor Trolls—began to twit him.“Now tell me, good sir, what giant you are.”“No nonsense—you’ll rue it—of joking beware,”Growled the Troll, so dark and dreary.“Besides, it is mirk,” laughed Dyrë.But the Troll by degrees more friendly grew,And said, when he over was ferried,“In yourtroughI’ll leave a token, to shewThe measure of him you’ve wherried.Look under the thwarts when darkness wanes,And something you’ll find in return for your pains;A trifle wherewith to make merry.”“For now it is mirk,” said Dyrë.When daylight appeared, a glove-finger of woolHe found in the boat—such a treasure—Four skeps it did take to fill it full,Dyrë uses it for a meal-measure.Then straight it became a proverb or saw,Dyrë Vo is the lad to go like Thor’Gainst Trolls, and such like Feerie.“Best of all when it’s mirk,” thought Dyrë.
The bonniest lad all Vinje thro’Was Dyrë of Vo by name,Firm as a rock the strength, I trow,Of twelve men he could claim.“Well Dyrë,” quoth a neighbour bold,“With trolls and sprites, like Thor of old,To have a bout now fear ye?”“Not a bit, were it mirk,” said Dyrë.
The bonniest lad all Vinje thro’
Was Dyrë of Vo by name,
Firm as a rock the strength, I trow,
Of twelve men he could claim.
“Well Dyrë,” quoth a neighbour bold,
“With trolls and sprites, like Thor of old,
To have a bout now fear ye?”
“Not a bit, were it mirk,” said Dyrë.
Full soon, they tell, it did befalThat in the merry Yule-tide,When cups went round, and beards wagg’d all,And the ale was briskly plied:All in a trice the mirth grew still:Hark! what a sound came from the hill,As a hundred steers lowed near ye.“Well, now its right mirk,” quoth Dyrë.
Full soon, they tell, it did befal
That in the merry Yule-tide,
When cups went round, and beards wagg’d all,
And the ale was briskly plied:
All in a trice the mirth grew still:
Hark! what a sound came from the hill,
As a hundred steers lowed near ye.
“Well, now its right mirk,” quoth Dyrë.
Then straightway he hied to Totak-vand,And loosened his boat so snell;But as he drew near to the other strandHe heard an eldritch yell.“Who’s fumbling in the churn? What ho!”“But who art thou?—I’m Dyrë Vo,—All in the moor, so weary;And so dark as it is?” asked Dyrë.
Then straightway he hied to Totak-vand,
And loosened his boat so snell;
But as he drew near to the other strand
He heard an eldritch yell.
“Who’s fumbling in the churn? What ho!”
“But who art thou?—I’m Dyrë Vo,—
All in the moor, so weary;
And so dark as it is?” asked Dyrë.
“I’m from Ashowe, and must awayTo Glomshowe to my lady;Bring the boat alongside, and do not stay,And put out your strength: so; steady.”“You must shrink a bit first,” was Vo’s reply,“My boat is so little, and you so high;Your body’s as long as a tall fir-tree,And, remember, its dark,” said Dyrë.
“I’m from Ashowe, and must away
To Glomshowe to my lady;
Bring the boat alongside, and do not stay,
And put out your strength: so; steady.”
“You must shrink a bit first,” was Vo’s reply,
“My boat is so little, and you so high;
Your body’s as long as a tall fir-tree,
And, remember, its dark,” said Dyrë.
The Troll he shrunk up, quite funny to see,Ere the boat could be made to fit him,Then Dyrë—the devil a pin cared heFor Trolls—began to twit him.“Now tell me, good sir, what giant you are.”“No nonsense—you’ll rue it—of joking beware,”Growled the Troll, so dark and dreary.“Besides, it is mirk,” laughed Dyrë.
The Troll he shrunk up, quite funny to see,
Ere the boat could be made to fit him,
Then Dyrë—the devil a pin cared he
For Trolls—began to twit him.
“Now tell me, good sir, what giant you are.”
“No nonsense—you’ll rue it—of joking beware,”
Growled the Troll, so dark and dreary.
“Besides, it is mirk,” laughed Dyrë.
But the Troll by degrees more friendly grew,And said, when he over was ferried,“In yourtroughI’ll leave a token, to shewThe measure of him you’ve wherried.Look under the thwarts when darkness wanes,And something you’ll find in return for your pains;A trifle wherewith to make merry.”“For now it is mirk,” said Dyrë.
But the Troll by degrees more friendly grew,
And said, when he over was ferried,
“In yourtroughI’ll leave a token, to shew
The measure of him you’ve wherried.
Look under the thwarts when darkness wanes,
And something you’ll find in return for your pains;
A trifle wherewith to make merry.”
“For now it is mirk,” said Dyrë.
When daylight appeared, a glove-finger of woolHe found in the boat—such a treasure—Four skeps it did take to fill it full,Dyrë uses it for a meal-measure.Then straight it became a proverb or saw,Dyrë Vo is the lad to go like Thor’Gainst Trolls, and such like Feerie.“Best of all when it’s mirk,” thought Dyrë.
When daylight appeared, a glove-finger of wool
He found in the boat—such a treasure—
Four skeps it did take to fill it full,
Dyrë uses it for a meal-measure.
Then straight it became a proverb or saw,
Dyrë Vo is the lad to go like Thor
’Gainst Trolls, and such like Feerie.
“Best of all when it’s mirk,” thought Dyrë.
“Very deep, sir,” said the boatman, as I let out my spinning tackle, in the faint hopes of a trout for supper.
“Was the depth ever plumbed?” inquired I.
“To be sure, sir. That’s a long, long time ago—leastways, I have heard so. There was an old woman at Kos-thveit yonder, whose husband had the ill-luck to be drowned in the lake. She set people to work to drag for his body, but nowhere on this side of the country could she get a rope sufficiently long for the work. So she had to send to the city for one. At last they reached the bottom, and found the lake as deep as it was broad, with a little to spare, for the rope reached from Kos-thveit to Rauland, just across the water, and then went twice round the church, which you see standing alone, yonder on the shore, three miles off.”
“Who serves that church?” inquired I.
“Vinje’s Priest,” he answered. “That was his boat-house we passed.”
We landed on the eastern shore of the lake, at a spot called Hadeland, where a cluster of farm-houses were to be seen upon a green slope, showing some symptoms of cultivation. Richard Aslackson Berge, the farmer at whose house I put up, agrimy, ill-clad fellow, quite astounded me by the extent of his information. Catching sight of my wooden calendar, he immediately fetched an old almanack, which contained some explanation of the various signs upon the staff. Fancy one of your “alternate ploughboys”—as the Dean of Hereford and other would-be improvers of the clod-hopping mind, if I remember rightly, call them—fancy one of these fellows studying with interest an ancient Anglo-Saxon wooden calendar; and yet this man Berge, besides this, talked of the older and younger Edda, the poem of Gudrun, and, if my memory serves me, of the Nibelungenlied. He had also read the Heimskringla Saga. The promoters of book-hawking and village lending libraries will be interested to hear that this superior enlightenment was due to a small lending library, which had been established by a former clergyman of the district. There was a pithiness and simplicity about this man’s talk which surprised me.
“The wild geese,” says he, “come over here in the spring, and after tarrying a few days make over to the north, in the shape of a snow-plough.”Milton would have said, “Ranged in figure, wedge their way.”
Several old swords and other weapons have been dug up in the vicinity, indicative of rugged manners and deeds quite in keeping with the rugged features of the surrounding nature. On an old beam in the hay-loft is carved, in antique Norsk—“Knut So-and-so was murdered here in 1685”—the simple memorial of a very common incident in those days.
For the moderate sum of four orts (three and fourpence) I hire a horse and a man to the shores of the Miösvand. To the left of our route—path there is none—is a place called Falke Riese (Falcon’s Nest), where Richard tells me that his grandfather told him he remembered a party of Dutchmen being located in a log-hut, for the purpose of catching falcons, and that they used duen (tame doves) to attract them. This is interesting, as showing the method pursued by the grandees of Europe, in the days of hawking, to procure the best, or Norwegian breed. At one time, this sport was also practised by the great people of thiscountry. Thus, from Snorro, it appears that Eywind used to keep falcons.
My guide, Ole, has been a soldier, but much prefers the mountain air to that of the town.
“In the town,” says he, “it is so traengt,” (in Lincolnshire, throng,)i.e., no room to stir or breathe.
In the course of conversation he tells me he verily believes I have travelled over the whole earth.
While the horse is stopping to rest and browse on a spot which afforded a scanty pasturage, a likely-looking lake attracted my observation, and I was speedily on its rocky banks, throwing for a trout—but the trout were too wary and the water too still. While thus engaged, a distant horn sounds from a mountain on the right, sufficiently startling in such a desolate region. Was game afoot this morning, and was I presently to hear—
The deep-mouthed blood-hound’s heavy bay,Resounding up the hollow way.
The deep-mouthed blood-hound’s heavy bay,Resounding up the hollow way.
The deep-mouthed blood-hound’s heavy bay,
Resounding up the hollow way.
Game was afoot, but not of the kind usually the object of the chase. The Alpine horn was blownby a sæter-lad to keep off the wolves, as I was informed. As nothing was to be done with the rod, I tried the gun, and as we slope down through the stunted willows and birch copses that patch the banks of the Miösvand, I fall in with plenty of golden plover and brown ptarmigan, and manage to kill two birds with one stone. In other words, the shots that serve to replenish the provision-bag arouse a peasant on the further side, who puts over to us in his boat, and thus saves us a detour of some miles round the southern arm of the lake. As we cross over, I perceive far to the westward the snow-covered mountains of the Hardanger Fjeld, which I hope to cross. The westernmost end of the lake is, I understand, twenty-four English miles from this. To the eastward, towering above its brother mountains, is the cockscombed Gausta, which lies close by the Riukan Foss, while all around the scenery is as gaunt and savage as possible. At Schinderland, where we land, after some palaver I procure a horse to Erlands-gaard, a cabin which lies on the hither side of the northern fork of the Miösen, said to beseven miles distant. But the many detours we had to make to avoid the dangerous bogs, made the transit a long affair. In one place, when the poor nag, encumbered with my effects, sank up to his belly, I expected every moment to see the hungry bog swallow him up entirely. With admirable presence of mind he kept quite still, instead of exhausting himself in struggling, and then by an agile fling and peculiar sleight of foot, got well out of the mess.
The delay caused by these difficulties enabled me to bring down some more ptarmigan, and have a bang at an eagle, who swept off with a sound which to my ears seemed very like “don’t you wish you may get it.” But perhaps it was only the wind driving down the rocks and over the savage moorland.
The modest charge of one ort (tenpence), made by my guide for horse and man, not a little surprised me. I did not permit him to lose by his honesty.
Unfortunately, the boat at Erlands-gaard is away; so meanwhile I cook some plover and chat with the occupants of the cabin. Sigur Ketilson, oneof the sons, is a Konge-man, (one of “the king’s men,” or soldiers, mentioned in the ballad of “Humpty-dumpty.”) He has been out exercising this year at Tönsberg, one hundred and forty English miles off. The mere getting thither to join his corps is quite a campaign in itself. On his road to headquarters he receives fourteen skillings per diem asviaticum, and one skilling and a half for “logiment.” A bed for three farthings! He is not forced to march more than two Norsk (fourteen English) miles a day. The time of serving is now cut down one-half, being five instead of ten years, and by the same law every able-bodied person must present himself for service, though instead of the final selection being made by lot, it is left to the discretion of one officer—a regulation liable to abuse.
At last the boat returns, and embarking in it by ten o’clockP.M., when it is quite dark, I arrive at the lone farm-house at Holvig. Mrs. Anna Holvig is reposing with her three children, her husband being from home. There being only one bed on the premises, I find that the hay this night mustbe my couch. The neighbouring loft where I slept was a building with its four ends resting, as usual, on huge stones. At intervals during the night I am awoke by noises close to my ear, which I thought must be from infantine rats, whose organs of speech were not fully developed. In the morning I discover that my nocturnal disturbers were not rats, but swallows, who had constructed their mud habitations just under the flooring where I slept. “The swallow twittering from its straw-built nest” may gratify persons of an elegiac turn; but under the circumstances the noise was anything but agreeable.
“The breezy call of incense breathing morn,” in which the same poet revels, was much more to my liking; indeed, one sniff of it made me as fresh as a lark, and I picked my way to the house by the lake side, and enjoyed my coffee. The little boy, Oiesteen Torkilson, though only eight years of age, has not been idle, and has procured a man and horse from a distant sæter. The price asked is out of all reason, as I don’t hesitate to tell the owner. Before the bargain is struck, I jot down a few remarks in my journal. With the inquisitivenessof her nation, the woman asks what I am writing. “Notices of what I see and think of the people; who is good, and who not.” Out bolts the lady, to apprise the man of her discovery that “there’s a chield amang ye taking notes, and faith he’ll print it.” My device succeeded. Presently she finished her confab with the peasant, and returned to say that he would take a more moderate payment.
I observed here, for the first time, the difference between the two words “ja” and “jo.”
Have you seen a bear?—“Ja.” Haven’t you seen a bear?—“Jo.” I have met educated Norwegians who had failed to observe the distinction. A perfectly similar distinction was formerly made in England between “yes” and “yea.”[7]
No cream—The valley of the Maan—The Riukan foss—German students—A bridge of dread—The course of true love never did run smooth—Fine misty weather for trout—Salted provisions—Midsummer night revels—The Tindsö—The priest’s hole—Treacherous ice—A case for Professor Holloway—The realms of cloud-land—Superannuated—An ornithological guess—Field-fares out of reach of “Tom Brown”—The best kind of physic—Undemonstrative affection—Everywhere the same—Clever little horses.
No cream—The valley of the Maan—The Riukan foss—German students—A bridge of dread—The course of true love never did run smooth—Fine misty weather for trout—Salted provisions—Midsummer night revels—The Tindsö—The priest’s hole—Treacherous ice—A case for Professor Holloway—The realms of cloud-land—Superannuated—An ornithological guess—Field-fares out of reach of “Tom Brown”—The best kind of physic—Undemonstrative affection—Everywhere the same—Clever little horses.
The path, I find, is at a higher level than I imagined, for, on reaching a sæter, no bunker (sour milk, with a thick coating of cream) is to be had, as the temperature is too low, the girl tells me, for the process of mantling to take place.
The horse being exceedingly lazy, I administered a rebuke to him, when he was not slow in returning the compliment, striking me with his heels in the thigh. Luckily I was close behind him, or thethread of my story might have been abruptly snapped.
Pine now begins to take the place of birch, and we descend very rapidly into the valley of the Maan, pronounced Moan. To our right, among the trees, is heard the roar of the famous Riukan foss, which at one perpendicular shoot of nine hundred feet, discharges the waters of the great Miösvand and other lakes into the valley.
Leaving my guide to rest for a space, I plunged into the forest, and, after a precipitous descent, espy a cottage close to the falls. Here sat two strangers, regaling themselves on wild strawberries and milk, while the master of the hut was carving a wooden shoe, and the mistress suckling a baby. The travellers both wore spectacles and longish hair, and a pocket-compass depending from their necks. Each carried abeau idealof a knapsack, and I knew them at once to be German students. After eating their meal, they observed that they had “yut yespeist,” which stamped them at once to be from the Rhine; the pronunciation ofgasybeing the shibboleth of detection. “Eineyuteyebrateneyans ist eineyuteyabeYoddes” (a yood yoast yoose is a yood yift of Yod), is a saying fastened on the Rhinelander by the more orthoepic Hanoverian. But it is more than doubtful whether these good people will have any opportunity in this country of tasting any such delicacy.
A few yards brought us to the magnificent amphitheatre of the Riukan, on the further side of which we have the fall full in view. On the face of the smooth, nearly perpendicular wall which shuts in the vast arena to the right of us, is an exceedingly narrow ledge—
A bridge of dread,Not wider than a thread—
A bridge of dread,Not wider than a thread—
A bridge of dread,
Not wider than a thread—
along which foolhardy people have occasionally risked their necks, either out of mere bravado or in order to make a short cut to the Miösvand, which I left this morning. This is the famous Mari-stien—everybody knows the legend about it—sadly exemplifying the fact that the course of true love never did run smooth: how young Oiesteen fell from it on his way to a stolen interview with Mary of Vestfjordalen, and she lost her senses in consequence, and daily haunted the spot for yearsafterwards, pale and wan, and silent as a ghost, and is even now seen when the shades of evening fall, hovering over the giddy verge of “The remorseless deep which closed o’er the head of her loved Lycidas.”
But as neither I nor the Teutons could see any possible good in risking our necks for nought, and valued a whole skin and unbroken bones, after assaying to take in and digest the wonderful sight, we presently retraced our steps without setting foot on ledge.
Five miles below this is Dœl, where some accommodation, at a dear rate, is to be obtained of Ole Tarjeison.
Next morning, the summit of Gausta, which rises just over the Maan to the height of 5688 feet, and commands a magnificent view of the district of Ringerike, is covered with cloud. But what is bad weather to others, is good in the eyes of the fisherman. So, instead of lamenting “the wretched weather,” I get out my trout-rod and secure some capital trouts (at times they are taken here seven pounds in weight), part of which I have sprinkled with salt, and put into the provision-bag, with aview to the journey I purpose taking from hence across the Fjeld to Norway’s greatest waterfall, the Vöringfoss, in the Hardanger.
While sauntering about, a printed notice, suspended in the passage of the house, attracts my attention, which afforded a considerable insight into the morals of the Norwegian peasant. It was dated April 18, 1853, and was to this effect: The king has heard with much displeasure that the old custom of young unmarried men running about at night, sometimes in flocks (flokkeviis), especially on Sundays and saints’-days, after the girls, while asleep in the cow-houses, has been renewed. His Majesty, therefore, summons all Christian and sober-minded parents, and house-fathers, to protect their children and servants from this nocturnal rioting. He also calls upon them to keep the two sexes apart, for the sake of order and good morals; and if the same shall be detected conniving at these irregularities, they shall, for the first offence, be mulcted one dollar seventy-two skillings; for the second offence, double that amount, &c. The young men shall have the same punishment; and,for the third offence, be confined from three to six months with hard labour in a fortress. Girls who receive such clandestine visits, shall be punished in like manner. Informers shall be entitled to receive the fine. All Government officers are required to make known these presents. This notice must be read at churches, posted in conspicuous places, and sent about by messengers.
Here, then, I obtained the certain knowledge of a custom—similar to one which still lingers in Wales—which I had suspected to be prevalent, but the existence of which the inhabitants of the country, for some reason or other, I found slow to admit. The above ordinance is a renewal of a similar one made 4th March, 1778, from which it appears that the immorality of “Nattefrieri” (night-courting) has long prevailed in Norway.
Eight English miles below this the Maan finds ample room and verge enough to expatiate in the deep Tindsö, which is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous lakes in Norway, being subject to frightfully sudden storms; while the precipitous cliffs that bound it, for the most part onlyafford foothold to a fly, or such like climbers. There is an old tale about this lake, illustrative of the dangers to which a clergyman is subject in the discharge of his duties. Many years ago, the parson of the parish had to cross over the lake to do duty in the “annex church” at Hovind. The weather was threatening; but his flock awaited him, and so he started, commending himself to God and his good angels. Long before he approached his destination, the wind had so increased in violence that the boatmen were overpowered, and the boat was dashed to pieces against the adamantine walls of the Haukanes Fjeld. All on board were lost but the priest, who was carried by the billows into a small cleft in the rock, far above the usual high-water mark. For three days he sat wedged in this hole, from whence there was no exit. On the fourth day, the winds and waves abated; and some boatmen, who were rowing by, as good fortune would have it, heard the faint cry for assistance which the captive gave, as he saw them from his “coin of vantage.” And so he was rescued from his terriblepredicament; and the notch in the wall still goes by the name of the Prestehul, “Priest’s-hole.”
Bishop Selwyn, with his well-found yacht, sailing among the deep bays of New Zealand, confirming and stablishing the Maoris in the Christian faith, will have to wait a long time before he can meet with such an adventure as the Tindsö priest. But then you’ll say, in winter time it is all right, and the parson can dash along over the ice, defying the dangers of the deep and the bristling rocks. Not so, however; there are not unfrequently weak places in the ice, which look as strong as the rest, but which let in the unfortunate traveller. Not long ago, five men and a horse were thus engulphed. So in the Heimskringla Saga, King Harold and his retinue perish by falling through the ice on the Randsfjord, at a place where cattle-dung had caused it to thaw.
Giving up all thoughts of ascending the Gausta,—as I understand the chance of a view from it in this misty weather is very precarious,—I hire a horse from one Hans Ostensen Ingulfsland, toconvey my luggage to Waage, on the Miösvand. Hans was ill, apparently of a deranged stomach and liver, and, with rueful aspect, consulted me on his case. All the medicine he had was what he called aprobatum, in a small bottle. The probatum turned out to be a specific for the gravel, as I saw from a label on the flask; so I gave him what was more likely to suit his case, some blue pill and rhubarb.
Hans’ father used to entertain travellers, but his charges became so high that all his customers forsook him; and M. Doel, who appears to be in a fair way to imitate his predecessor, set up in “the public line.”
Hitherto the valley has been clear of cloud; and on arriving at Vaa, I stop to rest, and sketch the distant smoke of the Riukan ascending from its rocky cauldron towards heaven. Presently the mist, which had all the morning hidden the “comb” of Gausta, threw off a few flakes; these gradually extend and unite, and pour along the mountain-tops to my left, and in a few minutes reach to and absorb the smoke of Riukan, and hideit from view. Up boil the fogs, as if by magic, from all sides; and, like the image of Fame, inVirgil, the vapour rises from the depths of the valley, and reaches up to the sky. Doubtless it was the spirit of the place, wroth at my profane endeavour to represent her shrine on paper; and the sullen “moan” of the stream might, by an imaginative person, have been supposed to be the utterance of her complaint.
In the foreground, intently watching my operations as he sits upon a rock, is old Peer Peerson Vaa, who being over eighty, is past work, and having no children, has sold his Gaard to one Ole Knutzen, on the condition of having his liv-brod (life-bread)—i.e., being supported till his death. This is not an uncommon custom in Norway. He is “farbro” (uncle) to the man at Dœl.
Observe the simplicity of the language. So the Norsk for “aunt” is “moerbro,”—mother’s brother.
I here obtain a dollar or two of small change, with which I am ill provided. It is curious, by-the-bye, to see how one of these bonderslooks at half-a-dozen small coins before he is able to reckon the amount. This is in consequence of the infrequency of money up the country.
As we ascend the Pass, I observe some dusky-looking birds, which turn out to be ringouzels. According to a Norwegian whom I consulted on the subject, they are the substitute, in a great measure, if not altogether, in this part of the country, for the
Ouzel cock, so black of hue,With orange-tawny bill,
Ouzel cock, so black of hue,With orange-tawny bill,
Ouzel cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
whose plaintive song so delights us in Great Britain.
Several fieldfares, also, chattered in a startled and angry manner as they rose from the low birch bushes, impatient, no doubt, for the period, now fast approaching, when their young ones will be ready to fly and start for Germany, one of their chief winterhabitats, where, under the appellation of “Krammets-vogel,” they will appear in the bill of fare at the hotels. What an odd notion, to be sure, of all these birds going so far to lie-in! What an infinity of trouble they would save themselvesif they stopped, for instance, during the breeding period, in Germany or England! Aye; but then they would be exposed to the depredations of “Tom Brown” and others of the genus schoolboy, whose destructive and adventurous qualities generally first develop themselves in the bird-nesting line.
One of the straps which fastened my luggage to the horse having broken, my guide very soon constructs, of birch twig, a strap and buckle which holds as fast as any leathern one I ever saw. This fertility of invention is due to the non-division of labour. What could an Englishman have done under similar circumstances?
Halvor Halvorsen, my guide, is a poor weakly fellow, and having seen me prescribe for Ingulfsland, he asks me if I can do anything for him. Good living and less hard work are all he wants; but, unfortunately, while he has plenty of the latter, he gets but little of the former. On his back is a great load of milk-pails, and some provisions (potatoes and flad-brod) for his spouse, who is taking care of a sæter, which we shall pass.
At length we arrive there: it is a cot of unhewnstone-slabs, and before the door a lot of dried juniper-bushes, the only firing which the desolate plateau affords. Gro Johannsdatter, a really pretty-looking young woman, with delicate features, smiles in a subdued manner as we enter, and thanks her husband quietly and monosyllabically for bringing up the food. This, together with her little boy, she proceeds to examine with inquisitive, eager eye. The larder was doubtless nearly empty. She then gives her husband, whom she had not seen for some time, a furtive look of affection, but nothing more—no embrace, no kiss. How undemonstrative these people are! It is a remarkable characteristic of the lower orders of Norway, that, unlike their betters, they never think of kissing or embracing before strangers. Compare this with those demonstrations in Germany and France, where not the opposite sexes, but great bearded men, will kiss each other on either cheek with the report of popguns, regardless of bystanders.
Presently they go into the inner compartment of the hut, and then at length I believe I heard the sound of a kiss. While she makes up the fire, andboils some milk for her husband, who has many hours of mountain still before him, I endeavour to take a slight sketch of her and the abode.
No sooner does she become aware of my intentions, than, with true feminine instinct, she begs me to wait a moment, while she divests herself of an ugly clout of a kerchief which hides a very pretty neck. The sketch concluded, she asks for a sight of it, and, with a pleased smile, exclaims, “No, no; I’m not so smuk (pretty, smug) as that.”
These châlets, by-the-bye, are not called sæter in this part of Norway, but stol, or stöl. They are very inferior in accommodation to those in the Hardanger district and elsewhere.
Beyond crossing a river, Humle-elv, when, by my guide’s recommendation, I spring on the horse’s back, I find nothing noted in my diary concerning the rest of the day’s journey.
These little horses will carry up and down steep mountains from fifteen Norwegian Bismark lbs. (nearly two hundred weight English) up to twenty-two. How the little nag, with my luggageand myself on his back, managed to win his way over the stream, which was at least two feet deep, and among the large slippery stones on its bottom, it was difficult to divine. They are very cats for climbing, though they do not share that animal’s aversion to water, which they take to as if it was their natural element.
An oasis—Unkempt waiters—Improving an opportunity—The church in the wilderness—Household words—A sudden squall—The pools of the Quenna—Airy lodgings—Weather-bound—A Norwegian grandpapa—Unwashed agriculturists—An uncanny companion—A fiery ordeal—The idiot’s idiosyncrasy—The punctilious parson—A pleasant query—The mystery of making flad-brod—National cakes—The exclusively English phase of existence—Author makes a vain attempt to be “hyggelig”—Rather queer.
An oasis—Unkempt waiters—Improving an opportunity—The church in the wilderness—Household words—A sudden squall—The pools of the Quenna—Airy lodgings—Weather-bound—A Norwegian grandpapa—Unwashed agriculturists—An uncanny companion—A fiery ordeal—The idiot’s idiosyncrasy—The punctilious parson—A pleasant query—The mystery of making flad-brod—National cakes—The exclusively English phase of existence—Author makes a vain attempt to be “hyggelig”—Rather queer.
It was already dark when we emerged from the morasses and loose rocks, and lighted by good luck on the little patch of green sward on the northern shores of the Misövand, adjoining the farm-house of Waagen. On referring to the map, reader, and finding this spot set down upon it, your imagination, of course, pictures a regular village, or something of that sort; but this is not the case. A couple of gaards, with a belt of swampy grass land, are all the symptoms of manto enliven this intensely solitary waste of grey rocks, bog, birch, and water.
The proprietors are Gunnuf Sweynsen and his brother Torkil, together with one Ole Johnson, a cousin. Gunnuf is absent, guiding the Germans across the Fjeld.
The best method to proceed is, I find, to take boat from here to Lien, which is about twenty-four miles distant, at the very top or north-eastern end of the lake; a horse must then be procured to carry my effects for the other seventy English miles across the mountains. A bargain is soon struck with Johnson, who has once before traversed most of the route; and for the sum of eight dollars (thirty-six shillings English) he undertakes to horse and guide me the whole way to the Hardanger.
The stabur, or hay-loft, affords me a tolerable night’s resting-place. There were no women-folk about to make things comfortable; so I managed with the three unkemptvalets de chambreinstead, who boiled me some coffee, greased my boots, and did the needful quite as well as one of those short-jacketed,napkin-carrying, shilling-seeking German kellners who supersede the spruce chamber-maid of the English inn.
By early day we walk across the dew-dank meadow down to the shore of the lake, while a few black ducks, which scuttle off at our approach, warn me to get my fowling-piece ready. The water is so shallow near the land, that the boat gets aground; and the men are in the water in a moment and pushing her off, and into the boat again in a twinkling as she shot into the deeps, the water streaming from their legs in cascades, about which they seemed to care as little as the black ducks aforesaid.
As we glide out into the offing, my spinning-tackle is got out, as I determine to improve the opportunity, and see what the lake can boast of in the way of fish. A banging trout is soon fixed on the deadly triangles which garnishes the sides of the bright metal minnow, to the great delight of the boatmen, to whom the operation is entirely novel.
Take warning, piscatorial reader, from me, andmind you use a plaited line with spinning-tackle. In my hurry I had used a fine twisted one, which kinked up into a Gordian knot the moment it was slack, and I lost some time in getting out another line.
Yonder, on the western shore of the lake, standing in the midst of the silent wilderness, rises the solitary house of God where the people of these parts worship, its humble spire of wood reflected on the surface of the lake. With the exception of Hovden Church and our boat, the waters and shores exhibit nothing else indicative of the proximity of man.
The congregation must be a very scattered one, for if ever people dwelt few and far between, it is in these solitudes. Not one of the three clergymen of the parishes of Vinje, Sillejord, and Tind, who share in the Sunday duty which is performed here a dozen times a year, can live under fifty miles off. A Diocesan Spiritual Aid Society is certainly wanted in these regions.
Such words as “hyre,” to hire; “ede,” to eat; “beite,” to bite; “aarli,” early, let drop by theboatmen in the course of conversation, remind me that I am in a part of the country where a portion of the old tongue still keeps its ground, such as it was when brought over to England, and engrafted on its congener, the Anglo-Saxon, nearly a thousand years ago.
Quite a tempest of wind now suddenly springs up, sending us along at a great pace, and rendering it difficult, when I now and then caught a trout by the tackle trailing astern, to lay-to and secure the fish. The twenty-four miles were soon behind us, and we found ourselves in the Quenna river. “Ducks ahead!” was the cry of the lively Torkil, and my fowling-piece soon added fowl to the fish. No fear of starvation now, even though the larder at Lien prove to be empty.
As it is some hours to nightfall, I rig my fly-rod, and try the pools of the Quenna. Some fat, cinnamon-coloured flies, which I found reposing under the stones, being hardly yet strong enough on the wing to disport themselves aloft, gave me a hint as to the sort of fly that would go down, and, my book containing some very similar insects,I had no lack of sport, securing several nice fish. They do run as large as five pounds, I hear.
On returning to the small farm-house where I was to spend the night, a horse, I found, had been procured; and as a beautiful evening gave promise of a fine day on the morrow, we prepared to start by earliest dawn. My bed of skins was, as usual, laid in the hay-shed; and I retired in the highest possible spirits at the prospect of crossing the desolate and grand mountain-plateau that separates us from the western shores of Norway.
As this spot stands at an elevation of some three thousand feet above the sea, there were no pine-trees growing near; so the shed was constructed of undressed birch poles, and was about as weather-tight as a blackbird’s wicker cage. The chinks near my pillow I stopped up with loose hay. Vain precaution! Before dawn I awoke, cold and stiff. The weather had changed; my sleeping-chamber was become a very temple of the winds, and the storm made a clean breach through the tenement, having swept out the quasi-oakum which I had stuffed into the crevices.
On issuing from my dormitory, I found the weather was frightful. A deluge of rain, and wind, and thick mist filled the space between earth and sky. To attempt the passage of the Fjeld was not to be thought of, as there is no road whatever. Departure, therefore, being out of the question, I made up my mind to another day’s sojourn at the cottage, which was the most comfortless, dirty spot I ever met with in Thelemarken; and that is saying a good deal. During the day, most of the natives—Ole, my guide, among the rest—were away at the châlet. Besides myself, there were only two other persons left at home; and these, as my journey is at a stand-still, I may as well describe.
A tall, old man, his height bowed by the weight of more than eighty years, sat in a kubbe-stol—a high backed chair, made out of a solid trunk of tree, peculiar to Thelemarken—warming his knees at the fire in the corner, and mumbling to himself. Presently he lay down on a bench, and snored. Before long up he got, and spooned up a quantity of cold porridge; and then, turning his blearedeyes at me, as I sat finishing a sketch of the interior of the dwelling, including himself, croaked out,—
“Er du Embedsman?” (Art thou a Government servant?)
“No.”
“Well, that’s odd.”
And then he commenced warming his knees and mumbling, and then snored as before, extended on the bench; and before long, rose and spooned up porridge. These were his daily and hourly avocations. His name was a grand one—Herrbjörn Hermanson—but the owner of it was disgusting. No wonder; he never washes at all, so that the appearance of his countenance may be conceived. When he departs this life he will undergo ablution.
Aproposof this, in the absence of a better occupation, I gave a classic turn to the affair, and in my thoughts altered a line of Juvenal:—
Pars bonaNorwegiæest, si verum admittimus, in quaNemo sumitaquamnisi mortuus.
Pars bonaNorwegiæest, si verum admittimus, in quaNemo sumitaquamnisi mortuus.
Pars bonaNorwegiæest, si verum admittimus, in qua
Nemo sumitaquamnisi mortuus.
That I don’t think is a libel. Indeed, with “thewretchlessness of most unclean living”—this application of the words of the Seventeenth Article is not mine, but a late geological Dean of Westminster’s, in his sermon on the cholera—the inhabitants of this country generally have a very practical acquaintance.
The other person who kept at home all day, was a young fellow of thirty, with swarthy face and gleaming eyes. His dark, shaggy head of hair was surmounted by a cap like that worn by the Finns, with a bunch of wild flowers stuck in a red band that encircled it. His dress was a short jacket, skin knee-breeches, and jack-boots. His time was occupied between smearing the boots with reindeer fat, sharpening a knife of formidable dimensions, and casting small bullets; while ever and anon he would repair to a small looking-glass of three inches square, hung against the wall, and contemplate a very forbidding, peculiar set of features therein. There was something uncanny about the look of the fellow which I did not much relish. Presently he takes my pipe from the table, and coolly commences smoking it. SubsequentlyI find that Joh is not as other men are, and only half in possession of his senses.
Some twenty years ago tame reindeer were introduced upon these mountains from Finmark, and great things were expected from the importation; but the enterprize did not answer; and a couple of years ago the proprietors slaughtered all the deer, and there was a great merry-making at a farm called Norregaard on the occasion. Deep drinking was the order of the day; raw potato brandy was gulped down in profuse quantities. For forty-eight hours without intermission did the bout continue. Like Paddy’s noddle in respect to the shillelagh, most of these mountaineers’ heads are proof against the knock-me-down power of strong alcohol. Not so Joh’s, who was one of the party; in the midst of the festivities he lost his reason, and went stark staring mad. It was long before he quieted down; since then he has never done any work, or shared in the labours of the rest of the family; nothing will persuade him, however, to touch brantviin now. The burnt child dreads the fire—the brandy must formerly have had afearful fascination for him. I drew a cork from a small flask with me; the moment the sound caught his ear, his face whirled round to where I sat with the rapidity of an automaton, and he glared a look of peculiar meaning at me from underneath his heavy eyebrows, which at the time I could not comprehend.
But though he is averse to all regular work, there is one thing I find on which he spares no pains,—reindeer stalking. This is the occupation on which he starts day after day, without speaking a word to the rest of the household; in season and out of it, he is continually alone on the mountains around. Outside the door are a dozen pairs of antlers, the trophies of his skill. Only last week he shot a female deer, the fifth or sixth this summer, although the season fixed by law has not yet arrived. But he is out of the ken of informers.
Drying on the wall outside is a rein-skin, and in the house are two or three hides which his ingenuity has converted into leather. His boots are of that material—so are his knee-breeches. He is oftenabsent for days on the mountain, not unfrequently sleeping under a rock. If he discovers a flock of deer in a spot where the nature of the ground will not permit of his getting within shot, he bides till they move, dodging about unperceived. Not long since, he killed two specimens of the Fjeld-frass, or glutton, whose scent is said to be incredibly keen, nosing wounded game miles off. One of these wretches he saw track and catch and kill a wounded (skamskudt) deer; and while it was thus occupied he stole upon it unawares, and became possessed of deer and glutton both.
At all events, he showed more gumption on this occasion than an English parson with whom I am acquainted. One day he saw that diminutive British equivalent to the glutton—a weazel—pursuing similar tactics—overtake an unfortunate hare. As usual, poor puss was fascinated, and her legs refused their office in the way of flight; but each time the ferocious little creature tried to fasten upon her, she knocked it over with her paws, jumping at it and pushing it over. Off set the parson, not to smash the brute with his cane, butto tell his Grace’s keeper. It is needless to add, that when he returned with that functionary the vampire quadruped had got on the hare’s neck, and sucked all the blood out of its veins, managing to get clean off to boot.
But to return to Joh. Observing me engaged in frying trout, he suddenly exclaims—the first word he had spoken—“Kann De spise reen?” (can you eat reindeer?) “To be sure.” Upon which he bolted out of the hut, and soon returned with a lump of venison weighing perhaps four pounds, which he silently placed on the board. It was evident to me that Joh was a person of capabilities; and I soon got him to work, repairing my knapsack and gun-case. A few artificial flies, of which he was not slow in comprehending the meaning, rewarded his endeavours in the saddler’s art.
Towards evening the family returned from the sæter,—two strapping maidens, Kari and Gunhild, among the number. The occupation in which some of the party forthwith engaged—the mystery or craft of making flad-brod, the national esculent—soon drove me into the fresh air. At a table sitsone of the girls, roller in hand, busily engaged in rolling out huge flat cakes of dough, sprinkling them with water by means of a little brush. The Alfred of the occasion was the father of Joh, who, with a sort of trowel, whips up the cakes, and flaps them down on the girdle-iron, a flat disk, about three-quarters of a yard in diameter. At the proper moment he gives them a turn, and in a minute they are done, and whisked into the hands of the other girl, who piles them on a table. The girdle-iron being large, the smoke is prevented ascending the chimney in its natural way, and becomes dissipated all over the one sitting-room of the house, and this it is that drives me out of it.
This favourite food is sometimes prepared in sufficient quantities for a whole winter’s consumption. I have seen, in a large gaard, nearly a dozen Abigails hard at work kneading, sprinkling, rolling, and baking the cakes. The only time when they are endurable to the palate, in my opinion, is when they are just warm off the fire. When warm, they are flexible, and are then folded up compactly, if wanted for travelling.
Another national cake, something like a pikelet in taste and consistency, is the waffel-kage, which is about half an inch thick, oblong, and moulded into squares; this is by no means to be despised.
I was early down among the hay for the purpose of recruiting my vital energies for the morrow, when our work was cut out for us, and plenty of it. The interstices between the bars of the cage were weather-tightened afresh, and I was resolved to be as cosy and comfortable as circumstances would permit. Neither the French nor the Germans have any word to represent that very pleasant accident of our being, which we call comfort; so they borrow the word and its derivatives out and out from our English vocabulary when they desire to express a thing, which, after all, they cannot possibly have experienced practically. Only fancy, then, the Norwegians presuming to think of such a phase of existence. And yet they have a word said to answer exactly to our word “comfortable,”—viz., “hyggelig,” from hygge; which is, no doubt, identical with our word “to hug,” or embrace.
Anyhow, my efforts to be “hyggelig” were not successful that night. Like the Grecian hero under different circumstances, I could not rest; no wonder, therefore, I was up and stirring early; indeed, I had been stirring all night. The sun shone out brightly, every leaf and blade of grass and rock reflecting his rays from their moist surfaces. The rain had ceased falling from the clouds, but not from the mountains. The river was brimful and roaring fiercely, the toying cascades of twenty-four hours ago now swollen into blustering cataracts, while fresh ones were improvised for the occasion. But, alas! I was ill fitted for enjoying the glorious scene. Ague-fits shot through my limbs and frame; and even before we started, I felt as if I had already travelled many miles.
It was clear I had caught cold, if nothing worse; but there was no help for it. The very idea of stopping another day in this den, with Joh and Herrbjörn for my companions, was intolerable. Seventy miles, it is true, lay before me, and not a house on the route. Behind me it was a goodfifty miles back to civilized life, and double or treble that distance to a doctor. “Nulla retrorsum,” too, is my motto, unless things come to such a pass as they did with Havelock’s men on the road to Lucknow. The upshot was that I trusted in Providence, and set my breast manfully to the mountain, supported by that inward consciousness of endurance so dear to a Briton, which every now and then tried to express itself, comically enough, by feebly humming “There’s life in the old dog yet.”