From Fairy lore to Nature lore—Charming idea for stout folk—Action and reaction—Election day at Bergen—A laxstie—A careless pilot—Discourse about opera-glasses—Paulsen Vellavik and the bears—The natural character of bears—Poor Bruin in a dilemma—An intelligent Polar bear—Family plate—What is fame?—A simple Simon—Limestone fantasia—The paradise of botanists—Strength and beauty knit together—Mountain hay-making—A garden in the wilderness—Footprints of a celebrated botanist—Crevasses—Dutiful snow streams—Swerre’s sok—The Rachels of Eternity—A Cockney’s dream of desolation—Curds and whey—The setting in of misfortunes—Author’s powder-flask has a cold bath—The shadows of the mountains—The blind leading the blind—On into the night—The old familiar music—Holloa—Welcome intelligence.
From Fairy lore to Nature lore—Charming idea for stout folk—Action and reaction—Election day at Bergen—A laxstie—A careless pilot—Discourse about opera-glasses—Paulsen Vellavik and the bears—The natural character of bears—Poor Bruin in a dilemma—An intelligent Polar bear—Family plate—What is fame?—A simple Simon—Limestone fantasia—The paradise of botanists—Strength and beauty knit together—Mountain hay-making—A garden in the wilderness—Footprints of a celebrated botanist—Crevasses—Dutiful snow streams—Swerre’s sok—The Rachels of Eternity—A Cockney’s dream of desolation—Curds and whey—The setting in of misfortunes—Author’s powder-flask has a cold bath—The shadows of the mountains—The blind leading the blind—On into the night—The old familiar music—Holloa—Welcome intelligence.
From Utne I take boat for a spot called Ose, in a secluded arm of the Fjord. My boatman, an intelligent fellow, tells me that Asbjörnsen, the author of a book of Fairy Tales, is now, like Mr. Kingsley, turned naturalist, and has been dredgingwith a skrabe (scraper) about here. He has discovered one small mussel, and a new kind of star-fish, with twelve rays about twelve inches long, body about the size of a crown-piece, and the whole of a bright red. The rays are remarkably brittle. This I afterwards saw in the Museum at Bergen. Asbjörnsen is an exceedingly stout man, and very fat, and the simple country-people have the idea, therefore, that he must be very rich. Wealth and fatness they believe must go together.
The wind, which had all the morning been blowing from the land, as the afternoon advances veers round, like the Bise of the Mediterranean, and thus becomes in our favour. I now see the reason why the men would not start till the afternoon. In fine weather, the wind almost invariably blows from the sea after mid-day, and from the mountain in the morning; and, in illustration of the law that action and reaction are always equal and contrary, the stronger it blows out, the stronger it blows in. Tit for tat.
Erik, who is very communicative, says, “Thisis our election day at Bergen for South Bergen-Stift. We don’t choose directly; every hundred men elect one; and this College of Voters elects the Storthing’s-man. Mr. H——, the clergyman, is one of the sitting members.”
“Has every male adult a vote?”
“No. In the country they must have a land-qualification, and pay so much tax to Government; besides which, before they can exercise their franchise, they must swear to the Constitution. People think much more of the privilege than they did formerly. Several have qualified lately. The more voters, the more Storthing’s-men, so that the Storthing is increasing in number.”
As we scud along, we pass a stage projecting from a rock. This is a Laxstie, or place where salmon are caught, as they swim by, by means of a capstan-net, which is hoisted up suddenly as they pass over it. But I shall have occasion to describe one of these curious contrivances hereafter.
“Very curious fish, those salmon,” continued my informant. “They are very fond of light—likemoths for that; always like to take up the Fjord where the cliffs are lowest—at least, so I hear.”
The breeze being fresh, we went gaily along; “So hurtig som sex” (as quick as six), said the man, using a saying of the country. Presently, he fastened the sheet, drew a lump of tobacco out of his waistcoat-pocket, and began to chew.
“You must not fasten the sheet,” interposed I.
“Why, you are not ‘sö-raed’ (frightened of the sea)?”
“No; but you Norskmen are very careless. Supposing a Kaste-wind comes from that mountain plump upon us, where are you?”
“Oh, that is never the case in summer.”
“Can you swim?” said I.
“No.”
“Well, I can; so that in case of accident you have more reason to be alarmed than I. But I have property in the boat, and I shan’t run the risk of losing it.”
“Ah! you English are very particular. Not long ago I rowed four Englishmen. Directly we got in the bay, although it was beautiful weather, one and all they pulled out a cloth bag witha screw to it, and blew it up, and put it round their waists.”
I could not help smiling at my countrymen’s peculiarities. As we swept along under the cliffs, I inquired whether there were any bears about here.
“Bears! forstaae sig (to be sure)! You see that speck yonder? That’s Vellavik.”
I took out my double glass to discern it—they are infinitely superior to the single ones.
“Bless me! why you have got a skue-spil kikkert[17](theatre-glass)!”
“Skue-spil! what do you know about skue-spil?”
“Why, I once was at Bergen, and went to see a play.”
“Indeed! And how did you like it?”
“Not much. I also saw a juggler and a rope-dancer: that I liked a vast deal better.”
“But about that bear at Vellavik?”
“Oh, yes. Well, Paulsen Vellavik, who lives yonder, was up under the mountain early in the spring. The bears get up there then to eat the young grass, for it springs there first. He wascoming down a narrow scaur—you know what I mean? Such a place as that yonder”—pointing to a deep scaur in the side of the mountain. “Suddenly he meets four bears coming towards him, two old, two young. The bears did not wish to meet him, for when they were some distance off, they turned out of the road, and tried to climb up out of the scaur; but it was too steep. So down they came towards him, growling horribly. He immediately stuffed his body, head foremost, into a hole which he saw in the cliff. It was not deep enough to get himself hidden in. His legs stuck out. In another second two of the bears were upon him, biting at his legs. To scream was death. His only chance of preservation was to sham dead. After biting him, and putting him to great pain, which he endured without a sound, the bears paused, and listened attentively. Paulsen could distinctly feel their hot breath, and, indeed, see them from his hiding-place. After thus listening some time, and not hearing him breathe or move, they came to the conclusion that he was dead, and then they left him. Faint with loss of blood, hislegs frightfully bitten, he managed, nevertheless, to crawl home, and is slowly recovering.”
“That is a very good bear-story,” said I; “have you another?”
“Ah, sir, the bear is a curious creature; he does not become so savage all at once. When they are young, they eat berries and grass; presently they take to killing small cattle—I mean sheep and goats. Later in life they begin killing horses and cows, and when the bear is very old, he attacks men. But they are great cowards sometimes. Ivar Aslaacson met a she-bear and three young ones this summer. She bit his leg; but he drove her off with nothing but a bidsel”—i.e., iron bit and bridle.
The biter bit, as you may say. This seems rather a favourite weapon of attack. Snorro relates how those two ruffians, Arek and Erek, rode off together into the forest, and were found dead, their heads punched in “med hesten-hoved-band”—i.e., with their horses’ bits.
“Once,” continued my informant, “I and a party of young fellows went up to a sæter on themainland, just opposite Utne. It was Sunday, and we were going to have a lark with the sæter girls. They were in great alarm, for they had seen a bear snuffing about. Off we set in pursuit. At last we found him, skulking about, and drove him with our cries down towards the cliffs that look over the Fjord. We saw him just below us, and shouted with all our might, and the dogs barked. This alarmed him, and he seemed to lose his head, for he jumped to a place where there was no getting away from. Down we thundered rocks and stones at him. He looked in doubt what to do. Then he tried to jump upon another rock; but the stone slipped from under him, and rolled down, and he after it, and broke his neck. A famous fat fellow he was.
“A year or two ago, some men were fishing along shore at Skudenaes, when, lo and behold, they saw something white swimming along straight for the land. It was a white bear. One of them landed, and ran for a gun, and shot at the beast as it touched the shore. It put up its paws in a supplicating manner, as if to beg them to be merciful, but a shot or two more killed the animal withoutit offering any resistance. It is thought that the creature had escaped from some ship coming from Spitzbergen.”
After a favourable run, we enter a deep Fjord, and landing at its extremity, march up to a cluster of houses. Here I agree with one Simon, for the sum of three dollars, to convey my effects over the Fjeld to the Sogne Fjord. His daughter Sunniva prepares me some coffee. To ladle out the cream, she places on the board a stumpy silver spoon, the gilding of which is nearly worn off. It was shaped like an Apostle spoon, except that the shaft was very short, and ended in something like the capital of a pillar.
“That’s a curious spoon,” I observed to Madam, who now appeared on household cares intent.
“Ah! that belonged to my grandfather, Christopher Gaeldnaes. Did you never hear of him?”
“I can’t say I ever did.”
“Indeed! Why he was a man renowned for wisdom and wealth all over Norway in the Danish days. Our clergyman tells me that this sort of spoon used to be hung round the child’s neck at baptism.” (Döbe = dipping.)
In the Museum of Northern Antiquities at Copenhagen, a similar one may be seen.
The extent of the household accommodations was not great. There were no sheets; as a make-shift, I suggested a table-cloth, of the existence of which I was aware; and, in place of a towel, thepis-allerwas a shirt. I rose at three o’clock,A.M., as we had a long journey before us; but Simon was not ready till much later. He was evidently a fumbling sort of fellow; and even when we had started, he had to run back and get something he had forgotten. From my experience in guides, I augured ill of his capabilities. To judge from the map, I thought we ought to accomplish the passage of the Fjeld before dark; but all that could be got out of him on this subject was, he could not say. If we couldn’t get over, there was a châlet where we might sleep.
As we trudged up the very narrow valley behind the houses, following the brawling stream, I had leisure to survey the surrounding objects. Right and left were impending mountains of enormous height, while in front of us stood, forbidding ourapproach, a wall of rock. Behind lay the placid Fjord, with a view of Folgefond in the distance, just catching the blush of the sunrise. The summits of some of the cliffs were cut into all sorts of fantastic shapes. The stupendous ruins which choked the path and stream, and were of limestone, at once explained the reason of the horrid forms above. The rock, from its nature, is evidently given to breaking away, and when it does so, does not study appearances. My guide, however, has something to say on the subject.
“Yonder, sir, is the priest. Don’t you see him? His nose (Probst-snabel) came away some months ago, so that now his face is not so easy to make out. That other rock goes by the name of Störk’s stool. Did you ever hear the story? Störk was a strong man, and a daring withal. One day he was up at a Thing (assize) at Kinservik, where the Bishop presided. Enraged at some decision made by his right reverence, Störk struck at him with his axe, but luckily missed him, making a fearful gash in the door-post. Störk immediately fled to Ose, below there. Not long after, the Bishop’sboat was descried rowing into the Fjord, to take vengeance for the act of violence. Störk at once fled up to that rock there, to watch the proceedings. Close by it there is a hole, and he had ready a vast flat stone, for the purpose of drawing it over the mouth, in case the Bishop came in pursuit. Meantime, he had left instructions with his son Tholf (which also means twelve) how to act. Tholf, who was a huge fellow, and nearly as strong as his father, set out in his boat to meet the Bishop, having on board a barrel of beer. As the other boat drew near he rested on his oars, and asked the Bishop’s permission to drink his health; and this being given, he took up the barrel and began drinking out of the bung-hole. The size of this fellow rather appalled the Bishop, who discreetly inquired whether Störk had any other such sons. ‘He hasTholf,’ was the crafty answer. When the Bishop, not relishing an encounter with twelve such fellows, turned his boat round, and retreated with all speed.”
In spite of my anticipations, I find the path gradually unfolds itself as we advance, wormingin and out of the rocks. More luxuriant shrub-vegetation I never beheld; a perfect Paradise of Sub-alpine plants. There were raspberries, and strawberries, and haeggebaer (bird-cherry), the wood of which is the toughest in Norway; besides many kinds of wild flowers, peeping among the fallen rocks. And then the ferns: there was the delicate oak-leaved fern, and the magnificent “polysticum logkitis,” with several others. Growing among these was a plant which appeared to be parsley-fern, specimens of which I stuffed into my book.
“Ay, that’s a nasty plant, sir,” said my guide. “En hel Maengde (a great lot) of it grows hereabouts. We call it Torboll” (I suppose from the destroying god Thor), “or Heste-spraeng (horse-burster). It stops them up at once, and they begin to swell, and the only chance then is a clyster.”
The cause of all this luxuriance of vegetation is to be found in the sheltered position of the valley, and the moisture caused by the
Thousand pretty rillsThat tumble down the rocky hills.
Thousand pretty rillsThat tumble down the rocky hills.
Thousand pretty rills
That tumble down the rocky hills.
One wonders where so much water comes from; till, lifting up the eye beyond the tall cliffs that lie still in the shadow, the vision lights on a field of glistening snow, which the morning sun has just caught and illumined.
Each step that we ascend the flowers grow perceptibly smaller and smaller, but their tints brighter, while the scenery grows more rugged and sombre, and its proportions vaster—an apt representation of savage strength pillowing beauty on its bosom.
As we climb higher and higher, we pass a waterfall, over which hovers an iris, one of those frequent decorations of Norwegian landscape which a British islander but seldom sees in his be-fogged home. Looking back, and following the stream below with my eye, I perceive two figures approaching the water’s edge.
“That’s my son and daughter,” exclaimed Simon. “They are going to make hay on that slope on the other side,” said he, pointing to a little green spot high up the mountain.
If a crop was to be got there it would be one,methought, such as the Scripture describes, “with which the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth up the sheaves his bosom.” Such little matters indicate the wrestle that mankind here has to make both ends meet; in other words, to get a supply of forage enough to last from September to May.
“But there’s no bridge,” exclaimed I. “They can’t get over.”
“Oh, they’ll manage.”
And sure enough I saw the boy first, and then the girl, take off their shoes, and with a hop, spring, and a jump, light on a stone standing out in the torrent, and then on another; and so over with the agility of mountain goats. One false step—an easy matter when the rocks were so slippery—and they would have endangered limb at any rate, for the lin was deep, and worked up to a dangerous pitch of exasperation by the knock-me-down blows that its own gravity was giving it.
Before we emerge from the vast labyrinth of mountain ruin, one overhanging fragment particularly arrests my attention, for, under its eaves, aquantity of martens had constructed their mud habitations, and were darting out and athwart the stream and back again with their muscipular booty, with intense industry. The trout abound in the brook that placidly flows through the little green plain beyond; but, with such a host of winged fly-catchers about, I doubt whether they ever get into season. Here, taking advantage of this little oasis of sweet grass, two or three sæters had been constructed, with the cows and sheep around them. The bald rock, up which our path now lay, was of mica-slate, striped with bands of white felspar; cold and grey, it was void of grass. The beautiful ferns we had left nestling among the clefts far behind, but a bit of stone-crop held its own here and there, and the claret-stalked London Pride asserted its dignity with much pertinacity. There was also abundance of a red flower.
On the bare waterless browOf granite ruin, I found a purple flower,A delicate flower, as fair as aught I trow,That toys with zephyrs in my lady’s bower.
On the bare waterless browOf granite ruin, I found a purple flower,A delicate flower, as fair as aught I trow,That toys with zephyrs in my lady’s bower.
On the bare waterless brow
Of granite ruin, I found a purple flower,
A delicate flower, as fair as aught I trow,
That toys with zephyrs in my lady’s bower.
“Ah!” said Simon, as I picked up some specimens,“it must be nigh thirty years ago that I guided a Thelemarken priest over this Fjeld. He told me the name of that ‘grass’ you’ve got there (a Norwegian calls all flowers ‘grass’) but I don’t mind it now. He had a large box with him, and filled it full of grass and mosses. He was very particular about that black moss under the snow. His name was—let me see—”
“Sommerfeldt,” suggested I, the well-known author of theSupplementum Floræ Laponicæ.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Simon; “quite right.”
The inclined plane, up which we strode, was clearly the work of a glacier. But though there was no ice now, there were crevasses notwithstanding. The mountain was traversed with deep parallel fissures, from a few inches to two or three feet in width. There might have been a score of them—the widest spanned by little bridges of stone, thrown across by the peasants for precaution’s sake.
“Dangerous paths these on a dark night,” observed I.
“Yes, and in broad daylight too,” was the response.
“Mind how you go—it’s very slape. Do you see that mark?” continued he, pointing to a long scrawl on the slippery surface, which terminated on the edge of one of these yawning chasms. “The best horse in the valley made that. He slipped in there, and was lost. Nabo (neighbour) Ole’s ox did the same thing in another place. Forfaerdelig Spraekke (frightful crack)! Pray take care; let me go first. It will be very bad going, I see, to-day. The snow is so much melted this summer,” said he, as we scrambled down into a deep basin, the bottom of which was occupied by grim Stygian pools of snow-slush and spungy ice. We were no sooner out of this slough of despond, than we were on a quasi glacier, with its regularly-marked dirt bands. The snow on which we trod was honeycombed and treacherous. Underneath it might be heard rumbling rills busily engaged in excavating crevasses. Now and then one of them came to the light of day, with that peculiar milky tint of freshly-melted snow, as if the fluid was lothto give up all at once its parent colour, dutiful child. To add to the strangeness of the scene, the sun, which was now high in heaven, catching the face of the mica-slate, bronzed it into the colour of the armour we have seen worn by the knights at the Christmas pantomime.
“We call that Swerre’s Sok,” said my guide, pointing to an eminence on my left, reminding me that the brave Norsk king of that name, when pursued by his foes, escaped with the remnants of his army by this appalling route. “He took his sleeping quarters at the sæter we are coming to,” continued Simon.
“That’s Yuklin,” said my cicerone, pointing to a rounded mountain to the right, muffled in “a saintly veil of maiden white,” and looking so calm and peaceful amid the storm-tost stone-sea that howled around us. To the left were two lesser snow mountains, Ose Skaveln and Vosse Skaveln, looking down on the scene of confusion at their feet with no less dignity than their sister. Striking images these of tranquil repose and rending passion! It was a magnificent, still, autumn day; if it hadbeen otherwise, it would be difficult to imagine what features the scene would have assumed. I have seen a good deal of the Fjeld; but, until now, I had no notion how it can look in some places. “Vegetation has ceased now,” said the old man, with a kind of shiver, which was quite contagious, as we stumbled among
Crags, rocks, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world.
Crags, rocks, and mounds, confusedly hurled,The fragments of an earlier world.
Crags, rocks, and mounds, confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world.
But a common-place comparison may perhaps bring what I saw home to my readers. Suppose a sudden earthquake, or a succession of them, were to rend, and prostrate, and jumble and tumble all London, choking up the Thames with debris of all imaginable shapes, and converting its bed into deep standing pools, with now and then the toppling tower of a temple or a palace reflecting itself in the waters. And, to crown all, not a single living mortal to be seen about the ruins. If this will not suffice to illustrate the scene, the blame must be laid on my barrenness of invention.
Well, after some miles of this amusement, we came upon a broad, hollow way. To the right of this path was the dark, soft, slaty micaceous schist, but it came no further; and to the left of the line was nothing but white granitic gneiss. A little further on the rock was scorched.
“That’s the Torden,” said Simon; “a man was struck by lightning here not so long ago.”
At last we emerged on a sort of stony moor, and after eight hours’ walk suddenly got upon a small plot of grass, and stopped at a châlet. I was not sorry to preface an attack on my own stores by a slight foray among the milky produce of the Fjeld dairy. The curds (“Dravle” or “gum”) proved excellent.
This spot was called Hallingskie, and was forty-two English miles from the first farm in Hallingdal. Hitherto, on the whole, we had got on pretty successfully, though at a rather tortoise pace. It was now that our misfortunes began. In the first place, it was too late to think of achieving the passage of the Fjeld by daylight. So we were to sleep at a certain distant châlet; notwithstanding which Simonseemed in no hurry to move; and it was only when I started off alone that he bestirred himself, jabbering as fast as possible to the old man and woman who lived on this lonely spot. Presently we missed our way, or rather direction—for there was no way whatsoever—and lost much time in hitting off the scent again. If we kept to the right, we got among snow; if too much to the left, the valley was effectually stopped up by inky lakes, laving the bases of perpendicular cliffs. A shot or two at ptarmigan somewhat enlivened the horrors of the scene.
At last, after many ups and downs and round-abouts, we descend into a valley, and cross over a deepish stream, both of us sitting on the horse. Once on the further bank, I, of course, relieved the horse of my weight. Not so my precious Norskman. The unfortunate nag, pressed down by his bulk, sunk at once almost to his hocks in the morass, and only by a prodigious effort extricated himself, to flounder back into the stream. Before I was aware of it, to my consternation, I saw the poor creature was getting into deep water, and then swimming, only his mouth out of water, with all my baggage,coat, gun, &c., submerged. The wretched Simon, who had never had the adroitness to throw himself from the poor beast’s back, sat firmly upon him, just like the Old Man of the sea on the back of Sinbad the sailor—a proper incubus. Of course they’ll both be drowned, thought I; but no! the poor beast has secured a footing on the further side of the water, and gradually emerges, all my traps dripping gallons of water. My maps, and powder, and gun, too, terrible thought! So much for the pleasures of travelling in Norway.
Presently, the quadruped recrossed at the ford above. After scolding the man most resolutely for his carelessness, and adjusting the pack, which had got under the horse’s belly, I proceeded. On we trudged, I sulky beyond measure, and weary to boot, but consoling myself with the thought of being speedily at the châlet, where I might rest for the night, and dry my effects. The shadows of the mountains beginning to lengthen apace over the dreary lake which we were now skirting, warned me that the day was far spent. But still no symptoms of a habitation. The way seemedinterminable. At last, halting, I Old-Baileyed the guide.
“How far have we to go?”
“Not so very far.”
“But night is coming on.”
“Oh, we shall get there in a liden Stund (a little while.)”
“Hvor er Stölen (where is the châlet)?”
“It ought to be near.”
“Ought to be! what do you mean? Haven’t you been this road before?”
“No. But the stöl is near the second great lake, and the second lake can’t be far. We’ve passed the first.”
After this agreeable revelation I was wound up into a towering state of ire, which made it prudent not to say more.
Picking my way with difficulty through brooks, and holes, and rocks, on I stumped. Twilight at last became no-light, as we emerged on the side of what seemed to be a lake. Here the châlet ought to be. But whether or no, it was too dark to see. Halting, the guide exclaimed—
“What are we to do?”
“Do? why sleep under a rock, to be sure. Take the load off the horse, and turn him loose. But stop. Is not that the stöl?” exclaimed I, advancing to a dark object, a few yards from us, when I plunged up to my knees in a peat-hag, from which I with difficulty extricated myself. Hitherto my feet had been dry, but they were so no longer.
“Hold your tongue!” I thundered out to the guide, who kept chattering most vociferously, and assuring me that the stöl ought to be here.
“Listen! is not that a bell, on the side of the hill?” We listened accordingly. Sure enough it was the sound of a bell on the side of the mountain, mingling with the never-ceasing hum of the distant waterfalls. It must be some cattle grazing, and the sæter could not be far off. “Try if you can’t make your way up in the direction of the sound. The building must be there.”
During the half-hour that my Sancho was absent, I tramped disconsolately, like “the knight of the sorrowful figure,” up and down a little square ofground by the horse, to keep myself warm, as, besides being wet, I sensibly felt the cold of the perpetual snow which lay not far off. In due time Simon returned. The solitary bell was that of a horse, who was feeding on the slope, but no sæter could he find.
“Can you holloa?” I exclaimed; “let’s holloa both together.”
“I can’t, sir,” croaked he; “I have no voice.” And now I perceived what I had before scarcely noticed, that his voice did not rise above the compass of a cracked tea-kettle. So, as a last resource, I commenced a stentorian solo—“Wi har tabt Veien; hvor er Stölen,”—(We have lost our way. Where is the stöl?)—till the rocks rebellowed to the sound. Suddenly I hear in the distance a sound as of many cattle-bells violently rung, and then, as suddenly, all the noise ceased.
“Strange that. Did you not hear it?” I asked.
“Surely they were cattle.”
My guide’s superstitions, I fancy, began to be worked on, and he said nothing. Neither did any response come to my louder inquiries, except thatof the echoes. There was nothing for it, then, but to unload the horse, and take up a position under the lee of some stone. The night was frosty, and my pea-coat was wet through, with immersion in the river. Nevertheless, I put it on, and over all, the horse-rug, regular cold water-cure fashion. Then, munching some of the contents of my wallet, and drinking my last glass of brandy, I lit a pipe. Before long, a bright star rose above the mountain, and out twinkled, by degrees, several other stars.
“The moon,” my man said, “must soon follow;” but before her cold light was shed across the valley, I had dozed off. At four o’clock I was awoke by Simon, begging me to rise, which I felt very loth to do. Awakened by the cold, he had got up, and by the grey dawn had discovered the sæter, not many hundred yards distant.
“My good Englishman, do get up, and dry yourself,” he added, “they’ve lit a fire.”
The lonely châlet—The spirit of the hills—Bauta stones—Battlefields older than history—Sand falls—Thorsten Fretum’s hospitality—Norwegian roads—The good wife—Author executes strict justice—Urland—Crown Prince buys a red nightcap—A melancholy spectacle—The trick of royalty—Author receives a visit from the Lehnsman—Skiff voyage to Leirdalsören—Limestone cliffs—Becalmed—A peasant lord of the forest—Inexplicable natural phenomena—National education—A real postboy—A disciple for Braham—The Hemsedal’s fjeld—The land of desolation—A passing belle—The change house of Bjöberg—“With twenty ballads stuck upon the wall”—A story about hill folk—Sivardson’s joke—Little trolls—The way to cast out wicked fairies—The people in the valley—Pastor Engelstrup—Economy of a Norwegian change-house—The Halling dance—Tame reindeer—A region of horrors.
The lonely châlet—The spirit of the hills—Bauta stones—Battlefields older than history—Sand falls—Thorsten Fretum’s hospitality—Norwegian roads—The good wife—Author executes strict justice—Urland—Crown Prince buys a red nightcap—A melancholy spectacle—The trick of royalty—Author receives a visit from the Lehnsman—Skiff voyage to Leirdalsören—Limestone cliffs—Becalmed—A peasant lord of the forest—Inexplicable natural phenomena—National education—A real postboy—A disciple for Braham—The Hemsedal’s fjeld—The land of desolation—A passing belle—The change house of Bjöberg—“With twenty ballads stuck upon the wall”—A story about hill folk—Sivardson’s joke—Little trolls—The way to cast out wicked fairies—The people in the valley—Pastor Engelstrup—Economy of a Norwegian change-house—The Halling dance—Tame reindeer—A region of horrors.
Bobbing my head low, I entered the châlet. One side of the small interior was occupied by a bed, on which lay a woman with an infant in her arms, while at the other end of the couch—heads andtails fashion—were a little boy and girl. The other side of the den was occupied by shelves covered with cheeses and vessels of milk, while near the door was the hearth, on which some dried juniper and willow bushes were crackling, under the superintendence of the stalwart Hans, who had left his helpmate’s side. Of course the good folks bid me welcome, and bewailed my mischance; and I felt as secure here, though quite alone, and not a soul in England knew where I was, as if I had been in my native country.
Taking a seat on the end of a box, which I turned up for the purpose—the only seat in the place—I commenced warming my outer man with the blaze and smoke of the cabin, and my inner with a kettle of hot tea. How fortunate it was that I thought of taking a stock of it with me.
“Did not you hear me cry out, last night?” asked I, when I had thawed a little.
“We heard a noise outside, and peeped out. All the cattle sprang to their feet in great alarm; so we thought it might be some wild animal. Afterwards, we heard the sound repeated, and did notknow what to make of it. I didn’t like to venture out.”
“You thought it was a troll, no doubt,” suggested I, but did not press him on this point.
Reader, if you lived the life of these people, I’ll venture to say that, were you as matter-of-fact a body as ever lived, you would become infected with a tinge of superstition in spite of yourself.
Presently Hans and his wife got up to milk the cows, and we resumed our journey. There were trout of three pound weight, I learned, in the dark lake close by, but I had had quite enough of mountain sojourn for the present. The next two or three hours’ travel presented the same scenes as before, savage in the extreme. Now snow, now ice, now rocks splintered, riven asunder, cast upon heaps, and ranged in fantastic groups, with now and then a delicate anemone, red or white, and other Alpine plants peeping modestly out of the ruins.
At last, emerging on a grassy slope, we saw, five or six miles below us, the arm of the Sogne Fjord, whither we were journeying. What a pleasure it was to tread once more on a piece of flat road,which we did at a place called Flom. More than one Bauta stone erected to commemorate some event, about which nobody knows anything at all, is to be found here. Not long ago they were very numerous; but these relics of a heathen race have been gradually destroyed by the bonders. Offensive and defensive armour is not unfrequently picked up in the neighbourhood, so that this secluded valley must have been at one time the scene of great events.
Over the stream to the left, I see one of those sand-falls so frequent in this country, and more destructive to property than the snow avalanche.[18]In an unlucky hour some sudden rain-storm washes off the outer skin—i.e., grass, or herbage, of a steep hill of loam or sand. From that hour the sides of the hill keep perishing—nothing will grow upon them, and every rain the earthy particles keep crumbling off from the slope: thus, not only curtailing the available land above, but damagingthe crops below. Woe to the farmer who has a mud or sand-fall of this description on his property.
Not sorry was I to darken the doors of Thorsten Fretum, whose house stood on an eminence, commanding a view up the valley and the Fjord. Bayersk Oel and Finkel—old and good—raw ham, eggs, and gammel Ost—a banquet fit for the gods—were set before me. Thorsten Fretum is a man of substance, and of intelligence to boot. He has twice been member of parliament—one of the twenty peasant representatives out of the aggregate one hundred and four which compose the Storthing. A person of enlightened views, he is especially solicitous about the improvement of the means of road-communication. At present, between the capital, Christiania, and Bergen there are no less than sixty miles of boating; fancy there being sixty miles of sea voyage, and no other means of transit between London and Aberdeen.
Mr. Fretum is well acquainted with the mountains, and from him I learn that my guide has brought me some twenty miles out of the right way.Mrs. Fretum, a nice-looking woman, wears the regular peasant cap of white linen stiffly starched, but of lighter make than those used in the Hardanger, while round the forehead is fastened a dark silk riband. She is the mother of fourteen sons, some of whose small white heads I could see now and then protruded through a distant door to get a sight of the stranger.
Mr. Fretum catches large salmon in the river, and exhibits flies of his own construction. A few of mine will serve him as improved patterns, and at the same time be an acknowledgment of his hospitality.
The lyster, I find, is used, but as the river is not of a nature to admit of boats, the weapon is secured by a string to the wrist of the caster. I must not omit to say that I deliberately fined my guide one dollar for the injury I had sustained by his carelessness, which he submitted to with a tolerably good grace, evidently thinking I had let him off very cheaply.
An old man and a young girl row me in the evening to that most pretty spot, Urland. Here Ifind shelter at the merchant’s, just close to the whitewashed church, which, according to tradition, was originally a depôt for merchandize, and belonged to the Hanse League. As I landed, a crowd of peasants stood on the beach taking farewell of a lot of drovers bound for the south. They wore, instead of the national red cap, one of blue worsted, adorned with two parallel white lines. This is peculiar to parts of the Sogne district. The Crown Prince, by-the-bye, enchanted the peasants by purchasing one of the aforesaid red nightcaps to take to Stockholm.
Didn’t I get up a good fire in the iron stove which garnished one corner of the comfortable room upstairs. With a palpitating heart I then opened my box to investigate the amount of damage done by the immersion. What a sight! Those carefully starched white shirts and collars which I had expressly reserved for the period when I should get back to towns and cities, limper than the flexible binding of the guide-book. The books, too, and maps humid throughout; the ammunition nearly in the same plight; while those captain-biscuits,on which I counted, were converted into what I should imagine was very like baby-food, though I am not skilled in those matters.
There was no need of the cup of cold water, which travelling Englishmen so often insist on placing near the red-hot thirty-six pounders (i.e., iron German stoves) for the purpose of neutralising the dryness of the atmosphere in the apartment, for I was soon in a cloud of steam rising from the drying effects.
TheMorgen-Bladt, I see, still continues to give accounts of the Crown Prince’s progress. He has been examining some extensive draining operations near Molde, much to the wonderment of the peasants.
“I trow the king’s son knows as much about these things as the best farmer among us,” said a red-capped bonder to another in the crowd.
“Ay, and a vast deal more, let me tell thee, neighbour Ole.” And then a strapping youth exclaims,
“How sorry I am that I’ve served out my time under the king (i.e., as a soldier); I finished lastyear. It must be sheer holiday work to serve under such a bonny lad as that.”
The Viceroy continually indulges in harmless pleasantries with the good folks, without any loss of dignity by thus unbending. Can any one tell me why things are so different in England? When Shakspeare said “that a sort of divinity hedges a king,” he did not mean to say that royalty should be iced. I remember many years ago being at a public masked ball at a continental capital when the King, who was good humouredly sauntering all among the maskers, came up and asked me what character my dress represented, and then made some wittyaproposas he passed on through the crowd.
The usual explanation given for the sharper distinction of ranks in Great Britain is the vulgarity and want ofsavoir faireof the less elevated classes, who, if they get an inch, will take an ell. If this is true, it is a great blot on the Anglo-Saxon, or whatever you call it, character, that an Englishman cannot take some middle place between flunkeyism and forwardness, sycophancy and rudeness.
During the evening I am favoured with a visit from the Lehnsman, who informs me that the stream close by is rented by an Englishman, who never comes, although it holds good salmon. I also learn, that by a very wise regulation, which might be imitated with good effect in England, he has to report annually to the chief government officer of the district (1), upon the amount of grain sown; (2), the prospects of the harvest; (3), on the result of the harvest. This enables the authorities and merchants to regulate their measures accordingly, and neither more nor less grain is imported than is necessary.
Mons and Illing were the names of the two clever boatmen who manned our skiff the next day to Leirdalsören, distant nearly forty miles. Rounding a vast cliff, whose sides were so steep as not to afford a particle of foothold in case of need, the bark bounds merrily along before a regular gale, and we lose sight very soon of the peaceful Urland, and descry another little green spot, Underdal, with its black chapel of ease to the mother church. Lower down on the same side we openthe entrance to Neri Fjord, guarded by stupendous limestone bluffs; one of these is black with the exposure of many thousand years, and nearly perpendicular. But the most picturesque is the western portal, where in parts the white rock has become turned into a beautiful purple, diversified here and there by patches of green foliage.
I should not have liked to be here on a sun-shiny day, just after dame Nature had completed the operation of opening the white limestone. A pair of green spectacles would have been much needed to take off the edge of the glare. That street in Marseilles (seeLittle Dorrit), the minute description of the glare and heat of which reminds one of the tautological pie-man, “all hot, hot—hot again!” must have been nothing to it.
Many eagles have made these fastnesses their dwelling-places, and I hear from the boatmen they commit frequent ravages among the sheep and goats.
Of aquatic birds, red-throated divers are the only ones we see. Indeed, in this part of Norway, the traveller misses the feathered multitudes that are to be seen within the Arctic circle.
But the wind has suddenly failed us, and the five hours, in which we were to accomplish the distance, will infallibly expand into ten; for to our left lies Simla Naze, which is only half way; and the sun resting on its arid peak tells us it is already five o’clock,P.M., although we started before mid-day. Hence we see far down the Fjord to seaward. Yonder is Fresvik, the snow lying on the mountain above illuminated in a wonderful manner by the shooting rays of the sun, which is itself hidden behind a mist-robe. Further seaward, at least a dozen miles from here, may be plainly seen the yellow corn-fields about Systrand, near which is Sognedal, famous for its large Bauta stones.
We now veer round sharp to the eastward, and enter another arm of the immense Fjord. To our right lies the farm-house of Froningen, and behind it a large pine-forest—a rare sight about here—where the timber has been ruthlessly exterminated by the improvident peasants. This forest, consequently, which is seven English miles square, and the property of a single peasant, is of greatvalue. Our mast, which has hitherto been kept standing, in the vain hope of the breeze revisiting us at this point, is now unshipped; and I unship that most astonishing contrivance, the rudder, with its tiller a yard and a-half long. It was with such an instrument that King Olaf split open the skull of the son of Hacon Jarl.
As we approach Leirdal, the boat takes the ground a good distance from the landing-place. The detritus brought down from the Fille-Fjeld by the rapid Leirdal river, is gradually usurping the place of what was, some years ago, deep water. And yet, notwithstanding the shallowness and the great mass of fresh water coming in, there is less ice here in winter than at Urland, where the water is immensely deep, and much more salt. Indeed, the natural phenomena of this country are frequently inexplicable.
The throng of great, ill-fed looking peasants, who crowded the humble pier of piles, eager for a job, told tales of a numerous population with little to do. Although it was already night in this dark defile, jammed in between overshadowing mountains,I forthwith order a carriole, and drive up the road.
“Do you go to school?” I asked of my boy-attendant.
“Yes,” replied Lars Anders. “We must all go for six years, from eight to fourteen; that is to say, for the six winter months, from Martinmas to Sanct Johann’s Tid (Midsummer.) After that, we go to the clergyman’s for six months, to receive religious instruction.”
At Midlysne, where I spent the night, some hermetically sealed provision boxes indicate a visit from Englishmen, who have been catching salmon here. But the increased rate of charges would of itself have suggested something of the kind.
A boy met us on the road next morning with three fine salmon on his back. He had caught them in a deep hole, near Seltum Bridge, and offers them for sale at twopence a pound. The salmon go up as far as Sterne Bridge, and are then stopped by a defile, where the torrent is choked up by masses of fallen rock.
From Husum station my attendant is a very small boy, who with difficulty manages to clamber up on his seat behind. As we commence the ascent of the remarkable road which surmounts the tremendous pass beyond, a deep bass voice sounds close to my ear, startling me not a little. I’ll tell you what, reader, you would have started too, if a voice like that had sounded in your ears on such a spot, with no person apparently near, or in sight, that could be the owner of it. Could it come from that tiny urchin? Yet such was the case. Halvor Halvorsen was sixteen years of age, although no bigger than a boy of eight. The cause of his emitting those hollow tones was, that he wished to descend from his perch and walk up the pass, which he cannot do unless the vehicle is stopped; as if such a shrimp as that would make any possible difference to the horse. I suppose he has heard that the last ounce will break the camel’s back. His nickname is Wetle, the sobriquet of all misbegotten imps in this country. He cannot spell, and is nearly daft, poor child; but for voice, commend me to him. The whip hecarries is nearly as long as himself; while his dress is exactly of the fashion worn by adults.
Further on the road branches in two directions; that to the left goes over the Fille-Fjeld. We take that to the right, and mount the Hemsedal’s Fjeld, and are soon on the summit. Some miserable-looking châlets dot the waste. One of these, Breitestöl, professes to give refreshment; but I did not venture within its forbidding precincts. The juniper scrub has in many places been caught by the frost, studding the wilderness of grey rock, and yellow reindeer moss, with odd-looking patches of russet. A series of sleet showers, which the wind is driving in the same direction as I am going, ever and anon spit spitefully at me. High posts at intervals indicate the presence here, for many months in the year, of deep, deep snow, when everything is under one uniform white, wedding-cake covering; funeral crust, I should rather say, to the unfortunate traveller, who chances to wander from the road, and gets submerged. Everything looks dreary in the extreme; the very brooks seem no longer to laugh joyouslyas they come tumbling down from the heights. There is a dull hoarse murmur about them to-day, whether it is the state of the atmosphere, or the state of the wind, or the state of my own spirit at the moment, I know not; perhaps they are loth to leave the parental tarns for the lowlands. The bosom of mamma yonder is also ruffled, I see, into uneasy motion. The writer ofUndineought to have been here to embody the imaginings suggested by the scene.
I was all alone, my attendant having gone back with another traveller. Presently, I meet a solitary peasant girl, sitting in masculine fashion on a white pony. The stirrups are too long, so she has inserted her toes in the leathers. It struck me that the lines in the nursery rhyme—