Peculiar livery—Bleke—A hint to Lord Breadalbane—Enormous trout—Trap for timber logs—Exciting scene—Melancholy Jacques in Norway—The new church of Sannes—A clergyman’s Midsummer-day dream—Things in general at Froisnaes—Pleasing intelligence—Luxurious magpies—A church without a congregation—The valley of the shadow of death—Mouse Grange—A tradition of Findal—Fable and feeling—A Highland costume in Norway—Ancestral pride—Grand old names prevalent in Sætersdal—Ropes made of the bark of the lime-tree—Carraway shrub—Government schools of agriculture—A case for a London magistrate—Trout fishing in the Högvand—Cribbed, cabined, and confined—A disappointment—The original outrigger—The cat-lynx—A wealthy Norwegian farmer—Bear-talk—The consequence of taking a drop too much—Story of a Thuss—Cattle conscious of the presence of the hill people—Fairy music.
Peculiar livery—Bleke—A hint to Lord Breadalbane—Enormous trout—Trap for timber logs—Exciting scene—Melancholy Jacques in Norway—The new church of Sannes—A clergyman’s Midsummer-day dream—Things in general at Froisnaes—Pleasing intelligence—Luxurious magpies—A church without a congregation—The valley of the shadow of death—Mouse Grange—A tradition of Findal—Fable and feeling—A Highland costume in Norway—Ancestral pride—Grand old names prevalent in Sætersdal—Ropes made of the bark of the lime-tree—Carraway shrub—Government schools of agriculture—A case for a London magistrate—Trout fishing in the Högvand—Cribbed, cabined, and confined—A disappointment—The original outrigger—The cat-lynx—A wealthy Norwegian farmer—Bear-talk—The consequence of taking a drop too much—Story of a Thuss—Cattle conscious of the presence of the hill people—Fairy music.
Taking leave with many thanks of my worthy host and the young lady who is presiding in the absence of his wife, both of whom had shown me no small kindness, I start by boat up the lake.The priest has no less than fourteen Huusmaend (seeOxonian in Norway, p. 8), and one of them, Knut, undertakes to row me up to Froisnaes. His dress is that of the country. Trousers up to the neck-hole of grey wadmel, striped at the sides with a streak of black, and fastened with four buttons at the ankles—the button-holes worked with green worsted ending in red.
As usual, I killed two birds with one stone—advancing northward, and catching trout at the same time. I had flies as well as a minnow trailing behind, and took fish with both, the biggest about a pound weight.
“That’s not a trout; that’s a Bleke,” exclaimed Knut, as I hauled in a fish of about the same weight, but which pulled with a strength beyond his size. They are much fatter and of finer flavour than the trout. By subsequent experience I found Knut to be right. Such a fish at theTrois Frèreswould fetch its weight in silver. The flesh was paler than that of the trout. Externally, it was of a beautiful dark green on the back, while the sides were whitish, but shaded with alight green. The spots were more purple than those of the trout, while the head and extremity of the body before the tail tapered beautifully. It somewhat resembled a herring in shape: Knut compared it to a mackerel. They never, he said, exceed a pound in weight, but are stronger than a trout of equal size. Here, then, was a species of fish totally unknown to Great Britain. Indeed, there are many fish in Scandinavia which it would be worth while to try and naturalize among us. The cross, for instance, between a Jack and a Perch to be found in the Swedish lakes, and better than either; why does not Lord Breadalbane, the second introducer of capercailzie into Scotland, or some other patriot, apply his mind and resources to this subject?
The trout in this lake run to an enormous size. They have been seen two or three ells long. These large fish are seldom visible, generally frequenting the deeps. In all these waters the saying is, “we catch most fish in the autumn” (til Hösten, Scoticè, ha’st):i.e., when the fish approach the shallows to spawn.
The waters of the lake, which were in some places from one to two miles broad, and studded with wooded islands, now contract, and separate into two narrow channels. Advantage is taken of the situation to set up a log-trap below—i.e., a circle of logs fastened end to end with birchen ropes rove through eye-holes. In this pound are caught the timbers that have been floated down from above. Hundreds of prisoners are thus caged without any further fastening; but escape is impossible, unless they leap over the barrier, or dive beneath it, both which are forbidden by the laws of gravity. If they were not thus formed into gangs they would get playing the truant, and lounging in the various bays, or become fixed fast on shore. When the circle is full, advantage is taken of the north wind which prevails, and off the whole convoy is started down south without any human attendants.
Before long we reach a very striking spot. The lake, which had again widened, now narrows suddenly, and the vast body of limpid water rushes with tremendous rapidity through a deep groove,about thirty feet wide, cut by Nature through smooth sloping rocks. Ever and anon a log, which has been floating lazily from above, and has, all on a sudden, found itself in this hurly-burly, comes shooting through in a state of the utmost agitation, occasionally charging, like a battering-ram, at a projecting angle of the wall; while others, with no less impetuous eagerness, race through the passage a dozen abreast; the outsiders, however, get caught in the eternal backstream below, and go bumping, shoving, and jostling each other for hours before they can again escape from the magic eddy.
The stream being too strong to admit of our getting the parson’s boat up this defile—let alone the perfect certainty of a smash if we attempt to run the gauntlet through this band of Malays running amuck—the boatman starts off with some of my luggage on his shoulders to engage a boat at the ferryman’s, lying through the pine grove.
While he is gone, I amuse myself with watching the logs; and had I been gifted with the moralizing powers of the melancholy Jacques, I might easilyhave set down in the journal some apt comparisons about the people of this world racing each other in the battle of life, pushing, scrambling, dashing other people out of their road. “If a man gets in your way, stamp on him,” says one of Thackeray’s people; and some of them suddenly brought up all of a heap in the dark inexorable round of one of life’s backstreams. The Storthing has, I hear, at length decided that there shall be a bridge thrown across this gully; the only wonder is that it has not been done long ago, as it might be built at a very trifling expense, and the foundations are all ready to hand.
Above the lone hut of the ferryman, who is a famous wood-carver, lies the new church of Sannes, rising on some flat meadow land. What a contrast that pure white image of it, reflected athwart the waters, presents to the huge, dreary, threatening shadows projected by yonder dark, weather-stained masses of everlasting mountains. And yet, when the rocks and mountains shall fall in universal ruin from their lofty estate, that humble spire,—although, perhaps, originally suggested by the toweringIgdrasil of Scandinavian Pagan mythology,—shall rise still higher and higher, and pierce the clouds, and the small, and seemingly perishable fane, expand into the vast imperishable temple of the God above.
From its various associations, such a sight as that is very pleasing to the traveller in a lone country like this, where Nature’s brow is almost always contracted, frowning in gloomy, uncompromising grandeur. No larks carolling blithely up aloft; but instead, the scream of some bird of prey, the grating croak of the raven, the demon screech of the lom, or the hoarse murmur of the angry waterfall.
At Froisnaes I spend the night, intending next day to cross the lake, and walk over the mountains opposite to another lake, called the Högvand, the trout of which are renowned throughout the valley. After undergoing the usual artillery of questions and staring, I fall to discussing my frugal meal of trout and potatoes, while the good woman fills the bedstead with fresh straw. In this she is assisted by one of her sons, whosetrousers rise up to his gullet, and are actually kept up by the silver studs of his shirt collar. These, with a brooch, are the lad’s own handiwork, he having learned the art of the silversmith from a travelling descendant of Tubal Cain. He is very anxious to buy a gold coin from me, and brings half an old gold piece, and asks the value of it. By poising it in the balance against half a sovereign, I am enabled to guide him respecting its true worth.
“Now then,” said the landlady, “the bed is quite clear of fleas, though I won’t say there are not some on the floor.”
Having no cream, she brings me her only egg, which, after a sound drubbing, I force to do duty as cream to my coffee. She laments that she has no more eggs. All the family has been away at the Stöl, and have only just returned, and the thieving magpies took the opportunity, in lieu, I suppose of the good luck which they bring to the household, to suck the eggs as fast as the hen laid them. Guardian angels of this description come expensive.
The gude-man of the house, whose hair is cut as short as Oliver Twist’s—probably for similar reasons—with the exception of a scalping lock on his forehead, now comes up the steep, unbanistered stair to have a chat. The trout, he says, bite best a week after St. Johann’s tid (June 21), that being, no doubt, the time when the first flies appear.
Among other things, he tells me that about four miles to the west of this, in a mountain valley called Skomedal, there are the remains of an ancient church, at a spot named Morstöl,i.e., the chalêt on the moors. Underneath it is a sort of crypt. The graves, too, are plain to see. According to the country side tradition, which is no doubt true (for there never was such a country as this for preserving traditions, as well as customs, unimpaired), all the church-goers were exterminated by the black death in the middle of the fourteenth century. The people have not dared, says the man, to build any fixed habitation there since, and the place is only used as a summer pasture. More courage has been shown elsewhere, as the following story will show; but perhaps the real reason is, that in thisvalley it would not pay to build a gaard, the site being very elevated and cold.
Where the great Gaard (Garth) of Mustad now stands, there used, once on a time, to be a farmstead called Framstad, the finest property in all Vardal. But when “the great manqueller” visited these parts, all the inhabitants of the valley, those of Framstad among the number, were swept away, and a century later it was only known in tradition that the westernmost part of the valley had ever been inhabited. One day a hunter lost himself in the interminable forest which covered the district. In vain he looked for any symptom of human dwellings. After wandering about for a length of time in a state of hopeless bewilderment, he suddenly descried what looked like a house through the trees, which were of immense age. All around was so dreary and deserted that it was not without a secret shudder he ventured into the building. A strange sight met his eyes as he entered. On the hearth was a kettle, half consumed by rust, and some pieces of charcoal. On one of the heavy benches which surrounded the fireplace lay a distaff, andsome balls of rotten thread, with other traces of female industry. Against the wall hung a cross-bow, and some other weapons; but everything was covered with the dust of centuries. Surely there must be some more vestiges of the former occupants, thought he, as he clambered up into the loft by the steep ladder. And sure enough there were two great bedsteads, the solid timbers of which were let into the end walls of the room. In each of these were the mouldering skeletons of two or more human beings.
Over these a number of mice were running, who, frightened at his approach, hurried off in all directions.
He now remembered the tradition of the black death. This must have been the dwelling of some of the victims, left just in the state it was when the hand of the Destroyer was suddenly laid upon them. Being a shrewd fellow, he at once perceived the value of his discovery, and with his axe marked his name and the day of the month on the wall of the building. As the day was far spent, he kept watch and ward in the weirdabode, and next day started eastward, where he knew his home must lie, taking care to blaze the trees on his road, as a clue to the spot. He managed to get home safely, and before long returning to the place with others, he soon cleared the forest, and brought the old enclosures into cultivation. In memory of his discovery he called his new abode Mustad (Mouse Grange), the very name by which it still goes; nay, his descendants are said to be its present occupiers. In the eastern and western walls of the garret the mortice holes of the old bed-timbers are still visible. The date is also distinguishable on one of the outside fir-timbers, which are so intensely hard as almost to defy the stroke of an axe.
A little higher up the main valley along which I am travelling, and a little to the east of it, there is another, called Findal, which is the scene of the following curious legend. The plague only spared two persons in this sequestered spot, a man and his wife, Knut and Thore by name. They were frightfully lonely, but still years rolled on, and they never thought of quitting their ancient habitation. The only thing that plagued them was,how to count time, and at last they lost their reckoning, and did not feel certain when the great winter festival of Yule came round. It was agreed, therefore, when the winter was at hand, and the days rapidly shortening, that the old lady should start off on foot, and go straight forward until she found people to tell her the day of the month. She went some distance, but the snow was so deep that her knees got quite tired, and she sat down on the Fond (snow-field), when suddenly, to her astonishment, she heard the following words sung in a clear quaint tone, by a voice under the snow.
Deka deka Thole,Bake du brouv te Jole:Note ei,Aa Dagana tvaei,So laenge ae de ti Jole.You there, my good Thole,Bake you bread for Jule:Nights one,And days two,So long it is to Jule.
Deka deka Thole,Bake du brouv te Jole:Note ei,Aa Dagana tvaei,So laenge ae de ti Jole.You there, my good Thole,Bake you bread for Jule:Nights one,And days two,So long it is to Jule.
Deka deka Thole,Bake du brouv te Jole:Note ei,Aa Dagana tvaei,So laenge ae de ti Jole.
Deka deka Thole,
Bake du brouv te Jole:
Note ei,
Aa Dagana tvaei,
So laenge ae de ti Jole.
You there, my good Thole,Bake you bread for Jule:Nights one,And days two,So long it is to Jule.
You there, my good Thole,
Bake you bread for Jule:
Nights one,
And days two,
So long it is to Jule.
The old lady hurried back at once to her John Anderson, and they kept the festival on the day signified, which they felt sure was the right one, as it afterwards turned out to be.
Bishop Ullathorne and the other miracle-mongers will, no doubt, fasten upon this legend as one to be embodied in their next catalogue of supernatural interventions in support of the Romish faith, alongside of “Our Lady of Sallette,” and other pretty stories. One might as well religiously believe in those charming inventions of Ovid, to which the imagination clings with such fondness, so thoroughly are they intertwined with human sympathies.
But let us get nearer our own time. Four years ago, I hear, the people of the valley were terrified by the apparition of a Scotchman, who had taken it into his head to walk through Norway in full Highland costume, armed with a hanger and a pair of pistols. A man who saw him close to this took him for the foul fiend, and made off into the wood. Others, who were less alarmed, considered him to be mad (gal). After a good deal of difficulty he brought the folks to a parley, and not knowing a word of Norsk, but being thirsty, he asked for grog. The sailors on board theReine Hortensemight have understood these four letters, when signalled in Arctic waters by the aristocraticowner ofThe Foam. Not so the Sætersdal people. They thought he said “gröd,” and brought him a lump of porridge. He then asked for “water,” when they brought him a pair of large worsted gloves (vanter), here pronounced vorter. This reminds me of a friend of mine who arrived at a station-house in a great state of hunger. He could speak enough of the language to inquire for provisions. “Porridge,” was the reply. “Anything else?” “Beeren?” “Yes, by all means,” exclaimed he, revelling in imagination on bear-collops. The dame presently entered with a dish of beeren, which consisted of—wild strawberries!—a nice dessert, but not fitted for apièce de résistance.
Perhaps the reader will not object to be introduced to some of the folks here nominally. Many of the grand old names current in Sætersdal don’t exist elsewhere in Norway, but are to be found in the Sagas; and this is another proof of the tenacity with which this part of the country adheres to everything belonging to its forefathers. Instead of such names as Jacob or Peder, we have Bjorgulv, Torgrim, Torkil, Tallak, Gunstein,Herjus, Tjöstolf, Tarjei, Osuf, Aamund, Aanund, Grunde; while the women answer to such Christian names as Durdei, Gjellaug, Svalaug, Aslaug (feminine of Aslack), Asbjorg (feminine of Asbjörn), Sigrid (feminine of Sigur), and Gunvor. The dog, even, who comes up into the loft, and seems anxious to make my acquaintance, is called Storm.
As the next morning is rainy, I look about the premises for anything noteworthy. In one corner is a bundle of thin strips of bark. These are taken from the branches of the linden-tree, and steeped in water from spring to autumn. They are then separated into shreds, and woven by the peasants into ropes, which are not so durable, however, as those of hemp. A bunch of carraway shrub is hanging up to dry. It grows all about here. The seeds are mixed with all kinds of food.
“Friske smag har det,” remarks the old lady. “It has a fresh taste with it.”
Outside the house there are two or three lysters, and some split pine-roots for “burning the water.” In the dark, still nights of autumn, the trout andbleke which approach the shore are speared by the men.
In the passage is suspended a notice to the effect that instruction in agriculture is offered by the Government gratis, at a school down the valley, to all young men who bring a certificate of baptism, vaccination, and also a testimonial of good moral conduct from the clergyman.
While I am reading this notice, a desolate-looking young female, with dishevelled black hair, comes staring at me through the open door, with a most wobegone aspect. Her husband, I find, is a drinker of brantviin. On one occasion he went down to Christiansand, drank tremendously, and returned quite rabid. For some time he was chained leg to leg. He is better now, but beats the unfortunate creature, his wife, who does not complain. I recommended the people, the next time he did it, to chain him again, and pay the bully back in some of his own coin—hard knocks.
Hearing so much of the trouts of the Högvand,i.e., High-water (the people here call it Högvatn, remindingme of the Crummack-waters, and Derwent-waters, of the North of England), I take Tallak, one of the sons, across the lake. On the further shore stood a man, with his young wife and child. They had a small boat, but it could not have lived in the swell now on the loch; so they borrowed ours for the transit. Threading our way through some birch scrub, we emerge upon the old smelting-house, where the copper-ore brought from the Valle copper-mine used to be prepared. But it is now at a stand-still, and the beck close by rushes down with useless and unemployed energy. This stream comes down from the lake to which we are going.
On the way we pass a small shanty, of about eight feet square. I peep in through the open door. On the floor sits a young woman, with her three children. Their sleeping berths are just overhead, let into the wall. After a stiff ascent, we reach the High-water. Launched on the lake, I expected great things, as the rain, which still poured when we started, had ceased, and a fine ripple curled the waters, which glistened smilingly as they caughtsight of the sun’s cheerful countenance emerging from behind the heavy clouds. But my hopes were doomed to disappointment. Tallak said it was torden-veir (thunder-weather), and unpropitious. Nevertheless, a banging fish took one of my flies, but carried the whole tackle away.
I then tried the triangles, and a four-pounder, at least, golden and plump, dashed at me, but by a clever plunge out of his own element, he managed to get clear again. After this I had not another chance; but I have no doubt, that if I had given a day to the lake, instead of an hour or two, I should have succeeded in developing its capabilities. The boat, or pram as it is called in these parts, is flat-bottomed and oblong. The rowing appliances are very peculiar. Two narrow boards, about three feet apart, were placed about midships, at right angles to the boat’s length, and extending over the gunwale about a foot; two more similar pieces of wood were laid parallel to each other over the ends of the first two pieces, to which they were tied by birchen thongs, so as to form a square framework lying on the boat’s gunwale. Two thole-pins were stuck intoeach of the side pieces. Here, then, in the mountains of Thelemarken, we find the original outrigger, centuries old, the predecessor of the Claspers’ invention, now so commonly used in England. On one of the cross-boards I sat, on the other the rower, thus keeping the frame firm by our own weight, it being secured to the body of the boat by birch-ties only. There was not a particle of iron about the whole affair; it was the simplest contrivance for crossing water I ever saw.
On our walk homeward Tallak tells me that he has seen the cat-lynx down in the valley, but that they generally keep up among the broken rocks (Urden). The wind was now so high that the passage of the Fjord was somewhat difficult. At times, I hear, it is so lashed by sudden tempests from the storm-engendering mountains, that the water leaves its bed, and fills the air with spray and foam.
Old Mr. Skomedal, who schusses me up this evening to Langeid, is a rich man in his way, owning three farms, not to mention a quantity of “arvegods” (heirlooms) on his wife’sside, in the shape of halberds, helmets, swords, apostle-spoons, and “oldtids aeld-gammle sager” (ancient curiosities).
He asked if I knew a cure for his gicht (rheumatism). Many years ago he was at a bryllup (wedding), when he got fuul (Scoticè fou = drunk); indeed everybody was fuul. But unfortunately he got wet outside as well as in, and fell asleep in his wet clothes, since when he has been troubled with aching pains.
The bears have killed two of his horses. The one he is driving he bought out of a drove from the Hardanger. It is only two years old, and shies alarmingly in the dusk[8]at some huge stones which have been placed by the roadside at intervals, battlement fashion, to keep travellers from going over the precipice, though the embrasures are like an act of parliament, and would admit of a coach and four being driven between them. “I thought it was a bear,” said Skomedal, as he made out the stones.
Becoming quite conversational and familiar, he offers me a pinch of snuff (snuus), whence the Scotch, “sneeshing.” It was excellent “high dried,” and, to my astonishment, of home manufacture, he buying the tobacco-leaf and the necessary flavouring fluid at the town. The rain having been very heavy, the valley is alive with falling waters. We pass a splendid fall close by the road, the white rage of which gleamed distinctly through the darkness, rendering that part of the road lighter than the rest. Imagine the way being lighted with cascades. Who would care for a row of gas-lamps under such circumstances?
This fall, Skomedal tells me, was once drawn by a Frenchman; but I doubt much one of that nation ever venturing into these parts. “Well, Skomedal, can’t you tell me some tales about the trolls?” said I, thinking the hour and the scene were admirably adapted for that sort of amusement.
“Let me see, ah! yes. There was a woman up at my stöl in Skomedal—that’s where the tomt (site) of the old church is to be seen. She wasall alone one Thorsdags qveld (Thursday evening), her companion having come down to the gaard for mad (food). Looking out she sees what she supposes is Sigrid coming back up the mountain with a great box of provisions. But when the figure gets alongside of an abrupt rock just below, it suddenly disappears. Gunvor knew then that it was a Thus.”
“Nonsense,” replied I.
“Oh! it’s all very well to say nonsense, but why do the cattle always get shy and urolig (unruly), when they pass that spot. We never could make out before why this was, but it was plain now, they could tell by their instinct there was something uncanny close by.”
“Very good; do you know another tale?” said I, our pace well admitting of this diversion, as it was very slow in the dark wood, into which our road had now entered.
“Yes, that same woman, Gunvor’s husband, was the best fiddler in the valley. One day, when she was all alone, she heard near her a beautiful tune (vaene slot) played on a violin. She could seenobody, though she looked all over. That must have been a Troll underground. She remembered the tune, and taught it her husband. It was called (the name has slipped my recollection.) Nothing so beautiful as that slot was ever heard in the valley.
“But he is dead now, and there is nobody who can play as he did.”[9]
Langeid—Up the mountain—Vanity of vanity—Forest perfumes—The glad thrill of adventure—An ancient beacon—Rough fellows—Daring pine-trees—Quaint old powder-horn—Curiosities for sale—Sketch of a group of giants—Information forLe Follet—Rather cool—Rural dainties and delights—The great miracle—An odd name—The wedding garment—Ivar Aasen—The Study of Words—Philological lucubrations—A slagsmal—Nice subject for a spasmodic poet—Smoking rooms—The lady of the house—A Simon Svipu—A professional story-teller—Always about Yule-tide—The supernatural turns out to be very natural—What happened to an old woman—Killing the whirlwind—Hearing is believing—Mr. Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon—The grey horse at Roysland—There can be no doubt about it—Theological argument between a fairy and a clergyman—Adam’s first wife, Lileth.
Langeid—Up the mountain—Vanity of vanity—Forest perfumes—The glad thrill of adventure—An ancient beacon—Rough fellows—Daring pine-trees—Quaint old powder-horn—Curiosities for sale—Sketch of a group of giants—Information forLe Follet—Rather cool—Rural dainties and delights—The great miracle—An odd name—The wedding garment—Ivar Aasen—The Study of Words—Philological lucubrations—A slagsmal—Nice subject for a spasmodic poet—Smoking rooms—The lady of the house—A Simon Svipu—A professional story-teller—Always about Yule-tide—The supernatural turns out to be very natural—What happened to an old woman—Killing the whirlwind—Hearing is believing—Mr. Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon—The grey horse at Roysland—There can be no doubt about it—Theological argument between a fairy and a clergyman—Adam’s first wife, Lileth.
At Langeid station, where we arrived late at night, there was great difficulty in finding anybody at home. At last we ferreted out an old man in one of the multifarious buildings, which, as usual, formed the establishment. All the rest of thefamily are paa hoien (up on the mountain). That Langeid was a horrid place. As there was no wash-basin to be found, I laid hands upon a quaint brass mortar, which the old man informed me was “manifold hundred years old.” In the travellers’ book I see a German has been informing the people that he is a Ph.D. But then I have seen elsewhere, in this country, an Englishman’s name in the book with M.P. attached to it. But he went down, poor man, with the steamerErcolano, so we must leave him alone.
What a lovely morning after the rain. The spines of the fir-trees, and the hairy lichen (alectoria jubata) festooning the branches, frosted over with the moisture which still adheres to them, and is not yet sucked up by the sun that is just rising over the high mountains. What refreshing odours they shed abroad, seconded by the lowlier “pors,” with its delicious aromatic perfume.
What an intense pleasure it is thus to travel through an unknown country, not knowing where one is to be at the day’s end, and looking at the map to find out where in the world one is. Giveme this rather than a journey in Switzerland, and all the first-rate hotels in the world.
“Up yonder,” said my attendant, “a bear used to harbour. The man in the gaard above shot him not long ago. He was very large. That’s a ‘Vitr’ (warning) yonder, on the top of that mountain to the east. There are a great many dozen of pine-logs piled up there from the olden times.”
I discovered that this was a beacon-hill, formerly used to give notice of the approach of foes on the coast. The next beacon was at Lobdal, a great many miles down the valley. The establishment of beacons from Naes to Helgeland, is attributed, by Snorro, to Hacon the Good. A slower way of conveying intelligence of the descent of an enemy on the coast, was the split arrow (haeror), equivalent to the fiery cross of Scotland.
“Are not you frightened to travel all alone?” said the little fellow, looking curiously into my face. “You might be injured.”
“Not I,” replied I.
“Oh! yes, we Norwegians are good people, exceptin Hallingdal—they are rare rough fellows there, terrible fighters.”
To the left of the road, high on the hill, is the abode of Herjus, the bear-victim mentioned above, who is gradually recovering from his wounds.
The scenery becomes grander as we advance. What would you think of trees growing on the side of a precipice, apparently as steep as Flamboro’ Head, and ten times as high? They seem determined to get into places where the axe cannot reach them. But they are not safe for all that. Now and then the mountain side will crack, and some of it comes down. Look at that vast stone, which would throw all your Borrowdale boulder stones into the shade; it has come down in this manner. Advantage has been taken of its overhanging top to stow away under it a lot of agricultural instruments, among which I see a primitive harrow of wood.
At Ryssestad station I find a quaint old powder-horn, more than two hundred years old, on which Daniel in the lion’s den, Roland, Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah, figure in marvellous guise.I note this, as I afterwards saw almost the facsimile of it in the Bergen Museum. The owners declined to part with it.
There was also a wolf’s skin, price five dollars. The station-master shot him from one of the windows last winter, while prowling about the premises. One Sigur Sannes offers for sale a curious old “hand-axe,” date 1622, but I did not wish to add to my luggage.
What a set of giants surrounded me while I was drinking coffee! and such names—Bjug, Salvi, Jermund, Gundar! Imagine all these long-legged fellows standing in trousers reaching to their very shoulders and neck, and supported by shoulder-straps decked in brass ornaments, while below they are secured by nine buttons above the ankle. What may be seen of their shirts is confined by two immense silver bullet studs, and then a silver brooch an inch and a half wide. The hats, of felt, are made in the valley. The brim is very small, and the crown narrows half way up, and then swells out again. A silver chain is passed round it two or three times, and confined in frontby a broad silver clasp, to which is suspended a cross. A figured velvet band likewise goes twice round it.
The dress of the women is the black or white skirt, already mentioned, swelling into enormous folds behind, and so short as to permit the garters with silver clasps to be seen. The stockings bulge out immensely at the calf—indeed, are much fuller than is necessary—giving the legs a most plethoric appearance, and, as in the Tyrol, they often only reach to the ankle. Occasionally, when the women wish to look very smart, a pair of white socks are drawn over the foot, which oddly contrasts with the black stocking. The shoes, which are home-made, are pointed, and fit remarkably well. On the bosom is a saucer-sized brooch of silver, besides bullet-studs at the collar and wristband. I see also women carrying their babies in the kjell or plaid.
Beyond the station, we have to diverge from the regular road, and take an improvised one, the bridge having been carried away by a flom (freshet). At a ferry above, where the river opens into a lake, the ferrywoman, after presenting to me her mullof home-made snuff, inquires if I am married. This provokes a similar query from me.
“No,” is the reply; “but I have a grown-up son.”
The custom of Nattefrieri, to which I have alluded elsewhere, will account for things of this kind.
Beyond the ferry there has been a recent fall of rocks from the cliffs above. In the cool recesses of the rocks grow numbers of strawberries and raspberries, which my man obligingly gathers and presents to me. A black and white woodpecker, with red head and rump, perches on a pine-tree close by.
A little above is the finest fall on the river, except that near Vigeland. All around the smooth scarped cliffs converge down to the water at a considerable angle, the cleavage being parallel to their surface.
At one spot my chatty little post-boy, who, boy as he was, rejoiced in a wife and child, stops to talk with a mighty tall fellow, one Björn Tvester, who offers to take me up some high mountain near to see a fine view. A woman closeby, who is unfortunately absent on the hills, possesses an ancient silver cross, of great size and fine workmanship. This used, in former times, to be used by the bridegroom at a wedding.
A smiling plain now opens before us, in the centre of which stands the parish church. While I stop to enjoy the prospect, a crowd of men and women collect around me. One of the fair sex, who rejoiced in the name of Mari Björnsdatter, I endeavour to sketch, to her great delight.
“Stor mirakel!” (great miracle) shouted the peasants, looking over my shoulder. “Aldrig seet maken[10](never saw the like)”!
“And what’s your name?” I asked of a red-headed urchin, of miserable appearance. The answer, “Thor,” made me smile, and produced a roar from the masculines, Folke, Orm, Od (a very odd name, indeed), Dreng, Sigbjörn, and a titter from the feminines ditto, all of whom saw the joke at once.
Putting up at the station-master’s at Rige, I sally out and meet with an intelligent fellow, Arne Bjugson by name, formerly a schoolmaster,now a pedlar. He tells me there is an ancient bridal dress at one of the houses, and he it was who put this on, and sat to Tidemann for his sketch of the Sætersdal Bridegroom.
We forthwith go to inspect it. The bridegroom’s jacket is of blue, over which came another of red. His knee-breeches are black, and crimped or plaited; his blue stockings were wound round with ribands; his hat was swathed in a white cloth, round which a silver chain was twisted. In his hand he held a naked sword; around his waist was a brass belt, and on his neck a silver chain with medals. The bride’s dress consisted of two black woollen petticoats, plaited or folded; above these a blue one, and over all a red one. Then came a black apron, and above that a white linen one, and round her waist three silver belts. Her jacket was black, with a small red collar, ornamented with a profusion of buckles, hooks, fibulas, and chains. On her head was a silver-gilt crown, and around her neck a pearl necklace, to which a medal, called “Agnus Dei,” was suspended.
Arne has readSnorro’s Chronicle, which he borrowedfrom the parson. Ivar Aasen, the author of several works on the old Norsk language, has been more than once up here examining into the dialect. Those interested in the sources of the English language, and in ascertaining how much of it is due to the old Norsk, have ample room for amusement and instruction here. Many English words, unknown in the modern Norwegian, are to be found in use in these secluded parts, though driven from the rest of the country, just in the same way as the Norsk language was talked at Bayeux a long time after it had become obsolete at Rouen and other parts of Normandy. Our “noon” reappears in “noni;” “game,” in “gama,” a word not known away from this. “To prate,” is “prata;” “to die,” is “doi;” “two,” is “twi,” not “to,” as elsewhere; indeed, all the numerals differ from those used elsewhere. The people pronounce “way,” “plough,” and “net,” just like an Englishman. To “neigh,” is “neja,” not “vrinska.” A stocking is “sock,” not “strömpe;” eg = edge; skafe = safe or cupboard; “kvik” corresponds in all its meanings to ourword “quick.” The old Icelandic “gildr” is used as an eulogistic epithet, = excellent. Their word for “wheel” sounds like our English, and is not “eule,” as elsewhere; “stubbe” is our “stub,” or little bit; “I” is “oi,” not “Ieg;” “fir” is pronounced “fir;” “spon” has been already mentioned: “snow,” “mile,” “cross,” re-occur here, whereas elsewhere they differ from the English.
While we are engaged in these philological lucubrations a man comes up, a piece of whose lower-lip has gone, interfering with his speech. This occurred at a wedding. He and another had a trial of strength, in which he proved the strongest. The vanquished man, assisted by his two brothers, then set upon him, and bit him like a dog. As aforesaid, the people of the valley are ordinarily good-natured and peaceable enough; but let them only get at the ale or brandy, and they become horribly brutal and ferocious, and a slagsmal (fight) is sure to ensue. One method of attack on these occasions is by gouging the eye out, spone i ovgo (literally to spoon out the eye). Sometimes the combatants place some hard substancein the hand, as a stone or piece of wood. This they call “a hand-devil,” the “knuckle-duster” of English ruffians. At Omlid, several miles over the mountains to the east of this, the people even when sober are said to be anything but snil (good). So disastrous was the effect of drink at a bridal (i.e., bride-ale or wedding festival),[11]that the bride, it is said, frequently used to bring with her a funeral shirt for fear that she might have to carry home her husband dead. In any case she was provided with bandages wherewith to dress his wounds.
I picked up another very intelligent Cicerone in Mr. Sunsdal, the Lehnsman of the district.
“You would, perhaps, like to see one of the old original dwellings of our forefathers,” said he; “there are still many of them in this part of Norway. The name is Rogstue,i.e., smoke-room.”
We accordingly entered one of these pristineabodes, such as were the fashion among the highest of the land many hundred years ago. The house was built of great logs, and its chief and almost only sitting-room had no windows, the light being admitted from above by an orifice (ljaaren) in the centre of the roof, over which fitted a lid fastened to a pole. Through this the smoke escaped from the great square fireplace (aaren) in the middle of the floor, enclosed by hewn stones. Round this ran heavy benches, the backs of which were carved with various devices. A huge wooden crane, rudely carved into the figure of a head, and blackened with smoke, projected from a side wall to a point half-way between the hearth and chimney-hole. From this the great porridge-pot (Gryd-hodden) was suspended. Kettle is “hodden” in old English.
On this smoke-blackened crane I discerned two or three deep scars, indicative of a custom now obsolete. On the occasion of a wedding, the bridegroom used to strike his axe into this as he entered, which was as much as to say that peace should be the order of the day; an omen, be it said, which seldom came true in practice.
One side of this pristine apartment was taken up by the two beds (kvillunne) fixed against the wall, according to the custom of the country, and in shape resembling the berths on board ship. Between them was the safe or cupboard (skape). On the opposite side of the wall was a wooden dresser of massive workmanship, while round the room were shelves with cheeses upon them. They were placed just within the smoke line, as I shall call it. The smoke, in fact, not having draught enough, descends about half-way down the walls, rendering that portion of them which came within the lowest smoke-mark of the sooty vapour as black as the fifty wives of the King of the Cannibal Islands; while the great beams below this preserved their original wood colour.
The lady of the house, Sigrid Halvorsdatter, took a particular pride in showing the interior of her abode. Good-nature was written on her physiognomy, and the writing was not counterfeit. When we arrived, she was just on the point of going up the mountain with a light wooden-frame (meiss) on her shoulders, on which was bound aheavy milk-pail; but she immediately deposited her burden on a great stone at the door, took a piece of wood from under the eaves and unfastened the door. Subsequently, I find that this is the identical dame, and Rogstue, painted by Tidemann, and published among his illustrations of Norwegian customs.
Taking leave of her with many thanks, we proceeded to another house, where the woman said we should see a “Simon Svipu.”
“A Simon Svipu!” ejaculates the reader, “what on earth is that?” Thereby hangs a tale, or a tail, if you will. The nightmare plagued these people before she visited England.
The people of this valley call her “Muro,” and they have the following effectual remedy against her. They first take a knife, wrap it up in a kerchief, and pass it three times round the body; a pair of scissors are also called into requisition, and, lastly, a “Simon Svipu,” which is the clump or excrescence found on the branches of the birch-tree, and out of which grow a number of small twigs. This last is hung up in thestable over the horses’ heads, or fixed in one of the rafters, and also over their own bed.
This exorcism is then pronounced—
Muro, Muro, cursed jade,If you’re in, then you must out;Here are Simon Svipu, scissors, blade,Will put you to the right about.
Muro, Muro, cursed jade,If you’re in, then you must out;Here are Simon Svipu, scissors, blade,Will put you to the right about.
Muro, Muro, cursed jade,
If you’re in, then you must out;
Here are Simon Svipu, scissors, blade,
Will put you to the right about.
The birchen charm may remind one of the slips of yew “shivered in the moon’s eclipse,” inMacbeth.
The term “svipu” is used in parts of the country for whip, instead of the real word “svöbe.” And I have no doubt this is the signification of it here—viz., a means of driving away the mare.[12]
But to return to the real Simon Pure—I mean Svipu. Unfortunately, I could not get a sight ofit. The good folks either could not, or would not, find the wonderful instrument. I believe, though still in their heart clinging to the ancient superstition, they were averse to confessing it to others.
“But here comes a man,” said the Lehnsman, “who will tell us some curious anecdotes; his name is Solomon Larsen Haugebirke. He is a silversmith and blacksmith by trade, and having been servant to half-a-dozen priests here, he has become waked up, and having a tenacious memory, he can throw a good deal of light on the ancient customs of the valley. Gesegnet arbeid (blessed labour) to you, Solomon.”
“Good day, Mr. Lehnsman. You have got a stranger with you, I see. Is he a Tüsker (German)?”
The old gentleman was soon down on the grass, under the shadow of an outbuilding, the sun being intensely hot, and whiffing his pipe, stopped with my tobacco, while he folded his hands in deep thought.
“Well, really, Lehnsman, I can’t mind anythingjust on the moment. Landstad and Bugge[13]were both here, and got all my stories and songs.”
“But can’t you remember something about Aasgardsreia?”
After pausing for a minute or two, Solomon said—
“Well, sir, you know it was always about Yule-tide, when we were just laid down in bed, that they came by. They never halted till they came to a house where something was going to happen. They used to stop at the door, and dash their saddles against the wall or roof, making the whole house shake, and the great iron pot rattle again.”
“But do you really believe in it, Solomon?” said I, putting some more tobacco in his pipe.
“When I was a lad I did, but now I don’t think I do. Still there was something very strange about it, wasn’t there, sir? The horses in the stable used to be all of a sweat, as if they heard the noise, and were frightened.Theycould not have fancied it, whateverwedid.”
“But are you certain they did sweat?”
“I believe you; I’ve gone into the stable, and found them as wet as if they had been dragged through the river.”[14]
“Ah! but I can easily explain that,” said the Lehnsman. “When I first came here, some years ago, the young men were a very lawless lot; they thought nothing of taking the neighbours’ horses at night, and riding them about the country, visiting the jenter (girls); and it is my firm belief that they took advantage of the old superstition about the Aasgaardsreia coming by, and making the horses sweat, to carry on their own frolic with impunity. It was they that made the horses sweat,by bringing them back all of a heat, and not these sprites that you talk of.”
I felt inclined to take the Lehnsman’s view of the case; but the old man shook his head doubtingly.
“Ride, sir! why, at the time I speak of, you could not possibly ride, the snow was so deep that the roads were impassable. But now we are talking about it, it strikes me there may have been another cause. The horses used to get so much extra food just then, in honour of Yule, and the stalls are so small and close, that perhaps it made them break out in a sweat. Be that as it may, we used all to be terribly frightened when we heard the Aasgaardsreia.”
“It was merely the rush of the night wind,” said I, “beating against the house sides.”
“Would the night wind carry people clean away?” rejoined Solomon, returning to the charge. “Once, when they came riding by, there was a woman living at that gaard yonder, who fell into a besvömmelse (swoon); and in that state she was carried along with them right away to Toftelien,five old miles to the eastward.[15]And more by token, though she had never been there before, she gave a most accurate description of the place. I was by, and heard her. What do you think of that, Herr Lehnsman?” concluded Solomon, who was evidently halting between two antagonistic feelings, his superior enlightenment and his old deep-rooted boyish superstitions.
“I don’t believe it at all,” was the incredulous functionary’s reply; “it was, no doubt, the power of imagination, and the woman had heard from somebody, though she might have forgotten it, what Toftelien looked like.”
“You talked about the night-wind,” continued Solomon, turning to me. “I remember well when I was a lad, if there was a virvel-vind (whirlwind), I used to throw my toll-knife right into it. We all believed that it was the sprites that caused it, and that we should break the charm in that way.”
“Of course you believed in the underground people generally?”
“Well, yes, we did. I know a man up yonder, at Bykle, who, whenever he went up to the Stöl, used, directly he got there, and had opened the door, to kneel down, and pray them not to disturb him for four weeks; and afterwards they might come to the place, and welcome, till the next summer.”
“But did you ever see any of these people?” said I, resolved on probing Solomon with a home question.
“No, I’ve neverseenthem, but I have heard them, as sure as I sit on this stone.”
“Indeed, and how was that?”
“Well, you must know, I was up in the Fjeld to the eastward at a fiskevatn (lake with fish in). Suddenly I heard a noise close by me, just behind some rocks, and I thought it was other folks come up to fish. They were talking very loudly and merrily; so I called out to let them know I was there, as I wished to have selskab (company). Directly I called, it was all still. This puzzled me; so I went round the rocks, but not a creature could I see, so I returned to my fishing. Presently the noise began again, and I distinctly heard folks talking.”
“And what sort of talk was it?”
“Oh! baade fiint o gruft (both fine and coarse,i.e., good and bad words), accuratè som paa en bryllup (just like at a wedding). I called out again, on which the noise suddenly stopped. Presently they began afresh, and I could make out it was folks dancing. Then I felt convinced that it must be a thuss[16]-bryllup (elf-wedding).”
“Had you slept well the night before?”
“Never better.”
“You had been drinking, then?”
“Langt ifra (far from it); I was as ædru (sober) and clear-headed as a man could be who had taken nothing but coffee and milk for weeks.”
“And how long did this noise continue?”
“Two hours at least. Every time I cried out they stopped, and after a space began again. I examined all around very carefully, as I was not a bit afraid; but I could see no hole or anything, nothing but bare rocks. Now what could it be?” asked the old man, solemnly.
There are more things in heaven and earth, thought I, than we dream of.
“Besides,” continued Solomon, “there was another man I afterwards found fishing at another part of the water, who heard the same noise.”
“Who was that?” said the Lehnsman.
“Olsen Prestergaard,” (i.e., Olsen Parsonage, so called because he was born on the parsonage farm).
“But he is as deaf as a post,” retorted the other.
“He isnow, but he was not then. He has been deaf only since he got that cold five years ago; and this that I am talking of happened six, come Martinsmass.”
It may be as well to state that we met Mr. Parsonage subsequently making hay, and, after a vast deal of hammering, he was made to understand us, when, with a most earnest expression of countenance he confirmed Solomon’s account exactly.
“Can’t you tell us some more of your tales?” said the Lehnsman; “one of those will do you told to Landstad and Moe, or to Bugge last summer.”
“How long does the stranger stop?” asked Solomon; “I will endeavour to recollect one or two.”
“Oh! I shall be off to-morrow,” said I.
“Why so early? Well, let me see. There was the grey fole (horse) at Roysland. I’ll tell you about that. You must know, then, sir, we used many years ago to have a horse-race (skei) on the flat, just beyond the church yonder, at the end of August-month each year. There was a man livingup at Roysland, an old mile from here, up on the north side of the Elv. He was a strange sort of a fellow, nobody could make him out; Laiv Roysland, they called him. One August, on the morning of the race, a grey horse came down to his gaard and neighed. He went and put the halter on him, and seeing he was a likely sort of a nag, thought he would take him down and run him, without asking anybody any questions. And sure enough he came. The horse—he was a stallion—beat all the rest easily. Laiv carried off all the prizes and returned home. When he got there he let the horse loose, and it immediately took up to the hills, and was not heard of or seen for twelve months. When the race-day came round, a neigh was heard (han nejade), Laiv went out of the door, and found the same horse. He put the halter on his head, and brought him down to the races just as before. He won everything. There never was the likes of him whether in biting or running (bitast eller springast). He was always the best. At last people began to talk, and said it must be the fand sjel (the fiend himself). The thirdyear the horse ran it lost. What a rage Laiv was in. When he got home he hit the horse a tremendous thwack with his whip, and cursed a loud oath. It struck out, and killed him on the spot. Next year a neigh was heard as usual outside the house, early on the morning of the race-day, but nobody dared go out. They were not such dare-devils as Laiv. It neighed a second time, but the people would not venture, and from that time to this it has never been heard of or seen.”
“A strange wild tale,” said I; “ what do you really think it was?”
“Well, I suppose it wasHe. I never told that story,” continued Solomon, “to any one before.”
“Yes, there can be no doubt about it,” said Solomon, after a long pause; “so many people have seen these underground people that there must be some truth in it. Besides which, is not there something about it in Holy Writ: ‘Every knee shall bow, both of things that are in heaven, and in earth, and under the earth,’ and who can be under the earth but the underground people?”
“Well, Solomon, have you no more tales?”
“Not of the valley here, but I can tell you one of the country up north.”
“Oh, yes, that will do.”
“Well, you must know, there was a man at a gaard up there—let me see, I can’t rightly mind the name of it. He was good friends with a Tuss; used, in fact, to worship him (dyrkes). The priest got to hear of this, and warned him that it was wrong. The man made no secret of the fact, but persisted that there was no harm in it. Indeed, he derived a mint of good from the acquaintance. His crops were a vast deal finer, and he really could not give up his friend on any consideration.[17]The man spoke with such apparent earnestness and conviction, that the priest was seized with a desire to see the Tuss. ‘That you shall, and welcome,’ said the man; ‘I don’t anticipate any difficulty. I’ve lent him two rolls of chew-tobacco, and he will besure to return them before long. No Christian can be more punctual than he is in matters of business.’ The little gentleman put in an appearance soon after, and honestly repaid the tobacco, with thanks for the loan of it (tak for laane). ‘Bide a bit, my friend,’ said the farmer, ‘our parson wants to have a snak (chat) with you.’ ‘Impossible,’ he replied; ‘I’ve no time; but I’ve a brother that’s a parson. He’s just the man; besides, he has more time than me. I’ll send him.’ The tuss-priest accordingly came, and had a long dispute with the priest of this world about various passages in the Bible. The latter was but a poor scholar, so he was easily out-argued.
“At last they began to dispute about vor Frelser (our Redeemer).
“‘Frelser!’ exclaimed the goblin-priest, ‘I want no Frelser.’
“‘How so?’
“‘I’m descended from Adam’s first wife. When she brought forth the child from which our people trace their descent, Adam had not sinned.’
“‘First wife?’ repeated the University man;‘where do you find anything about first wife in the five books of Moses? If you have found any such like thing there, you have not read it right,’ said he.
“‘Don’t you remember,’ said the tuss, ‘the Bible has it, “This isnowbone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.” So he must have been married before to somebody of a different nature.’
“The other, who was not so well read in the Bible as he ought to be—so much of his time was taken up in farming and such like unaandelig (un-spiritual) occupations—was not able to confute this argument. Indeed, the tuss-priest beat the Lutheran priest hollow in every argument, till at last they parted, and the latter was never known again to express a wish to have any further controversy with so subtle an antagonist.”