A dreary station—Strange bed-fellows—Broadsides—Comfortable proverb—Skarp England—Interesting particulars—A hospitable Norwegian Foged—Foster-children—The great bear-hunter—A terrible Bruin—Forty winks—The great Vennefoss—A temperance lamentation—More bear talk—Grey legs—Monosyllabic conversation—Trout fished from the briny deep—A warning to the beaux of St. James’s-street—Thieves’ cave—A novelette for the Adelphi.
A dreary station—Strange bed-fellows—Broadsides—Comfortable proverb—Skarp England—Interesting particulars—A hospitable Norwegian Foged—Foster-children—The great bear-hunter—A terrible Bruin—Forty winks—The great Vennefoss—A temperance lamentation—More bear talk—Grey legs—Monosyllabic conversation—Trout fished from the briny deep—A warning to the beaux of St. James’s-street—Thieves’ cave—A novelette for the Adelphi.
I stop for the night at the dreary station of Homsmoen. By a singular economy in household furniture, the cornice of the uncurtained state-bed is made to serve as a shelf, and all the crockery, together with the other household gods or goods of the establishment, are perched thereon, threatening to fall upon me if I made the slightest movement, so that my feelings, and those of Damocles, must have been not unlike; and when I did get to sleep, my slumbers were suddenly disturbed by the creeping of a mouse orrat, not “behind the arras,” for the wooden walls were bare, but under my pillow. Gracious goodness! is it my destiny then to fall a prey to these wretches? Notwithstanding, I soon dozed off to sleep again, muttering to myself something about “Coctilibus muris,” and “dead for a ducat.”
In the morning, when the peasant-wife brings me coffee, I tell her of the muscipular disturbances of the past night. She replies, with muchsang froid, “O ja, de pleie at holde sig da” (Oh yes, they are in the habit of being there),i.e., in the loose bed-straw.
While sipping my coffee, I read a printed address hung upon the wall, wherein “a simple Norwegian, of humble estate,” urges his countrymen not to drink brandy. A second notice is an explanation of infant baptism. This is evidently to counteract the doctrines of the clergyman Lammers, who, as I have mentioned elsewhere, has founded an antipædobaptist sect. Indeed, I see in the papers advertisements of half-a-dozen works that have lately appeared on the subject. Another specimen of this wall-literature was acollection of Norwegian proverbs, one of which might perhaps serve to reconcile an explorer in this country to indifferent accommodation. “The poor man’s house is his palace.” Another proverb rebuked pride, in the following manner:—“Dust is still dust, although it rise to heaven.”
Next day we pass a solitary farmstead, which my attendant informs me is called Skarp England (i.e., scanty, not deep-soiled, meadow-land). Were it not for those Angles, the generally reputed godfathers of England, one would almost be inclined to derive the name of our country from that green, meadow (eng) like appearance which must have caught the attention of the immigrant Jutes and Saxons. At least, such is the surmise of Professor Radix.
“And what road is that?” I asked, pointing to a very unmacadamized byway through the forest.
“It is called Prest-vei (the Priest’s-way), because that is the road the clergyman has to take to get to one of his distant churches.”
“Gee up!” said I to the horse, a young one, and unused to his work, adding a slight flip withthe whip (Svöbe), a compliment which the colt returned by lashing out with his heels.
“Hilloa, Erik! this won’t do; it’s quite dangerous.”
“Oh no, he has no back shoes; he won’t hurt you—except,” he afterwards added, “out of fun he should happen to strike a little higher.”
The ill-omened shriek of a couple of jays which crossed the road diverted my attention, and I asked their Norwegian name, which I found to be “skov-shur” (wood-magpie) in these parts.
As we skirt the western bank of the Kile Fjord, a fresh-water lake, a dozen miles long, and abounding in fish (meget fiskerig), the man points to me a spot on the further shore where the Torrisdal River, after flowing through the lake, debouches by a succession of falls in its course to Vigeland and the sea at Christiansand.
At every station the question is, “Are you going up to the copper works?” These are at Valle, a long way up the valley. They have been discontinued some years, but, it is said, are now likely to be re-opened.
At Ketilsaa I am recommended to call on the Foged of the district, a fine, hearty sexagenarian, who gave me much valuable information respecting this singular valley and its inhabitants; besides which, what I especially valued under the circumstances, he set before me capital home-brewed beer, port wine, Trondjem’s aquavit, not to mention speil aeg (poached eggs) and bear ham. Bear flesh is the besttravelof all, say the Greenlanders, so I did not spare the last. The superstitions and tales about Huldra and fairies (here called jügere) are, the Foged tells me, dying out hereabout, though not higher up the valley.
His foster-son,[4]a jolly-looking gentleman, sends off a messenger to see if his own horse is near at hand, in order that I may not be detained by waiting for one at the neighbouring station, Fahret. But the pony is somewhere in theforest, so that his benevolent designs cannot be realized. Altogether, I have never visited any house in Norway where intelligence, manliness, and good-nature seemed so thoroughly at home as at the Foged’s.
The station-master, Ole Gundarson Fahret, manages to get me a relay in one hour; in the interval we have a palaver.
“There was once an Englishman here,” said he, “who went out bear-hunting with the greatest bear-shooter of these parts, Nils Olsen Breistöl; but they did not happen on one. Breistöl has shot fifteen bears.”
“How does he manage to find them in the trackless forest?”
“Why he is continually about, and he knows of a great many bears’ winter-lairs (Björn-hi); and when the bear is asleep, he goes and pokes him out.”
“But is it not dangerous?”
“Sometimes. There was a great bear who was well known for fifty miles round, for he was as grey as a wolf, and lame of one leg, having been injured, itwas thought, in a fight with a stallion. He killed a number of horses; and great rewards were offered to the killer of him. The people in Mandal, to the west, offered thirty dollars; he had been very destructive down there. Well, Breistöl found out where he lay one winter, and went up with another man. Out he comes, and tries to make off. They are always ræd (frightened) at first, when they are surprised in their lair. But Breistöl sent a ball into him (this Norsk Mudjekeewis, by-the-bye, makes his own rifles), and the bear stopped short, and rushed at him. Just at this moment, however, he got another bullet from the other man, which stopped him. After waiting for a moment, he turned round, and charged at the new aggressor, who dodged behind a tree; meanwhile, Breistöl had loaded, and gave him another ball; and so they kept firing and dodging; and it actually took fifteen balls to kill him, he was so big and strong. The last time they fired, they came close to him, and shot two bullets into his head, only making one hole; then he died. The usual reward from the Government is fivedollars, but Breistöl got fifteen. The Mandal people, when they heard the great grey bear was dead, gave him nothing. Fand (fiend)! but he was immensely big (uhyr stor), so fat and fleshy.”
“And how long does the bear sleep in winter?” I inquired.
“He goes in about Sanct Michael’s-tid, and comes out at the beginning of April.”
“And how many bears are there in one hole?”
“Only one; unless the female has young late in the autumn. A man in these parts once found an old he-bear (Manden), with a she-bear, and three young cubs, all in one hole. I think there are as many bears as ever there were in the country. There was a lad up in the forest, five years ago; a bear struck at him, but missed him, only getting his cap, which stuck on the end of his claws. This seemed to frighten the brute, and he made off. The little boy didn’t know what a danger he had escaped; he began to cry for the loss of his cap, and wanted to go after it. Now that did not happen by chance. V Herre Gudhar Hannd i slig (God our master has a hand in such like things). We have a proverb, that the bear has ten men’s strength, and the wit of twelve; but that’s neither here nor there. Björnen kan vaere meget staerk, men han faa ikke Magt at draebe mennesker, Mnaar Han ikke tillade det. (The bear may be very strong, but he has not the power to kill men unless He permits it.”)
In which proper sentiment I of course acquiesced, and took leave of the intelligent Schusskaffer.
My attendant on the next stage, Ole Michelsen Vennefoss, derived his last name from the great cataract on the Otterelv, near which he lives. It is now choked up with timber. But all this, he tells me, will move in the autumn, when the water rises; although, in the north of the country, the rivers at that time get smaller and smaller, and, in winter time, with the ice that covers them, occupy but a small part of the accustomed bed.
A few years ago, a friend of his had a narrow escape at these falls: the boat he was in turned over just above the descent, and he disappearedfrom view; down hurried the boat, and providentially was not smashed to pieces. At the bottom of the fall it caught against a rock, and righted again, and up bobbed the drowned man, having been under the boat all the time. His friends managed to save him.
On the road we overtake a man driving, who offers me schnaps in an excited manner.
“Ah,” said Ole, mournfully, “he has been to the By, and bought some brantviin; they never can resist the temptation. When he gets home, there will be a Selskab (party). People for miles round know where he has been, and they will come and hear the news, and drink themselves drunk.”
Ole is one of the so-called Lesere, or Norwegian Methodists, disciples of Hauge, whose son is the clergyman of a parish near here. They may often be detected by their drawling way of speaking.
“Well, Ole,” said I, “did you ever see any of these bears they talk so much about?”
“Yes, that I have. I saw the old lame bear that Breistöl shot. I was up at the stöl (châlet) four years ago come next week, with my twosisters. We were sitting outside the building, just about this time of the evening, when it was getting dusk; all of a sudden, the horse came galloping to us as hard as ever he could tear. I knew at once it was a bear; and, sure enough, close behind him, came the beast rushing out of the wood. We all raised a great noise and shouting, on which the bear stopped, and ran away. Poor blacky had a narrow escape; he bears the marks of the bear’s claws on his hind quarters. I could put my four fingers in them.”
Quite so, hummed I—
The sable score of fingers fourRemain on thathorseimpressed.
The sable score of fingers fourRemain on thathorseimpressed.
The sable score of fingers four
Remain on thathorseimpressed.
“But what do the bears eat, when they can’t get cattle?”
“Grass, and berries, and ants (myren).”
“But don’t the ants sting him?”
“Oh! no; no such thing. A friend of mine saw a bear come to one of those great ant-hills you have passed in the woods. He put out his tongue, and laid it on the ant-hill till it was covered with ants, and then slipped it back intohis mouth. They can’t hurt him, his tongue is too thick-skinned for that.”
“Does the bear eat anything in winter?”
“Nothing, I believe. I have seen one or two that were killed then; their stomach was as empty as empty—wanted no cleaning at all. I think that’s the reason they are such cowards then. I have always more pluck when my stomach is full. Hav’n’t you?”
It struck me that there are many others besides the artless Norwegian who, if they chose, must confess to a similar weakness.
“But the wolves (ulven) don’t go to sleep in winter; what do they eat?”
“Ulven?—what’s that?”
“I mean Graa-been (grey-legs).”
“Ah! you mean Skrüb.[5]In winter they steal what they can, and, when hard pressed, theydevour a particular sort of clay. That’s well known; it’s plain to see from their skarn (dung.)”
Ole further tells me that a pair of eagles build in a tall tree about a mile from his house. Theyoung ones have just flown; he had not time to take them, although there is a reward of half-a-dollar a-head. Fancy a native of the British Isles suffering an eagle to hatch, and fly off with its brood in quiet.
“Hvor skal de ligge inat?” (where shall you lie to-night?) he inquired, as we proceeded.
“I don’t think I shall go further than Guldsmedoen, to-night,” I replied.
“There is no accommodation at all at the station,” he said; “but at Senum, close by, you can get a night’s lodging.”
It was dark when we arrived at Senum, which lay down a break-neck side-path, where the man had to lead the horse. On our tapping at the door, a female popped her head out of a window, but said nothing. After a pause, my man says “Quells,” literally, whiling, or resting-time. This was an abbreviation for “godt quell” (good evening). “Quells” was the monosyllabic reply of the still small voice at the porthole.
“Tak for senast” (thanks for the last), was my guide’s next observation.
“Tak for senast,” the other responded from above.
The ice being now somewhat broken, the treble of “the two voices” inquired—
“What man is that with you?”
“A foreigner, who wants a night’s lodging.”
Before long, the farmer and his wife were busy upstairs preparing a couch for me, with the greatest possible goodwill; nor would they hear of Ole returning home that night, so he, too, obtained sleeping quarters somewhere in the establishment.
I find, what the darkness had prevented me from seeing, that this house is situated at the southern end of the Aarfjord, a lake of nearly forty miles in length. Mine host has this evening caught a lot of fine trout in the lake with the nets. They are already in salt—everything is salted in this country—but I order two or three fat fellows out of the brine, and into some fresh water against the morning, when they prove excellent. So red and fat! The people here say they are better than salmon.
Rain being the order of the next day, I post up my journal. In the afternoon I resume my journeyby the road on the further side of the lake. Until very lately a carriage road was unknown here. The Fogderi, or Bailewick, in which we now are, is called Robygd: a reminiscence, it is said, of the days not long since over, when the sole means of locomotion up the valley (bygd) was to row (roe). The vehicle being a common cart, with no seat, a bag is stuffed with heather for me to sit on; and this acts as a buffer to break the force of the bumps which the new-made road and the springless cart kept giving each other, while, in reality, it was I that came in for the brunt of the pommelling. The Norwegian driver sat on the hard edge of the cart, regardless of the shocks, and as tough apparently as the birch-wood of which the latter was composed. It won’t do for a person who is at allmade-upto risk a journey in Sætersdal: he would infallibly go to pieces, and the false teeth be strewed about the path after the manner of those of the serpent or dragon sown by Jason on the Champ de Mars. Armed men rose from the earth on that occasion, and something of the kind took place now. Don’t start, reader, it was only in story.
“Look at that hole,” said my attendant, pointing to an opening half-way up the limestone cliff, surrounded by trees and bushes. “That is the——”
“Cave of the Dragon?” interrupted I, abstractedly.
“The Tyve Helle (thieves’ cave), which goes in one hundred feet deep. For a long time they were the terror of all Sætersdal. The only way to the platform in front of the cave was by a ladder. One of their band, who pretended to be a Tulling (idiot), used to go begging at the farm-houses, and spying how the ground lay.
“On one occasion they carried off along with some cattle the girl who tended them. Poor soul! she could not escape, they kept such a sharp watch on her. The captain of the band meanwhile wanted to marry her; she pretended to like the idea, and the day before that fixed for the wedding asked leave just to go down to the farm where she used to live and steal the silver Brudestads (bridal ornaments), which were kept there. The thieves gave her leave;—theycould dispense with the parson, but not with this. But first they made her swear she would not speak to a soul at the house. At midnight, Asjer, as she was called, arrived at her former home, to the astonishment of the good folks. She at once proceeded to take a piece of white linen, a scrap of red home-spun cloth, and a pair of shears. This done, she went to the chimney-corner and told the pinewood-beam, ‘I have been stolen by robbers; they live in a cave in the forest, I will cut little bits of red cloth on the road to it; to-morrow the captain marries me. To-night, when they are all drunk and asleep, I will hang out the piece of white cloth.’ Without exchanging a word with the inmates, she then set off back. The master of the house and a few friends collected, and followed her track. At night-fall they saw the flag waved from the mouth of the cave. In they rushed upon the thieves, who, unable to escape, threw themselves over the precipice. The captain, suspecting her to be the author of the surprise, seized her by the apron as he dashed over the ledge, determined that she should die with him. Butthe leader of the bonders, a ready-witted fellow, cut her apron-strings with his knife, just in the nick of time, so that she was saved; and the robber, in his fall, took nothing with him but her apron.”
A wolf trap—The heather—Game and game-preserves—An optical delusion—Sumptuous entertainment—Visit to a Norwegian store-room—Petticoats—Curious picture of the Crucifixion—Fjord scenery—How the priest Brun was lost—A Sætersdal manse—Frightfully hospitable—Eider-down quilts—Costume of a Norwegian waiting-maid—The tartan in Norway—An ethnological inquiry—Personal characteristics—The sect of the Haugians—Nomad life in the far Norwegian valleys—Trug—Memorials of the Vikings—Female Bruin in a rage—How bears dispose of intruders—Mercantile marine of Norway—The Bad-hus—How to cook brigands—Winter clothing.
A wolf trap—The heather—Game and game-preserves—An optical delusion—Sumptuous entertainment—Visit to a Norwegian store-room—Petticoats—Curious picture of the Crucifixion—Fjord scenery—How the priest Brun was lost—A Sætersdal manse—Frightfully hospitable—Eider-down quilts—Costume of a Norwegian waiting-maid—The tartan in Norway—An ethnological inquiry—Personal characteristics—The sect of the Haugians—Nomad life in the far Norwegian valleys—Trug—Memorials of the Vikings—Female Bruin in a rage—How bears dispose of intruders—Mercantile marine of Norway—The Bad-hus—How to cook brigands—Winter clothing.
Close by Langerack we pass a wolf-trap (baas), formed on the principle of our box-trap, for catching rats, only that the material is thick pine-boles fastened side by side. More than one wolf and lynx have been caged here.
The heather still continues plentiful; I particularly note this, as in the more northerly parts ofthe country,e.g., about Jerkin, this beautiful vestiture of the rocks and moors is seldom seen, except in very little bits. What a pity that none of our British grouse proper (Tetrao Scoticus) return the visit of the Norwegian ptarmigan to Scotland, and found a colony in these parts; they would escape at all events those systematic traffickers in ornithological blood, by whom these unfortunates are bought and sold as per advertisement. Blackcock and capercailzie, as usual, are to be found in the lower woods, and ptarmigan higher up. About here there are no trees of large size remaining; the best have long since been cut down and floated to the sea. It would do a nurseryman’s heart good to see the groups of hardy little firs, self-sown, sprouting up in every crevice with an exuberance of health and strength, and asserting their right to a hearing among the soughing branches of their taller neighbours, who rise patronizingly above them. The seed falling upon stony ground does not fail to come up, notwithstanding, and bring forth fruit a hundred-fold and more.
The valley here, which has been opening eversince I left Vennefoss, continues to improve in looks; it is now almost filled by the Fjord, and appears to come to an end some distance higher up, by the intervention of a block of mountains; but if there be any truth in the map, this is an optical delusion, the valley running up direct northward, nearly one hundred and fifty miles from Christiansand, and reaching a height at Bykle of nearly two thousand feet above the sea.
At the clean and comfortable station of Langerack I light upon a treasure in the shape of a dozen or two of hens’ eggs; very small indeed, it is true, as they were not quite so big as a bantam’s. Six of these I immediately take, and an old lady, with exceedingly short petticoats, commences frying them, while I grind the coffee which she has just roasted.
After a goodly entertainment, for part of which I was indebted to my own wallet, I go with her to the Stabur, or store-room, where, with evident pride and pleasure, she shows me all her valuables; conspicuous among these was a full set of bridal costume, minus the crown, which was letout. The bridal belt was of yellow leather, and covered with silver-gilt ornaments, all of the same pattern, to each of which is suspended a small bracteate of the same metal, which jingles with every step of the bride. What particularly attracted my attention were the three woollen petticoats worn by the bride one over the other. The first is of a dingy white colour, and is, in fact, the same as the every-day dress of the females. The second is of blue cloth, with red and green stripes round the bottom. The third, which is worn outermost, is of scarlet, with gold and green edging. Of course if these were all of the same length the under-ones would not be visible; and thus the object of wearing such a heap of clothes—love of display—would be defeated; so, while the undermost is long, the next is less so, and the next shorter still. Each one is very heavy, so the weight of the three together must be great indeed. The whole reminds one of harlequin at a country fair. But, while he comes on unwieldily and shabbily dressed, and as he takes off one coat and waistcoat after another grows smarter and smarter, and at lastfines down into a gay harlequin, the Norwegian bride, by a contrary process, grows smarter and smarter with each article of clothing that she assumes.
The most remarkable thing about these bridal petticoats is the skirt behind, which is divided by plaits like the flutings of a Doric column; while these, towards the bottom or base bulge out into two or three rounded folds, which stick out considerably from the person. Hear this, ye Miss Weazels, who condemn crinoline as a new-fangled institution, whereas in fact the idea is evidently taken from the primæval customs of Sætersdal. The support of this dead weight of clothing are not, as might be expected, the hips, for the whole system of integuments comes right up over the bosom, and is upheld by a couple of very short braces or shoulder-straps. A jacket under these circumstances is almost superfluous. It is of blue cloth with gold edging, and only reaches down to the arm-holes.
These vestments are no doubt of very ancient cut. In the district of Lom another sort of dresswas once the fashion. The coat was of white wadmel, with dark coloured embroidery, and silver buttons as big as a dollar. The collar stood up. The waistcoat was scarlet, and also embroidered. White knee-breeches of wash-leather, garters of coloured thread, and shoes adorned with large silver buckles, set off the lower man. This dress went out at the beginning of the century. In Romerike, and elsewhere, there was on the back of the coat a quaint piece of embroidery pointing up like the spire of a church, and green, red, or blue, according to the parish of the wearer. At the public masquerades in Christiania, these dresses may still be seen.
But I had forgotten the old lady in the contemplation of the wardrobe. She appears to think she shall make me understand her jargon better by shouting in my ears—a common mistake—and while she does so, she skips about the chamber with all the agility of the old she-goat before the door. The proverb says, “Need makes the old wife run,” but she ran without any apparent cause. Finally, in her enthusiasm, she goes the length ofputting one of these petticoats on—don’t be alarmed, fair reader—overher own, to show me how it looks. Besides the above state apparel, mutton and pork-hams, with other comestibles, find a secure place in the store-room.
In the sitting-room of the house is a remarkable picture of our Saviour on the cross, with various quaint devices round it. It is known to be more than three hundred years old, and no doubt dates from the Roman Catholic times. Like most of the peasants, who are exceedingly tenacious of these “Old-sager” (old-world articles), the master of the house won’t part with the picture for any consideration.
As a boat is procurable, I determine to vary the mode of travelling by going by water to the station ——, and the more so as this will enable me to try for a trout while I am resting my shaken limbs. There being no wind to ruffle the water, I only took one or two trout. A man on the lake, who was trailing a rough-looking fly, was not a little astonished at my artificial minnow. The Fjord is very fine. Pretty bays, nestling under the barelofty mountains, and here and there a beach of yellow sand, fringing a grassy slope, while behind these, Scotch fir, birch, and aspen throw their shadows over the water.
“You see that odde (point),” says my old waterman; “that is Lobdal point. It was just there that Priest Brun had the misfortune to be lost, twenty years ago come Yule. He had been preaching down below, at one of his four churches, and was sleighing home again on the ice. The Glocker (precentor) was driving behind him, when he saw him suddenly disappear, horse and all. It was a weak place in the ice, and, there being snee-dicke (snow-thickness) at the time, the priest had not seen any symptoms of danger. Poor man, I knew him well; he was a very good person. He never received Christian burial, for his body was never found.” Such are the incidents that checquer the life of a Norwegian parson.
It was so nearly dark when we arrived at ——, that we had a difficulty in finding the landing-place, to which, however, we were guided by something that looked like a house in the gloaming.
“And where am I to lodge?” asked I of the boatman. “Is the station far off?”
“Yes, a good distance. You had best lie at Priest ——’s, there.”
“But I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“That does not matter the least. He is forfaerdelig gjestfri (frightfully hospitable) og meget snil (and very good).”
So I make bold to grope my way to the house, and, finding the door, tap at it. It is opened by a short, good-humoured looking person, the clergyman himself, who quiets the big dog that I had kept at bay with my fishing-rod, asks me who I am, and bids me come in and be welcome, as if he had known me all the days of my life. Few minutes elapse before I am eating cold meat and drinking ale; during the repast chatting with my host on all sorts of matters. Supper ended, he shows me to the best chamber, or stranger’s room, where I am soon reposing luxuriously under an eider-down coverlet. This I kicked off in my slumbers, it being evidently too hot for an Englishman insummer time, even in Norway. What delightful things these eider-downs must be in the cold of a northern winter.
A young female servant, Helvig by name, brings my boots in the morning. She was clad in the working-day dress of the country maidens. To begin with the beginning, or her head. It is covered with a coloured cotton couvrechef. Her masculine chemise is fastened at the throat by two enormous studs of silver filigree, bullet shaped, and is, below this, further confined by a silver brooch (Norwegicè “ring”), shaped like a heart. Her petticoat, which covers very little of her black worsted stockings, makes up for its shortcomings in that direction, by reaching right up above her bosom. It is of a dingy white wool, and is edged with three broad stripes of black. On Sunday her petticoat is black, with red or blue edging.
She brings me her tartan of red wool with white stripes for my inspection. It is called “kjell,” a word which occurs in the old ballad of “The Gay Goss Hawk.”
Then up and got her seven sisters,And sewed to her a kell.
Then up and got her seven sisters,And sewed to her a kell.
Then up and got her seven sisters,
And sewed to her a kell.
There it means pall, but the Norwegian word is also used of any coverlet. The maidens wear it just like a Parisian lady would her shawl,i.e., below the shoulders, and tight over the elbows. The married women, however, carry it like the Scotch plaid, over one shoulder and under the other arm, with their baby in the kolpos, or sinus, in front.
This article of dress, which is sometimes white, striped with red—the stripes being most frequent at the ends—and also the above manner of wearing it, are thought to corroborate the tradition that these people are a Scotch colony. The language, too, contains many words not known elsewhere in Norway, but used in England. Instead of “skee,” they say “spon,” which is nothing but the Icelandic “spónn,” and our “spoon.” In the words kniv (knife), and knap (button), the k is silent before n; whereas, elsewhere in Norway, it is pronounced. L, too, is silent before d, as with us; “skulde” (should) being pronounced “skud,” or “shud.” The common word for a river in Norway is “elv;” here it is “aas,” pronounced “ose,”which is nothing but the frequent “ooze” of England, meaning, in fact, “a stream generally.”
“What sort of people are the peasants about here?” I asked of the priest.
“They have many peculiarities. Formerly, they were looked upon by the rest of Norway as a kind of Abderites, stupid fellows; but they are not so much stupid, far from it, as quaint and comical. Indeed, their dress makes them look odd and simple. You must know that ten years ago the only road up the valley was by water, and about the only travellers the priest and a merchant or two. These Westland people are very different from the Eastlanders; for, whereas the latter are more ‘alvorlig’ (serious), and ‘modig’ (plucky), these are more ‘blid’ (gentle), more ‘dorsk’ and ‘doven’ (lazy and indolent), and fond of sleeping three times a day. Formerly they were inveterate fatalists, so much so that for a long time they would not hear of going to a doctor, if they were ill, or an accident happened. They used also to believe in Trolls (fairies), but that is fast exploding hereabouts. Yet they are still impressed with abelief in ‘giengângere’ (wraiths), and that the powers of evil are supernaturally at work around us. This makes them so fearful of going out after dark. Of late years a great change has been wrought among many of them, since the sect of the Lesere, or Haugians, began to prevail. They have forsworn Snorro Sturleson’s Chronicle and the historical Sagas of the country, which the Norwegian bonder used to be fond of reading, and in their cottages you will find nothing but the Bible and books of devotion. To read anything else they consider sinful, as being liable to turn away their minds from spiritual objects.”
“And do you think that, practically, they are better Christians?”
“Undoubtedly some of them are God-fearing persons, while others only adopt this tone from motives of self-interest.”
“How comes it that there are so few people about?”
“Ah! I must tell you. There is one remarkable custom in the valley—indeed, it is not impossible that it derives its name, Sætersdal(Valley of Sæters), from it.[6]During the summer the sæter is not inhabited by a single girl with her cows, as elsewhere in Norway, but by the whole of the farmer’s family. At such times I have no parishioners. They are all off. For the last three Sundays I have had no service. Each farmer possesses two or three of these sæters or stöls, and when they have cut the grass, and the cattle has eaten up the alpine shrubs at one spot, they move to another. It is a regular nomadic life as long as it lasts, which is the best part of the summer.
“In the winter, the hay made in the summer is brought down from the mountain on sledges. The snow being very deep, the ponies would sink in but for a contrivance called ‘trug,’ which is peculiar to these parts of Norway. Here is one,” said he, as Helvig, with great alacrity, brought in the apparatus in question. It was astrong hoop of birch-wood, about a foot in diameter. From its sides ran four iron chains, of two or three links each, to a ring in the centre. Attached to the hoop was some wicker-work. Into this basket the pony’s foot is inserted, and the wicker secured to the fetlock, while the shoe rests on the iron ring and chains. Armed with this anti-sinking machine, the horse keeps on the surface, and can travel with tolerable expedition. Men wear a similar contrivance, but smaller.
“Are there any bauta-stones, or such-like reminiscences of olden times in this part of the valley?”
“Very few. From its secluded position it never was of any great historical note. It is near the sea that the Vikings were most at home, and left behind them memorials. Here is an old cross-bow and an axe, such as the bonders used to carry.”
These axes were called “hand-axes,” from the fact that, when not otherwise used, the wearer took the iron in his hand, and used the weapon as a walking-stick. Sometimes they were eventaken to church (seeOxonian in Norway, 2nd edition, p. 336). This one had the date 1651 inscribed upon it, and, together with the handle, was adorned with figuring. In the passage I also saw a halbert and a spear, and a round spoon, on which was inscribed the date 1614, and the legend, “Mit haab til Gud” (My hope in God).
“Have you a good breed of cattle here?”
“Not particularly. We get all ours from Fyrrisdal, four Norsk miles to the east of this. The best ‘qvaeg-răcĕ’ in all Norway is to be found there.”
“I see all your horses are stallions. They must be very troublesome. I drove two or three marked with severe bites.”
“That may be; but the bonders here, most of whom have only one horse, find them answer their purpose best. The stallion is never off his feed, even after the hardest work, and will eat anything. Besides which, he is much more enduring, and can manage to drive off a wolf, provided he is not hobbled.”
“Are there many bears about this summer?”
“Yes, indeed. A man called Herjus, of Hyllestad, which you will pass, has been some weeks in our doctor’s hands from wounds received from a bear. He and another were in the forest, when they fell in with a young bear, which immediately climbed up a tree. The other man went to cut a stick, while Herjus threw stones at the cub. Suddenly he hears a terrific growl, and at the same moment receives a tremendous blow on the head. It was the female bear, who, like all female bears in a passion, had walked up to him, biped fashion, and, with a ‘take that for meddling with my bairn,’ felled him to the ground. Over him,” continued the parson, “fell the bear, so blinded with rage, that she struck two or three blows beyond him. His companion had made a clean pair of heels of it. The bear next seized the unfortunate wight in her arms, and dragged him to a precipice for the purpose of hurling him over. Herjus at once feigned to be dead, that he might not become so. The bear perceiving this, and thinking it no use to give herself any more trouble about a dead man, left him. Fearful lest sheshould return, he scrambled down the steep, and got over a stream below. It is said that the bears, like witches, don’t like to cross a running stream; that was the reason of his movement. It was lucky he did so, for no sooner was he over than the bear came back to see that all was right, and perceived that she had been hoaxed, but did not attempt to follow.”
“But do the bears really drag people over precipices?”[7]
“It is said so. Near Stavanger a poor fellow was attacked by a bear, who skinned his face fromscalp to chin, and then dragged him through the trees to a precipice. At this horrible instant the poor wretch clutched a tree, and hung to it with such desperation, that the bear, who heard help coming, left him, and retreated. The king has given him a pension of thirty-five dollars a-year.”
“And the wolves?” asked I.
“There are plenty of them. I caught one not long ago with strychnine. The doctor, who has lately left, caught a great many one winter. Brun, my predecessor, who was drowned, took seven wolves in one night with poison, close by the parsonage. They are also taken in the baas (i.e., such a trap as I described above). Some winters there are very few, while at other times they abound. A fjeld-frass (glutton) was not long ago taken in a trap. We have also lynxes of two sorts—the katte-gaupe (cat-lynx), which is yellow, with dark spots; and the skrübb-gaupe (wolf-lynx), which is wolf-coloured.”
The church, like all modern Norwegian churches, is neat, but nothing more. Its very ancient predecessor, which was pulled down a short timeago, abounded, like most of those built in Roman Catholic times, with beautiful wood-carving. Near the church is a fine sycamore, two hundred years old, and three picturesque weeping birches. Oaks, I find, ceased at Guldsmedoen.
“Ah!” said the priest, in the course of conversation, “this is a marvellous country, when you consider its peculiar nature—more barren rock by far than anything else. And yet our opkomst (progress) is wonderful since we became a free nation. With a population of less than a million and a half, we have a mercantile marine second only to that of England. We have as much freedom as is consistent with safety; the taxes are light, and the overplus, after paying the expenses of the Government, is devoted to internal improvements. None of it goes to Sweden, as it did formerly to Denmark; it is all spent on the country. Yes, sir, everything thrives better in a free country; the air is healthier, the very trees grow better.”
Sentiments like these, which are breathed by every Norskman, of course found a cordialresponse from an Englishman. I only hope that Norway will be suffered to go on progressing uninterruptedly.
Never having seen the interior of what is called the Bad-hus (bath-house), I go with my host to see this regular appendage to all country-houses. The traveller in Norway has no doubt often seen at some distance from the main house a log-hut, round the door of which the logs are blackened by smoke. This is the bad-hus. The millstones in this country are so indifferent, that it is found necessary to bake the corn previous to grinding it. It is thus performed. In the centre of the log-house, which is nearly air-proof, is a huge stone oven heaped over with large stones. Near the roof within are shelves on which the grain is placed; a wood fire is then lit in the oven, the door of the but is closed, and the temperature inside soon becomes nearly equal to that of the oven itself, and the corn speedily dries.
It is said that this name, “bad-hus,” is derived from a custom which formerly prevailedamong the people of using this receptacle in winter time as a kind of hot-air bath. The peasant, also, put it to another use. Not being the cleanliest people in the world, their bed-clothes become at times densely inhabited. When the colony becomes overstocked, the clothes are brought hither, and a short spell of the infernal temperature proves too much for the small animals, as they are not blessed with the heat-enduring capabilities of the cricket or salamander. In fact, the clothes become literally too hot to hold them, and they share the fate of Higginbottom.
This reminds me of an old tale concerning one Staale, of Aasheim, not very far from here. This man had murdered his brother about two hundred and fifty years ago. His life was spared on condition that he would rid the country of seven outlaws who harried the country and defied every attempt to take them. Staale, who was a daredevil villain, having discovered their retreat, went thither in rags, and showing them that he was a bird of similar plumage, proposed forgatheringwith them. The robbers were charmed at the idea of such an accession to their number. Meanwhile, Staale complained that his rags were full of parasites, and at his request a huge kettle was hung over the fire for the purpose of boiling the creatures out. As soon as the water boiled Staale dashed the fluid into the faces of the robbers who lay asleep on the floor, not expecting so warm a reception. Thus reduced, for the moment at least, to a condition like that of that precious brigand, Polyphemus, they fell an easy prey to Staale, who dashed their brains out with a crow-bar. He was, however, near being overmastered by an old woman who ministered to the wants of the robbers, like the delicate Leonarda inGil Blas, and had escaped the baptism that had been administered to the rest. After a hard struggle, however, he overcame the virago, and thus obtained his life and freedom, which had been forfeited for his misdeeds.
In the bad-hus were also suspended the winter cloak of his Reverence, composed of six beautiful wolf-skins; the sledge-apron, made of a hugeblack bear-skin, with the fur leggings and gloves, also used to keep out the cold in driving. These articles are generally hung up in another part of the premises, the ammoniacal vapours of which are much disliked and avoided by moths and other fur-destroyers.