Upon the lea there stands a little cupFull of ale and wine,So dance my lady up.Upon the lea there stands a little canFull of ale and wine,So dance my lady down.
Upon the lea there stands a little cupFull of ale and wine,So dance my lady up.Upon the lea there stands a little canFull of ale and wine,So dance my lady down.
Upon the lea there stands a little cup
Full of ale and wine,
So dance my lady up.
Upon the lea there stands a little can
Full of ale and wine,
So dance my lady down.
She then chanted the following:—
Hasten, hasten, then my goatsAlong the northern heights,Homewards over rocky fell,Tange,[28]Teine, Bear-the-bell,Dros also Duri,Silver also Fruri,Ole also Snaddi,Now we’ve got the goats all,Come hither buck and come hither dun,Come hither speckled one,Young goats and brown goats come along,That’s the end of my good song,Fal lal lal la.
Hasten, hasten, then my goatsAlong the northern heights,Homewards over rocky fell,Tange,[28]Teine, Bear-the-bell,Dros also Duri,Silver also Fruri,Ole also Snaddi,Now we’ve got the goats all,Come hither buck and come hither dun,Come hither speckled one,Young goats and brown goats come along,That’s the end of my good song,Fal lal lal la.
Hasten, hasten, then my goats
Along the northern heights,
Homewards over rocky fell,
Tange,[28]Teine, Bear-the-bell,
Dros also Duri,
Silver also Fruri,
Ole also Snaddi,
Now we’ve got the goats all,
Come hither buck and come hither dun,
Come hither speckled one,
Young goats and brown goats come along,
That’s the end of my good song,
Fal lal lal la.
Another.
Baby, rest thee in thy bed,Mother she’s spinning blue thread,Brother’s blowing on a buck’s horn,Sister thine is grinding corn,And father is beating a drum.
Baby, rest thee in thy bed,Mother she’s spinning blue thread,Brother’s blowing on a buck’s horn,Sister thine is grinding corn,And father is beating a drum.
Baby, rest thee in thy bed,
Mother she’s spinning blue thread,
Brother’s blowing on a buck’s horn,
Sister thine is grinding corn,
And father is beating a drum.
She then started off with a stave full of satirical allusions to the swains of the neighbourhood, showing how Od was braw, and Ola a stour prater (stor Pratar), Torgrim a fop, and Tarjei a Gasconader—
But Björn from all he bore the bell,So merry he, and could “stave†so well.
But Björn from all he bore the bell,So merry he, and could “stave†so well.
But Björn from all he bore the bell,
So merry he, and could “stave†so well.
The whole reminded me of the catalogue in the glee of “Dame Durden.â€
“But how long will you stop with us? If you’ll wait till Sunday, we’ll have a selskab (party). Some of the men will come home from the mountains, and then you shall hear us stave properly.â€
She seemed much disappointed when I told her I must be off there and then, my luggage was already miles ahead.
Leaving her with thanks, I made a detour of a couple of miles into the side valley, to see a very ancient gaard, to which a story attaches. Roynestad, as it was called, was built of immense logs, some as much as three feet thick;[29]on one ofwhich several bullet marks were visible. Here once dwelt a fellow bearing the same names as the murderer of the priest at Valle, viz., Wund Osmund. He had served in the wars, and seen much of foreign lands. For some reason he incurred the displeasure of the authorities, and fled for refuge to his mountain home. A party of officials came to seize him. When he saw them approaching, he took aim with his cross-bow at a maalestock (pole for land-measuring), which he had placed in the meadow in front of his house, and sent three or four shafts into it.
Cloudesley with a bearing arrowClave the wand in two.
Cloudesley with a bearing arrowClave the wand in two.
Cloudesley with a bearing arrow
Clave the wand in two.
The Dogberries were alarmed, and, after discharging a few bullets, turned tail.
There were in the loft some curious reminiscences of this daring fellow,e.g., an ancient sword, and some old tapestry, or rather canvas paintedover with some historical subject, which I could not make out. In ancient times the interior of the houses was often decorated with hangings of this kind (upstad, aaklæd). But what I chiefly wanted to see was a genuine old Pagan idol, which had been preserved on the spot many hundred years. But “Faxe,†I found, was not long ago split up for fuel. The real meaning of “faxe†is horse with uncut mane, so that it was most likely connected with the worship of Odin.
Regaining my old road, by a short cut, which fortunately did not turn out a longer way, I plodded on to Bjaräen, a lonely house in the forest. Here I found my excellent conductress, who, alarmed at my non-appearance, had halted, and it being now dusk, further advance to-night was not to be thought of.
Those horrible cupboards, or berths, fixed against the wall, how I dreaded getting into one of them! A stout, red-cheeked lass, the daughter of the house, was fortunately at home, and posted up the hill for some distance, returning with a regular hay-cock on her back, which improved matters. But before I bestowed myself thereon, I took careto place under the coverlet a branch of Pors, which I had cut in the bog. It did for me what the aureus ramus did, if I remember rightly, for Æneas, gained me access to the realms of sleep. The fleas, it is true, mustered strong, and moved vigorously to the attack, but the scent of the shrub seemed to take away their appetite for blood, and I remained unmolested.
The stout lass brought me a slop-basin to wash in next morning, and instead of a towel, an article apparently not known in these parts, a clean chemise of her own. The house could not, by-the-bye, boast of any knives and forks. No sugar was to be had, and the milk, which was about three months old, was so sharp that it seemed to get into my head, certainly into my nose.
Next morning, after some miles walk through uninterrupted solitudes, I found myself on the shores of a placid lake, from which the mist was just lifting up its heavy white wings. As I stood for a moment to look, a large fly descended on the smooth water, and was immediately gobbled up by a trout. Over head, half hidden in the mist, wereperpendicular white precipices, stained with streaks of black, which returned my halloo with prompt defiance. Between their base and the lake vast stone blocks were strewed around, and yet close by I now discovered a farm-house exposed to a similar fall.
On fair Loch Ranza shone the early day,Soft wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curledFrom the lone hamlet, which her inland bayAnd circling mountains sever from the world.
On fair Loch Ranza shone the early day,Soft wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curledFrom the lone hamlet, which her inland bayAnd circling mountains sever from the world.
On fair Loch Ranza shone the early day,
Soft wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curled
From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay
And circling mountains sever from the world.
That’s a very proper quotation, no doubt, but the smoke must be left out. The farm was deserted; not a soul at home, the family having gone up to the mountain pasture. We must, however, except a couple of sad and solitary magpies, which, as we drew near, uttered some violent interjections, and jumped down from the house-top, where they had been pruning themselves in the morning sun. They must be much in want of company, for they followed our steps for some distance, and then left us with a peculiar cry. Would that I had been an ancient augur to have known what that last observation of theirs was!
The path now wound up the noted Bykle Sti, orladder of Bykle, which is partly blasted out of the rocks, and partly laid on galleries of fir logs. Formerly, this place was very dangerous to the traveller. Here the river, which has been flowing at no great distance from us all the way, comes out of a lake. From a considerable height I gaze down below, and see it gurgling and then circling with oily smoothness through a series of black pits scooped out in the foundation rocks of this fine defile. Opposite me is a huge precipice, whence the screams that are borne ever and anon upon my ear, proclaim the vicinity of an eagle’s eyrie. Below, the river widens again, and I see a number of logs slumbering heads and tails on its shores. We are now more than two thousand feet above the sea, but shall have to descend again to the lake, and cross it, as the road soon terminates entirely.
The ferry-boat was large and flat-bottomed, but all the efforts of my attendant and myself failed to launch it. At this moment a sort of Meg Merrilies, clad in grey frieze, with hair to match, streaming over her shoulders, made her appearance.
“Come and help us!â€
“It’s no use. The boat’s fast; the water has fallen from the dry weather, and old Erik himself can’t move it.â€
“Well, let us try. You take one oar, and Thora the other, and I’ll go and haul in front.â€
The two women used their oars like levers, when suddenly, Oh, horror!—snap went one of them. Tearing up a plank, which was nailed over the gunwale as a seat, I placed it as a launching way for the leviathan. This helped us wonderfully, and at last the unwieldly machine floated. The Danish Count would have flung “Trahuntque siccas machinæ carinas†in our faces, but he would have had to alter the epithet, as the boat was thoroughly water-logged. So much so, that when the horse and effects and we three were on board, it leaked very fast. The women took the oars, the broken one being mended by the garters of Meg Merrilies. The water rose in the boat much quicker than I liked, and I could not help envying a couple of great Northern divers, which my glass showed me floating corkily on the smooth water—fortunately it was so—if the truth were known they doubtlesslooked upon us with a mixture of commiseration and contempt.
When we arrived safely on the other side, which was distant about half-a-mile, I gave our help-in-need sixpence. She was perfectly amazed at my liberality.
“Du er a snil karro du.†(You’re a good fellow, you are.)
She was, she told me, the mother of fourteen children. Her pluck and sagacity were considerable. Now, will it be believed, that this awkward passage might altogether be avoided if the precipice were blasted for two or three score yards, so as to allow of the path winding round it. As it is, a traveller might arrive here, and if the boat were on the other side, might wait for a whole day or more, as nobody could hear or see him, and no human habitation is near.
As we rose the hill to Bykle, I saw two or three species of mushrooms, one of which, of a bright Seville-orange colour, with white imposthumes, I found to be edible. Visions of a comfortable place to put my head into smiled upon me, as I saw achurch-spire rising up the mountain, and a gaard, the station-house, not far from it. But alas! I was doomed to be disappointed—all the family were at the Stöl, and the doors and windows fastened. A man fortunately appeared presently, whom I persuaded for a consideration to go and fetch the landlord. My guide meantime departed, as she was anxious to get half home before night. Meantime I lay on some timbers, and went to sleep. Out of this I was awakened by a sharp sort of chuckle close to my ear, and on raising myself I found that two magpies had bitten a hole into the sack, and were getting at my biscuits and cheese. It was with some difficulty that I drove off these impudent Gazza-ladras: and as soon as I went to sleep again, they recommenced operations. In three hours the messenger returned with the intelligence that the station-master would not come; the road stopped here, and he was not bound to schuss people Nordover (to the North).
There was nothing for it but to go up the mountain, and wade through the morasses to see the fellow. Fortunately I found an adjoining stöl,where dwelt another peasant, Tarald (Anglicè Thorold) Mostue, whom I persuaded to come down and open his house for the shelter of myself and luggage. He brought down with him some fresh milk, the first I had tasted since leaving Christiansand. After lighting for me a fire, and making up a bed, he returned to his châlet, promising to return by sixA.M.with a horse, and schuss me to Vatnedal. Here, then, I was all alone, but I managed to make myself comfortable, and slept well under the shadow of my own fig-tree—I mean the branch of Pors—secure from the fleas and bugs! Tarald appeared in the morning, and off we started. He was, I found, one of the Lesere or Norwegian methodists.
“Do they bann (banne = the Scotch ‘ban’) much in the country you come from?†inquired he, as we jumped over the dark peat-hags, planting our feet on the white stones, which afforded a precarious help through them.
“I fear some of them do.â€
“But I’ve not heard you curse.â€
“No; I don’t think it right.â€
“Where does the Pope (Pave) live?â€
“At Rome.â€
“They call it the great —— of Babylon, don’t they? Is Babylon far from Rome?â€
“It does not exist now. It was destroyed for the wickedness of its inhabitants, and according to the prophecy it has become something like this spot here, a possession for the cormorant and the bittern, and pools of water.â€
“Ah! I had forgotten about that; I know the New Testament very well, but not the Old.â€
Tarald had also something to say about Luther’s Postils; but like most of these Lesere, he had no relish for a good story or legend. He had a cock-and-a-bull story—excuse the confusion of ideas—of a bear and a fox, but it was so rigmarole and pointless, that it reminded me of Albert Smith’s engineer’s story. The real tale is as follows. I picked it up elsewhere:—Once on a time, when the beasts could talk, a fox and a bear agreed to live together and have all things in common. So they got a bit of ground, and arranged, so that one year the bear should get the tops and the fox the bottomsof the crop, and another year the bear the bottoms and the fox the tops. The first year they sowed turnips, and, according to agreement, the bear got the tops and the fox the bottoms. The bear did not much like this, but the fox showed him clearly that there was no injustice done, as it was just as they had agreed. Next year, too, said he, the bear would have the advantage, for he would get the bottoms and the fox the tops. In the spring the fox said he was tired of turnips. “What said the bear to some other crop?†“Well and good,†answered the bear. So they planted rye. At harvest the fox got all the grain, and the bear the roots, which put him in a dreadful rage, for, being thick-witted, he had not foreseen the hoax. At last he was pacified, and they now agreed to buy a keg of butter for the winter. The fox, as usual, was up to his tricks, and used to steal the butter at night, while Bruin slept. The bear observed that the butter was diminishing daily, and taxed the fox. The fox replied boldly—“We can easily find out the thief; for directly we wake in the morning we’ll examine each other, and see whether either of us has any butter smeared about him.†In themorning the bear was all over butter; it regularly dropped off him. How fierce he got! the fox was so afraid, that he ran off into the wood, the bear after him. The fox hid under a birch-tree root, but bruin was not to be done, and scratched and scratched till he got hold of the fox’s foot. “Don’t take hold of the birch-root, take hold of the fox’s foot,†said Reynard, tauntingly. So the bear thought it was only a root he had hold of, and let the foot go, and began scratching again. “Oh! now do spare me,†whispered the fox; “I’ll show you a bees’-nest, which I saw in an old birch. I know you like honey.†This softened the bear, for he was desperately fond of honey. So they went both of them together into the wood, and the fox showed the bear a great tree-bole, split down the middle, with the wedge still sticking in it. “It’s in there,†said the fox. “Just you squeeze into the crack, and press as hard as you can, and I’ll strike the wedge, and then the log will split.†The trustful bear squeezed himself in accordingly, and pushed as hard as ever he could. Reynard knocked out the block, the tree closed, and poor Bruin was fast. Presently the mancame back who had been hewing the tree, and directly he spied the bear, he took his axe and split open his skull; and—so there is no more to tell.
On the bare, rocky pass which separates Sætersdal from Vatnedal were several stones, placed in a line, a yard or two apart from each other.
“Those are the Bridal Stones,†observed Tarald. “A great many years ago there was no priest on the Bykle side (I suppose this was after the murder by Wund Osmond, the Lehnsman), and a couple that wanted to wed came all the way over here to be married. Those stones they set up in memory of the event. On this stone sat the bridegroom, and on that the bride.â€
The mountain pink (Lycnis viscaria) occurs on most of these stony plateaus. I also met with a mighty gentian, with purplish brown flower, emitting a rich aromatic odour, the root of which is of an excessively bitter taste, and is gathered for medicinal purposes.
A mile or two beyond this we stood in a rocky gorge, from which we had a glorious view of the Vatnedal lake, and another beyond it several hundredfeet below us. After a very precipitous descent, on the edge of which stood several blocks, placed as near as they could be without rolling over, we skirted the lake through birch-grove and bog till we got opposite a house visible on the further shore. At this a boat was kept, but it was very uncertain whether anybody was at home. Leaving Tarald to make signals, I was speedily enticing some trout at a spot where a snow-stream rushed into the lake. At last Tarald cried out—
“All right, there are folk; I see a woman.†And sure enough, after a space, I could discern a boat approaching. A brisk and lively woman was the propelling power. We were soon on the bosom of the deep—the two men, the woman, and the horse, all, in spite of my protestations, consigned to a flat-bottomed leaky punt, though the wind was blowing high. The horse became uneasy, and swayed about, and, being larger than usual, he gave promise of turning the boat upside-down before very long. I immediately unlaced my boots, and pulled off my coat. The Norwegians seemed at this to awake to a sense of danger, and rowed back to the shore; the horse was landed and hobbledwhen he forthwith began cropping the herbage. We then made a safe passage. Unfortunately, Helge’s husband, whom I had counted on to help me on my journey, had started with his horse the day before to buy corn at Suledal, thirty-five miles off.
In this dilemma, I begged Tarald to take pity on me, or I might be hopelessly stopped for some days. The “Leser†was like “a certain Levite.†He had been complaining all day of fatigue. He felt so ill, he said, he could hardly get along. I had even given him some medicine. In spite, however, of his praiseworthy antipathy to swearing, and the nasal twang with which he poured out some of his moral reflections, I had felt some misgivings about the sincerity of his professions; for he had begged me to write to the Foged, and complain of the absence of the station-master at Bykle, that he might be turned out, and he get his place. And, sure enough, I found him to be a wooden nutmeg with none of the real spice of what he professed to be about him. No sooner did he finger the dollars, than his fatigue and indisposition suddenly left him, and he started off home with great alacrity,reminding me of those cripples in Victor Hugo’sHunchback of Notre Dame, who, from being hardly able to crawl, suddenly became all life and motion.
“Truly,†mused I, “these Lesere are all moonshine. They profess to be a peculiar people, but are by no means zealous of good works. But this lies in the nature of things. Which is the best article, the cloth stiffened and puffed up with starch and ‘Devil’s dust,’ or the rough Tweed, which makes no pretence to show whatever, but, nevertheless, does duty admirably well against wind and weather?†But enough of the thin-lipped, Pharisaical Tarald.
There was a beaminess about the hard-favoured countenance of Helge Tarjeisdatter Vatnedal, together with abrusqueout-and-out readiness of word and deed, that jumped with my humour. The fair Tori too, her daughter, with her good-tempered blue eyes and mouth, and comfortable-looking figure, swept up the floor, and split some pine stumps with an axe, and lit the fire, and acted “Polly put the kettle on†with such an evident resolve to make me at home, that the prospect of being delayed in such quarters looked much lessformidable. The two women had netted some gorgeous trout that afternoon, and I was soon discussing them.
“We must go now,†said Helge.
“Where to?â€
“To the stöl. We are all up there now. It was only by chance we came down here to-day. Will you go with us, or will you stop here? You will be all alone.â€
“Never mind; I’ll stop here.â€
“Very good. We know of a man living a long way off on the other lake. We’ll send a messenger to him by sunrise, and see if he can schuss you. In the morning we’ll come back and let you know.â€
My supper finished, by the fast waning light I began reading a bit of Bulwer’sCaxtons. The passage I came upon was Augustine’s recipe for satiety orennui—viz., a course of reading of legendary out-of-the-way travel. But I can give Mr. Caxton a better nostrum still—To do the thing yourself instead of reading of it being done. In the Museum at Berlin there is a picture called the Fountain of Youth. On the left-handside you see old and infirm people approaching, or being brought to the water. Before they have got well through the stream, their aspect changes; and arrived on the other bank, they are all rejuvenescence and frolic. To my mind this is not a bad emblem of the change that comes over the traveller who passes out of a world of intense over-civilization into a country like this. How delightful to be able to dress, and eat, and do as one likes, to have escaped for a season, at least, from the tittle-tattle, the uneasy study of appearances, the “what will Mr. So-and-so think?†the fuss and botheration of crowded cities, with I don’t know how many of the population thinking of nothing but getting 10 per cent. for their money. Sitting alone in the gloaming, under the shadow of the great mountains, with the darkling lake in front, now once more tranquil, and lulled again like a babe that has cried itself to sleep—the sound of the distant waterfalls booming on the ear—a star or two twinkling faintly in the sky—I might have set my fancy going to a considerable extent.
But bed, with its realities, recalled my wandering thoughts. That was the hour of trial! A person,who ought to know something about these matters, apostrophized sleep as being fond of smoky cribs, and uneasy pallets, and delighting in the hushing buzz of night flies. I had all these to perfection, the flies especially, quite a plague of them. But nature’s soft nurse would not visit me. The fact was, I had lost my branch, and the “insectivora†of all descriptions, as a learned farmer of my acquaintance phrased it, roved about like free companions, ravaging at will. Knocked up was I completely the next morning, when at six o’clock the women returned with the welcome intelligence that one Ketil of the Bog was bound for that Goshen, Suledal, to buy corn, and would be my guide.
“I am so weary,†said I; “I have not slept a wink.â€
With looks full of compassion, the women observed—“We thought you wouldn’t. We knew you would be afraid. That kept you awake, no doubt.â€
Whether they meant fear of the fairies or of freebooters, they did not say. My assurance to the contrary availed but little to convince them.No solitary traveller in Norway at the present day need fear robbery or violence. The women soon shouldered my effects, not permitting me to carry anything, and we started through morass, and brake, and rocks, for the shieling of Ketil of the Bog.
At one spot where we rested, the fair Tori chanted me the following strain, which is based on a national legend, the great antiquity of which is testified by the alliterative metre of the original. It refers to a girl who had been carried off by robbers.
Tirreli, Tirreli Tove,Twelve men met in the grove;Twelve men mustered they,Twelve brands bore they.The goatherd they did bang,The little dog they did hang,The stour steer they did slay,And hung the bell upon a spray,And now they will murder me,Far away on the wooded lea.
Tirreli, Tirreli Tove,Twelve men met in the grove;Twelve men mustered they,Twelve brands bore they.The goatherd they did bang,The little dog they did hang,The stour steer they did slay,And hung the bell upon a spray,And now they will murder me,Far away on the wooded lea.
Tirreli, Tirreli Tove,
Twelve men met in the grove;
Twelve men mustered they,
Twelve brands bore they.
The goatherd they did bang,
The little dog they did hang,
The stour steer they did slay,
And hung the bell upon a spray,
And now they will murder me,
Far away on the wooded lea.
Ketil—A few sheep in the wilderness—Brown Ryper—The Norwegian peasants bad naturalists—More bridal stones—The effect of glacial action on rocks—“Catch hold of her tailâ€â€”Author makes himself at home in a deserted châlet—A dangerous playfellow—Suledal lake—Character of the inhabitants of Sætersdal—The landlord’s daughter—Wooden spoons—Mountain paths—A mournful cavalcade—Simple remedies—Landscape painting—The post-road from Gugaard to Bustetun—The clergyman of Roldal parish—Poor little Knut at home—A set of bores—The pencil as a weapon of defence—Still, still they come—A short cut, with the usual result—Author falls into a cavern—The vast white Folgefond—Mountain characteristics—Author arrives at Seligenstad—A milkmaid’s lullaby—Sweethearts—The author sees visions—The Hardanger Fjord—Something like scenery.
Ketil—A few sheep in the wilderness—Brown Ryper—The Norwegian peasants bad naturalists—More bridal stones—The effect of glacial action on rocks—“Catch hold of her tailâ€â€”Author makes himself at home in a deserted châlet—A dangerous playfellow—Suledal lake—Character of the inhabitants of Sætersdal—The landlord’s daughter—Wooden spoons—Mountain paths—A mournful cavalcade—Simple remedies—Landscape painting—The post-road from Gugaard to Bustetun—The clergyman of Roldal parish—Poor little Knut at home—A set of bores—The pencil as a weapon of defence—Still, still they come—A short cut, with the usual result—Author falls into a cavern—The vast white Folgefond—Mountain characteristics—Author arrives at Seligenstad—A milkmaid’s lullaby—Sweethearts—The author sees visions—The Hardanger Fjord—Something like scenery.
I was quite at Ketil’s mercy in a pecuniary point of view. But he was not one of the Lesere, and was moderate in his demands. After a scramble through his native bog, which would, I think, have put a very moss-trooper on his mettle, we debouchedon the end of a lake. Here we took boat, and there being a spanking breeze, we soon shot over the six miles of water. With a stern-wind, fishing was not to be thought of; I never found it answer. At the other end of the lake was a stone cabin, where I took shelter from the blast, while Ketil went in search of his horse.
While I was engaged caulking the seams in my appetite, a fine young fellow in sailor’s costume, who had rowed from the opposite shore, looked in. Talleif, as he was yclept, was from Tjelmodal, with a flock of fourteen thousand sheep and twenty milking goats. He and his comrade, Lars, sleep in an old bear-hole in the Urden (loose rocks). They get nine skillings (threepence) a-head for tending the sheep for ten weeks. Besides this, they pay twelve dollars to Ketil and two other peasants, who are the possessors of these wilds. Their chief food is the milk of the goats. In winter they get their living by fishing.
“Have you any ryper here,†said I to Ketil, as we passed through some very likely-looking birch thickets.
“Yes.â€
“What colour?â€
“Grey.â€
“Are there no brown ones?â€
“No; they are grey, and in winter snow-white.â€
At this instant I heard the well-known cackle of the cock of the brown species, and a large covey of these birds rose out of the covert.
“Well, they are brown,†said he; “now, I never laid mark to (remarked) that before.â€
So much for the observation of these people. Never rely upon them for any information respecting birds, beasts, fishes, or plants. All colours are the same to a blind man, and they are such. I take the man’s word, however, for the fact of there being abundance of otters about and reindeer higher up.
Terribly desolate was that Norwegian Fjeld that now lay before us. But setting our faces resolutely to the ascent, we topped it in two and a half hours, the way now and then threading mossy lanes, so to say, sunk between sloping planes ofrock. Screeching out in the unharmonious jargon of Vatnedal, which the Sætersdal people, proud of their own musical lungs, call “an alarm,†Ketil pointed to a row of stones upon the ridge similar to those I had seen the day before, also called the Bridal stones, and with a similar legend attached to them. What poverty of invention. Why not call them Funeral stones by way of ringing the changes? But no; the people of this country will escort a bride much further than a bier. The honours of sepulture are done with a niggard grace.
As we now began to descend past beds of unmelted snow, I had a good opportunity of seeing the manifest effect of glacial action upon the rocks, the strata of which had been heaved up perpendicularly. Rounded by the ice in one direction, and quartered by their own cleavage in another, the rocks looked for all the world like a vast dish of sweetbreads; just the sort of tid-bit for that colossal Jotul yonder behind us, with the portentously groggy nose, who stands out in sharp relief against the sky. What Gorgon’s head didthat? thought I; as the picture in the National Gallery of Phineus and Co. turned to stone at the banquet occurred to my mind. But my reverie was disturbed by a cry from Ketil of the Bog.
“Catch hold of her tail!â€
Which exclamation I not apprehending at the moment, the mare slipped down a smooth sweetbread, and nearly came to grief.
Lower down we passed some ice-cold tarns, where I longed to bathe and take some of the limpid element into my thirsting pores, but prudently abstained. After a long descent we came upon a deserted châlet, the door of which we unfastened, and plundered it of some sour milk. We shall pay the owner down below. After this refreshment we plunged into a deep gorge, skirting an elv just fresh from its cradle, and which was struggling to get away most lustily for so young an infant.
“Ah! it’s only small now,†said Ketil; “but you should see it in a flom (flood). It’s up in a moment. Two years ago a young fellow crossed there with a horse, and spent the day in cutting grass on the heights. It rained a good deal. Hewaited too long, and when he tried to get over, horse and man were drowned. They were found below cut to pieces.â€
I must take care what I’m about, thought I, as I nearly slipped down the precipice, which was become slippery from a storm of rain which now overtook us.
Below this the scenery becomes more varied, in one place a smiling little amphitheatre of verdure contrasting with the bold mountains which towered to an immense height above.
At length we descend to Suledal lake drenched to the skin. A ready, off-hand sort of fellow, Thorsten Brathweit, at once answers my challenge to row me over the water to Naes. The scenery of the lake is truly superb. The elv, which we had been following, here finds its way to the lake by a mere crack through the rocks of great depth. In one place a big stone that had been hurled from above had become tightly fixed in the cleft, and formed a bridge. Thorsten had plenty to say.
Two reindeer, he told me, were shot last weekon the Fjeld I had just crossed. Large salmon get up into the lake. The trout in it run to ten pounds in weight; what I took were only small.
The landlord at Naes, where I spent the night, was astonished that I should have ventured through Sætersdal.
“They are such a Ro-bygd folk there,†observed he, punningly,i.e., barbarous sort of people.
The race I now encounter are, in fact, of quite a different costume and appearance. The married daughter of the house possessed a good complexioned oval face, with a close-fitting black cloth cap, edged with green, in shape just like those worn by the Dutch vrows, in Netscher’s and Mieris’ pictures. Her light brown hair was cut short behind like a boy’s; such is the fashion among the married women hereabouts.
“Long hair is an ornament to the woman,†observed I to her.
“She didn’t know; that was the custom there.â€
The only spoon in the house was a large wooden one, but as by long practice I have arrived at such a pitch of dexterity that I might almost ventureon teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, this occasioned me little inconvenience in transferring to my mouth the parboiled mementoes left by a hen now, alas! no more.
There is a mountain-pass across the Fjeld from hence to Roldal, and, as I mounted it next morning by the side of one of the feeders of the lake cascading grandly down, I had a fine view of this noble piece of water. After a stiff walk of three hours and a half we arrive at the summit of thecol, and passing the rnan, or cairn, which marks the highest point, looked down upon the pretty Roldal water sunk deep among the mountains, with the snowfields of the Storfond gleaming in the distance.
Here we met a mournful cavalcade. First came a sickly-looking man riding, and another horse following loaded with luggage, while a spruce old dame and a handsome lad walked in the rear. This is a rich bonder from Botne below, who is troubled with a spinal complaint, and after enduring frightful tortures, is on his travels in search of a doctor. Horror of horrors! I felt it runningcold down my back as I heard of it. Imagine a man with a diseased spine riding down a Norwegian mountain. Heaven help him! The lad hails me, and asks if I know where a doctor is to be found. I recommend Stavanger, sixty miles off—much of which distance, however, may be travelled by water—in preference to Lillesand, a small place nearer.
It was a great relief, after walking in the intense heat, to boat across Roldal lake, under the shade of the mountains, the air deliciously cooled by the glacier water, which, though milky in colour, did not prevent me catching some trout. The poor fellow, my boatman, has a swollen hand and wrist of some weeks’ standing; I recommend porridge poultice as hot as possible, and a douche of icy water afterwards. Formerly, instead of this simple remedy, it would have been necessary to do “some great thing.†Abana and Pharpar alone would have sufficed. I allude to the miraculous image which used to be kept in the old church at Roldal, now pulled down. On the Eve of St. John it used to sweat, and people came from far and near to apply the exudation to their bodily ailments.Like Dr. Steer’s opodeldoc, it never failed to effect a cure.
As we approach the other end of the lake, a little modern church rises on the shore, while an amphitheatre of cultivated ground, dotted here and there by log-houses, slopes gently upwards towards the grey rocky mountains behind, which afford pasturage for herds of tame reindeer. In the distance may be discerned at intervals a winding path. This path, which at present is only practicable for horses, crosses the summit level of the Hardanger mountains. At Gugaard it becomes a carriage-road, and thence passes on through Vinje to the part of Thelemarken visited by me last year. The Storthing have long been talking of completing the post-road from Gugaard to Busteten, on the Sör Fjord, a branch of the Hardanger; but hitherto it is confined to talk, although, at present, the only way of getting from the Hardanger district to Kongsberg and the capital, is either to go the long route by the sea round the Naze, or up to Leirdalsören, where the high road commences. Formerly Roldal parish was annexed to Suledal, thirty miles off, but it haslately been separated, and has the advantage of a resident clergyman, and service every Sunday.
Sending my effects to the Lehnsman’s, where I purposed stopping the night, I went up the hill to call upon his reverence. He was out, so the girl went to fetch him, taking care to lock the house-door and put the key in her pocket. Presently a vinegar-faced, Yankee-looking young man, with white neckcloth, light coat, and pea-green waistcoat, with enormous flowers embroidered on it, and sucking a cigar the colour of pig-tail, approached. There was a Barmecide look about him, which was not promising, and his line of action tallied exactly with his physiognomy. He stood before the house-door, but made no effort to open it, and there was a repelling uncommunicative way about him, which determined me to retire the moment I had obtained the information I stood in need of.
As I had landed from the boat, a ragged square-built little fellow, with gipsy countenance, had offered to carry my luggage, seventy pounds in weight, over the mountain to Odde, thirty miles distance. Showing me a miserable little hut, hetold me he was very poor, and had five children with no bread to eat, while his wife, a tidy-looking woman carrying a bundle of sticks, chimed in with his entreaties, and thanked me warmly for the gift of the few fish I had caught. I was quite willing to hire him, and had come to the priest, to whom he referred me, for some account of his trustworthiness and capabilities.
“Yes,†said his reverence, “he is able to carry that weight; he carried for me more than double as much when I came hither from Odde, and that’s much more uphill (imod).â€
“Yes,†said I; “but I travel quick, and I don’t wish to use a man as a beast of burden.â€
“He lives by carrying burdens. And what do you want, Knut, for the job?â€
“A dollar.â€
“That’s too much.â€
I did not think so, and the bargain was struck, and I took leave of the vinegar-cruet, who was said to be a chosen vial of pulpit declamation.
What a set of bores or burrs my host the Lehnsman and his family were. They would not let mealone in the loft, which was frightfully hot, and with no openable window. Up tramped first the old man, with half-a-dozen loutish sons, then followed a hobbling old beldam, leaning on a stick, and attended by Brida, a young peasant lass, the only redeeming feature in the group. Fancy arriving at a place dog-tired, and a dozen people surrounding you in the foreground, and asking a hundred questions, with a perspective of white heads bobbing about, and appearing and disappearing through the doorway in the middle distance.
My only chance was my pencil; that is the weapon to repel such intruders. Not that I used it aggressively, as those hopeful students did their styles (see Fox’sMartyrs), digging the sharp points into their Dominie’s body. Taking out my sketch-book, I deliberately singled out one of the phalanx, and commenced transferring his proportions to the paper. This manœuvre at once routed the assailants, and they retired. Before long, however, the old gent stole in, and prowled stealthily around the fortress before he summoned it to surrender. I parried all his questions, and hedeparted. His place was then supplied by his eldest son, who was equally unsuccessful, but whom I made useful in boiling some water for tea. The only thing approaching to a tea-pot was a shallow kettle, a foot in diameter. The butter of Roldal is celebrated, and compared to the Herregaard butter of Denmark, but the pile of it brought in by the landlord’s son, on a lordly dish, was stale and nauseous. As nothing was to be got out of me, he, too, disappeared, and I was left in peace and quietness. Another yet! Horrible sight! the old Hecate herself again rises into the loft—not one of “the soft and milky rabble†of womankind, spoken of by the poet, but a charred and wrinkled piece of humanity—all shrivelled and toothless, came and stood over me as I sat at meat.
“Who are you? Youshalltell me. Whence do you come from?â€
“Christiansand.â€
“But are you Baarneföd (born) there?â€
At the same time she hobbled to a great red box, with various names painted on it, and as a kind of bait, I suppose, produced a quaint silverspoon for my use, which she poised suspiciously in her hand like a female Euclio, as if she was fearful I should swallow it.
But I was much too tired to respond; and at last, seeing nothing was to be got out of me, she crawled away, and I was speedily between the woollen coverlets—sheets there were none. By fiveA.M.the gipsy Knut was in attendance, with a small son to help him; and on a most inspiriting morning we skirted along the lake, and began to mount the heights. The haze that still hung about the water, and filled the shadowy nooks between the mountains, lent an ineffable grandeur to them, which the mid-day atmosphere, when the sun is high in heaven, fails to communicate.
Leaving my coolies to advance up the track, I thought I would take a short cut to the summit of the pass, when I came unexpectedly upon a lake, which stretched right and left, and compelled me to retrace my steps for some distance. As I scrambled along fallen rocks, my leg slipped through a small opening into a perfect cavern. Thank God, the limb was not broken, as the guidecould not have heard my cries, and I might have ceased to be, and become a tissue of dry bones (de mortuo nil nisi bonum), long before I could have been discovered. That old raven overhead there, who gave that exulting croak as I fell, you’re reckoning this time without your host. See, I have got my leg out of the trap; and off we hurry from the ill-omened spot. Those ravens are said to be the ghosts of murdered persons who have been hidden away on the moors by their murderers, and have not received Christian burial.
What a delicious breeze refreshed me as I stood, piping hot, on the top of the pass. Half-an-hour of this let loose upon London would be better than flushing the sewers. It was genuine North Sea, iced with passing over the vast white Folgefond. There it lies full in front of us, like a huge winding-sheet, enwrapping the slumbering Jotuns, those Titanic embodiments of nature in her sternest and most rugged mood, with which the imagination of the sons of Odin delighted to people the fastnesses of their adopted home.
As we had ascended, the trees had become,both in number and size, small by degrees and beautifully less, until they ceased altogether, and the landscape turned into nothing but craggy, sterile rockscape. This order of things as we now descended was inverted, and I was not sorry to get once more into the region of verdure.
At length we arrive at Seligenstad, where, to avoid the crowd of questioners, I sit down on a box, in the passage, to the great astonishment of the good folks. The German who has preceded me has been more communicative: “He is from Hanover; is second master in a Gymnasium; is thirty years old; has so many dollars a year; is married; and expects a letter from his wife at Bergen.â€
When the buzz had subsided, and nobody is looking, one girl, dressed in the Hardanger costume, viz., a red bodice and dark petticoat, with masculine chemise, but with the addition of a white linen cap, shaped like a nimbus by means of a concealed wooden-frame, comes and sits on a milk-pail beside me. At my request she sings a lullaby or two. One of them ran thus:—