Shipping a Carriole.
Shipping a Carriole.
The woodcut (seepage 55), with the sea-houses close to the water andjægtlying close in, shows the character of the country round that beautiful spot in the Hardanger fjord generally known as Rosendal, a place of great interest to the historian as the last seat of the Norwegian nobility. Nestling in a wood on the rising ground beyond the seashore lies this baronial residence, the home of the “last of the barons.” Baron Rosenkrone still lives there, and in this secluded spot art has been cherished and loved, for Rosendal possesses a collection of pictures which is consideredthe finest in Norway. Who would expect, after trudging for nine hours over the snow expanses of the Folgefond, and rapidly descending on the Hardanger fjord, to find there such examples of highly civilised life?
Close to this point is the island of Varalsoe, famous for its sulphur mines. It lies out of the regular beaten track, but is sometimes visited by theArgowhen the steamer is ordered to call for a freight. On such occasions the vessel is naturally light, and the first shoot of ore sent into the hold from the shipping pier above is, of a truth, a shock to the strongest nerves; the rattle and bang of the first few waggon or truck loads would startle any one, and make him fancy they would go through the ship’s bottom and sink her. Not so, however: the people here understand their work, and it is not by any means the first time they have shot ore into an empty hold. May it not be the last!
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TGrave-board, Mølmen Churchyard.HE Gudbransdalen valley is characterized by an immensevand, or lake, which is the source of the two rivers Rauma and Logen, the former running south-east, and the latter north-west into the Christiania fjord. Coming up from the Rauma valley, it was twilight as we reached the plateau of this upper valley, lying about 4,000 feet above the sea—a vast mass of far-stretching moorland, with heather, matted cotoneaster, and every variety of berry, in all the prismatic colour of the west coast of Scotland, but more vast, mysterious, and weird; and like witches looming moodily away from anything with life, we came ever and anon on some bleached relic of the grandeur of those noble Scotch firs which now seem fast fading away into mere skeletons and dried bones, the fibre in many cases appearing twisted like the strands of a rope, as though the dissolution had been one of agony and torture.
Soon after passing a monolith supposed to have been erected to thememory of Sinclair and his Scots we approach Mølmen. Judging from its appearance on the map, any one would fancy it to be a town. Such, however, is not the case, for it merely consists of a church school, open on alternate Sundays, and a station, or farm, for the convenience of travellers. Within the last few years this station has greatly improved. We arrived late in the evening, and, feeling very chilly, huddled up to the fireplace. As we inquired from thepigewhataftenmadwe were likely to obtain, from the depths of the dimness of darkness muffled peals came from under a heap of “somethings” in a long parallelogramic case, but really a bed, containing the mistress of the house, and the muffled peals were to summon a supper for us, and quickly. So delighted were we get it, that we said “Tak for mad” before we began, instead of waiting till we had finished.
The church is of wood, larger than most Norwegian churches, and has a spire with four turrets, each with an elaborate weathercock. Mølmen must at one time have had weathercock on the brain, for there is one at the end of the roof, another on the top of the spire and on each of the turrets, and even one on the lych gate. This crop of ironwork is accounted for by the fact of there having been iron works at Lesje, some seven miles farther to the eastward. Passing through the lych gate, which is ponderous, the grave-boards attract attention from their variety; one in particular had the novel feature of a weathercock on the top, and at the back might be seen quite a contrast in sentiment—a small simple iron cross firmly mortised into the solid rock.
Interior of Mølmen Church.[See larger version]
Interior of Mølmen Church.
[See larger version]
Entering the church, the general appearance is most striking, very quaint old carving, rudely painted—most comically rudely painted, especially on the rood screen, which is above—running from the pulpit to the two pillars in the centre, through which the altar is seen. The church floor is strewn with juniper tips, and the altar covered with a white linen cloth, whereon were two large candlesticks, which are lighted in the great festivals. The panels of the altar are painted in rather good colour, the back of it being of a slate colour; and, on the right side of it, standing back, is the carved stall for the use of the bishop when he visits the district. On the rood screen, over the centre, are the arms of King Christian V., with supporters, and above these a large but veryuncouth figure of the Saviour on the cross, withi. h. s.above. On each side is a figure rudely carved and painted, as is the case with the pulpit. There are traces, too, of the delightful annual custom of these good people, who, when the summer bursts suddenly and joyfully upon them, and the flowers come rapidly out, cull the earliest, and take them to the church as first-fruits of thankful joy. After viewing the front of the altar we went round to the back of it—the Sanctum. This was a treat. There we found old silver chalices and curious cases for the sacred wafers; for these good people consider the form of worship immaterial, if the spirit be sound. The size of the wafer is about one inch and a quarter in diameter.
A very fine old vestment is still worn for the communion; it is richly brocaded, with a large purple cross on the back, and in the centre of this is a brass crucifix. The verger said it was a pity to have a new one until this was worn out. It certainly wears well, for it has been in constant use ever since the Reformation. The great feature, however, has yet to be noticed. A curious instrument is used as a persuader during the service: it consists of a pole, painted red, about eight feet long, with a knob at each end. On inquiring the use of this instrument and for what ceremonial, the verger, with surprise at our ignorance, said, “To wake the sleepers.” How? “Here, sirs,” continued he, placing his hand on his waistcoat, as indicative of the best place to tilt at effectually. The reader will be glad to know that the knobs did not betray much sign of wear.
We must now return to the station, which is associated with greyling in the river, and wood-carving executed during the winter months in the farmhouses—spoons, bellows, tankards, mangel brats, and culinary implements. It was our good fortune to meet at Mølmen a delightful Austrian—his grey and green jacket informed us of that fact—but his general information was an oasis for travellers. A great botanist, it was delightful to go out with him, especially as he was, at that moment, perfectly mad about saxifrages and the flora of Norway. Then, again, “flies.” He had been up the North Cape, to the Namsen and other large rivers, and some one had given him a few Namsen “Butcher’s”salmon flies of immense size. These he showed to us; and we, finding him so interested, asked him if he would like to see our collection ofnaturalflies. “Certainly.” The flies we exhibited were the mosquitoes we had shut up between the leaves of note-books when the flies had been thickest in our tents on a warm evening. “Ah!” exclaimed our Austrian, “ten tousand of dose fellows did I swallow at the North Cape, and they bite all the way going down.” Happily, however, he had survived. We also met here a distinguished Prussian—large forefinger ring,très Prussien—whose favourite exercise at the festive board astonished us. Mountain strawberries at Mølmen are a treat, and at dinner we had some. Our aristocratic foreigner plunged them into a tumbler of sparkling wine, but alas! how did he extract them? The Count must have been in a lancer regiment, for with a tent-peg action he tried to pig-stick each strawberry and raise it to his mouth with his toothpick, persevering until the tumbler was emptied, and the last strawberry pierced and entombed.
A Norwegian Salmon Stage.
A Norwegian Salmon Stage.
In passing along the shores of the fjords a kind of stage may be seen occasionally, which would give the casual observer an idea of preparationsfor pile-driving; but the object of this construction is for quite a different purpose. It is one of the dreadful means used by the Norwegian farmers to obtain salmon. The system is this:—Netting.—A man sits in the perch-box; the net is laid round to the buoys as indicated in the previous illustration, and, as soon as the fisherman (if he may be designated by that name) sees a salmon underneath and within his net limit, he hauls in, and generally gets him. The salmon, being in the habit of returning to the same river orfos, are sometimes the victims of an inquiring mind in the following manner:—The Norwegian whitens the face of the rock, or places a light plank so that the fish’s attention may be attracted, and, whilst making up his mind as to whether it may be right or wrong, his fate is sealed, and he will soon be hung up in the farmer’s house, with two sticks across his body. After it has been rubbed with sugar and smoked in juniper fumes it is certainly a goodly adjunct to a breakfast; but when the weary traveller finds only smoked salmon, he cannot help thinking of the days when he was young, and had fresh meat regularly.
Hardanger.
Hardanger.
When coming down from the Haukelid Pass out of Sæterdal to the Hardanger, we had not time or space to refer to a very beautiful passage between the two, which we will now notice. We came from Haukelid a little gloomy; we had seen a corrie which had been the scene of a reindeer slaughter, or Glencoe, the result of misplaced generosity on the part of an Englishman to a Norwegian. The former had given the latter adouble-barrelled breech-loading rifle, with a good battue supply of cartridges. The consequence was that the local Nimrod, assisted by a confederate, drove a herd of reindeer into acul-de-saccorrie, and then shot down more than twenty. This was worse than the friend who gave his river watcher a salmon rod and flies; theelve-wakker, or keeper, fished hard with fly and worm, and with much glee wrote to his lord and master in England that he had caught “plenty salmons, orstor lax,” and the river would soon be ready for him, but he would like two new tops brought out for the rod so kindly given to him.
Journeying from Haukelid, we came down to Roldal, where the pass combines to produce a scene of great grandeur. The old wooden bridge, the blustering torrent falling with ponderous leap down into a chasm below, the serenity and peace of the distant snow range, and the placid lake far, far below, formed a combination which causes regret that it can never be adequately depicted on paper. The scenery is immensely grand, the living proportionately sparse and meagre. It is the old story, the quotation of Bennett’s Guide-book—“Magnificent waterfall at back; only two wooden spoons at this station.”
A tremendous zigzag is being cut by the Government in connection with a road which is ultimately intended to be opened over the pass. From the top of this zigzag a very commanding view is obtained of the valley of Seljestad and the Folgefond—an immense expanse of snow. We were very tired on arriving at Seljestad, and could get nothing but a recorked bottle of beer, which must have been put back several times on being declined by previous travellers. There was nothing to eat or drink; but such ablakken, or Norwegian pony, was put into No. 3 carriole, with the proprietor up asskyds. Having gone about five miles, the owner thought that the animal was not showing what he could do, or even up to his fair average; so, taking the rope reins, he stood up at the back of the carriage, grunted at him, and with deep growlings of “Elephanta!” sent him flying at a tremendous pace downhill, and, when far down the valley, we flew along the road through the spoondrift of two fine falls. The owner explained that the pony hated being called an elephant, and always went better when a little abused.