'Gamle Norge': Rambles and Scrambles in Norway

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Title: 'Gamle Norge': Rambles and Scrambles in Norway
Author: Pritchett, R. T. (Robert Taylor)
Language: English
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Libraries)

“GAMLE NORGE”
RAMBLES AND SCRAMBLES
IN
NORWAY

BY ROBERT TAYLOR PRITCHETT

_WITH MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS_

[Illustration]

LONDON
VIRTUE & CO., LIMITED, 26, IVY LANE
PATERNOSTER ROW
1879

_The Engravings in this Work have been executed by Messrs._ J.
& G. NICHOLLS, _under the personal supervision of the Artist._

[Illustration: _The Meal Mill: Isterdal._]

PREFACE.

The object of the present work is to bring before the notice of the
general reader and tourist the advantages and pleasure accruing from
a few weeks’ sojourn among the mountains and fjords of that grand yet
simple country, Norway. Everywhere abounding with features of interest,
it will especially commend itself to the Englishman when he calls to
mind how close was the link between the Scandinavians and his ancestors.

To travel profitably it is not sufficient merely to notice or admire
scenic effects. Men and manners should also be closely observed; and
no object or detail, however trivial, should be neglected or deemed
beneath regard. Norway presents a wide field for observation and
research, whatever may be the tastes and predilections of the visitor.
Here may the geologist, if so disposed, find ample material for study;
the archæologist and antiquarian may revel among Runic stones, Viking
tumuli, rites and ceremonies, quaint wood-carvings adorned with the
ever-twining serpent, costumes, customs, &c.; the keenest sportsman
will find a treat in store for him; while the lover of the grand in
nature and of simple rustic life will meet with them here to his
heart’s content. But to do this the main roads and cities must be
abandoned for the mountains and fjelds, with their reindeer tracts and
trout streams.

To the Fjeld, then, to the Fjeld! with its beautiful flora and mosses,
its sport, its avalanches and landslips, its balmy air and soothing
zephyrs. To the Fjeld—off to the Fjeld!

R. T. P.

CONTENTS.

I.—CHRISTIANSAND AND CHRISTIANIA.

PAGE

GAMLE NORGE—AN EARLY MURRAY—UNEXPLORED STATE OF THE
COUNTRY—THE PIONEERS OF SPORT—CROSSING THE NORTH
SEA—NOT THEN AS NOW—CONTENT OF THE PEASANTS—CHARM OF
THE FJELD—CHRISTIANSAND—CHRISTIANIA—THE EMIGRANT’S
VICISSITUDES—THE VICTORIA HOTEL AND OSCAR HALL 3

II.—THELEMARKEN.

LYSTHUS—COMPONENT PARTS OF TRAVEL—HITTERDAL CHURCH—THE
CHAIR—THE CAMP AT SKEJE—FLATDAL—RELICS OF THE PAST—THE
ASTONISHED MAGPIE AND UNKNOWN MUSIC—THE COSTUMES OF
THELEMARKEN—THE “HULDRE”—THE BEAUTIFUL TROLD—BERGE AND
THE MANGLETRÆ—MOGEN—THE PLOUGH, REIN HORNS, AND SNOW
SHOES—BOCKLEY AND PUKKINGS—BLACK-BROWN BEER—JAMSGAARD—A
NIGHT IN THE LAAVE—CAMP BEDS AND HAMMOCK—BOTTEN—NEW
ROAD-MAKING—WEIRD SCOTCH FIRS—A BLASTED FOREST 19

III.—HARDANGER.

HAUKELID—SLAUGHTER OF REINDEER IN A BOTTEN—THE BROKEN
BRIDGE—THE FORD—USEFUL OLD PONY—THE ASCENT—ROLDAL VALLEY
AND BRIDGE—THE LENSMAND—FLORA AND LONG TRAMP—DOUBLE SOLAR
RAINBOW—SNOW SHOES—GRÖNDAL AND DISTANT FOLGEFOND—ZIGZAG
ROAD—SELJESTAD—NO FOOD, BUT A GOOD PONY—GRÖNDAL
WATERFALLS—SANDEN VAND—THE LATE ARRIVAL AT ODDE 41

IV.—BERGEN AND ARCHÆOLOGY.

FROM ODDE DOWN SÖR FJORD—UTNE—HARDANGER FJORD—FAIRY
TROLDS—BJERG TROLDS—THE HULDRE—THE NÖKKEN—THE
NISSER—HAUGE FOLKET—TUFTI FOLKET—THE DRANGEN—CRACA, THE
WITCH OF NORWAY—OLAF KYRRE, THE NORSE KING—BERGEN—THE
HANSEATIC LEAGUE—THE GERMAN MERCHANTS—THE “PFEFFER
JUNKERS”—THE FISH FOLK OF BERGEN—THE MUSEUM—STRAX—THE
SILDE KONGE—NORWEGIAN WHALE SKELETONS—THE FLINT
PERIOD—BRONZE PERIOD—INHUMATION AND CINERATION—ROMAN
INFLUENCE—THE IRON PERIOD—ARCHÆOLOGICAL PERIODS IN NORWAY 53

V.—WEST COAST AND NORDFJORD.

COAST TRAVELLING—BERGEN HARBOUR—THE SCHOONER YACHT—SKAALS
OVERDONE—WEST COAST—STEENSUND—ALDEN—OUSEN AND
ITS GARDEN ROOFS—EN ROUTE FOR SANDE—DELIGHTFUL
STATION—GOOD FISH—JOLSTER VAND AND NEDRE VASENDEN—THE
ANXIOUS BATHER—PICTURESQUE CHURCH-GOING—NORWEGIAN
BLAKKEN—THE ACCIDENT—THE FRIENDLY TOILETTE—COSTUMES
AND BABY SWADDLING—SCARCITY OF FOOD—THE TENTMASTER
COOKING—NORDFJORD ANTIQUITIES—PROFESSOR WORSAAE AND
M. LORANGE—CONTENTS OF TUMULUS—THE VIKINGS’ GAME OF
“MYLLA”—UDVIG—THE BAD PASS FROM MOLDESTADT—SNOW POLES—THE
POSTMAN AND BIRCH BOUGHS—BIRTHDAY FESTIVITIES—FALEIDET—LYTH
FISHING—HAUGEN AND HORNINGDALSKRAKKEN—HELLESYLT—BELTS—THE
GEIRANGER FJORD—CAPTAIN DAHL—THE SEVEN SISTERS—THE VIKING’S
HEAD—THE PULPIT—MARAAK—STORFJORD 73

VI.—MOLDE AND ROMSDAL.

MOLDE—THE GOOD SHIP “TASSO”—STATLAND—AALESUND—MOLDE
LANDING—HERR BUCK—THE LOVE OF FLOWERS AT MOLDE—THE LEPER
HOUSE—MOLDE TO VEBLUNGSNÆS—THE BEAR AND THE PIGE—ROMSDAL
FJORD—AAK—THE RAUMA—THE OLD CHURCH OF GRYTEN—THE
CANDELABRA—HERR ONSUM—NÆSS—THE SKYD-GUT—THE SAIL WITH SEA
ROVERS—THE INEBRIATED BAKER OF WHITE BREAD—OLE LARSEN—THE
LAAVE—HERR LANDMARK AND THE HOTEL AT AAK—KJERULF THE
COMPOSER—THE ROMSDAL HORN—THE TROLTINDERNE—FIVA—THE
MEAL HOUSE—THE STEEN-SKREED—THE SOLGANG WIND—THE SHEEP
BOY AND GOAT HORN—SEA-FISHING—WOODWORK—CARRIOLES—HOW TO
CROSS A RIVER—OLD KYLE—MØLMEN CHURCH, AND THE SLEEPER’S
CURE—FLIES—SALMON-FISHING FROM A TINE 101

VII.—THE FJELD AND REINDEER.

OPENING DAY FOR REINDEER—AALESUND—AURORA
BOREALIS—INQUIRING FRIENDS—BERRY VARIETIES—TO THE
FJELD—NECESSARIES—REINDEER-FLOWERS—TO THE TENTS—THE
DOGGIES—DANJEL AND OLE—MØLMEN—THE ARRIVAL—OUR
CONCERT—PTARMIGAN—REINDEER SPÖR—TROUT-FISHING IN THE
VAND—GOOD SPORT—THE TENTMASTER’S STORY—PASSOP AND THE
STOR BUCK—SNOW-WORK—SÆTER LIFE—MARITZ’S LONELY STATE—HER
KINDLINESS—THE SWIZZLE-STICK—THE OLD BOAT—THE EAGLE AND
NEST—REINDEER AND RED DEER HEADS—THE DIFFICULTY OF GETTING
THEM—INDFJORD—OLE ERIKSON BOE—HALVE JACOBSEN—INGEBORG
AND THE STEEN-SKREED—INGRANA’S ACCOUNT—INGEBORG’S
FUNERAL—RUNICSTONE—GRAVE-BOARDS—ISTERDAL—THE
MEAL-MILL—OLD KYLE—A SIMPLE-MINDED COW—OLE
FIVA—AIGUILLES—VALDAL—THE SOURCE OF THE ISTER—EXPEDITION
TO A FROZEN LAKE 137

VIII.—CEREMONIES, WEDDINGS, ETC.

WEDDINGS—COSTUME—THE PROCESSION TO THE
CHURCH—THE BRIDE’S RETURN—MOTTOES—BETROTHAL
AND MARRIAGE—CONFIRMATION—FUNERALS THEIR “ONLY
ONE”—GRAVE-BOARD INSCRIPTIONS—HOME LIFE—ANTIPATHY
TO VENTILATION—NEW CURRENCY—GEOLOGY—VARIATIONS IN
TEMPERATURE—WATERFALLS—POPULATION—WOOD-CARVING—OLD SILVER 191

[Illustration]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE
THE MEAL MILL: ISTERDAL Frontispiece
THE COURTYARD, VICTORIA HOTEL, CHRISTIANIA 11
A TIMBER SHOOT 13
KONGSBERG: THELEMARKEN 23
HITTERDAL CHURCH: SUNDAY MORNING 27
FLATDAL: THELEMARKEN 31
JAMSGAARD LAAVE 37
THE WOODEN BRIDGE AT ROLDAL 43
SKJÆGGEDAL FOS 47
BERGEN 58
BERGEN: FISH MARKET IN THE DISTANCE 59
THE VILLAGE AND CHURCH OF ALVA 75
THE FRIENDLY TOILETTE 81
SANOE, LOOKING DOWN THE VALLEY 83
BRONZE BOWL, WITH ENAMEL CASE, SWORDS OF VIKING PERIOD: BERGEN
MUSEUM 84
THE POST ARRIVING AT UDVIG 87
HELLESYLT 96
THE GEIRANGER FJORD: SEVEN SISTERS FALL 97
VEBLUNGSNÆS: ROMSDAL 109
THE TROLTINDERNE BY MOONLIGHT 119
ROMSDAL SNOW 123
MAKING FOR THE FJORD 124
INTERIOR OF MØLMEN CHURCH 129
NEAR OVENDAL: AFTER REINDEER 145
THE STIGE-STEEN, OR LADDER ROCK 161
VOLDA 171
SYLTEBØ: WITH FARM IMPLEMENTS 172
LANDSLIP AT SYLBOTTEN: INDFJORD 179
RUNIC STONE, WITH INSCRIPTION, NEAR INDFJORD 180
THE GRAVESTED: INGEBORG’S FUNERAL, INDFJORD 181
THE HEAD OF THE VALLEY: ISTERDAL 185
A BRIDAL PARTY CROSSING THE FJORD 193
THE BRIDE’S RETURN BY WATER 194
RETURN FROM THE CHRISTENING 198
THEIR “ONLY ONE” 200

ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.

PAGE
Tyssestrængene Fos 3
Christiansand 7
Christiania 12
Hour Glasses 19
Norwegian Carved Lintels 20
Carved House in Thelemarken 21
Carved Houses, Bru, Thelemarken 22
The Raft Boat: Thelemarken 25
Porch at Hitterdal: Thelemarken 28
Chair in Hitterdal Church 29
Smoking the Cows: Thelemarken 36
The Mangletræ 37
Seljestad 42
Odde: Hardanger 44
Odde: Hardanger 46
Buerbræ Glacier 48
The Spring Dance: Hardanger 49
The Market: Bergen 54
Rosendal 55
Church Candlestand: Bergen Museum 62
Knife-stone on Bronze Belt: Bergen Museum 63
Hard Schist Implements: North Cape 64
Sword and Bracelet: Bergen Museum 65
Rowlock Knot of Birch-stones and Viking Rowlock 65
Sword Handle: Bergen Museum 66
Arrow Heads and Sword Handle: Bergen Museum 67
Ousen 76
The Island of Alden 77
Nordfjord Peasants 78
Norwegian Plough 80
The Lych Gate, Nordfjord 82
The Pass: Moldestadt 86
Postman and his Carriole 87
The Saw-Mill: Udvig 88
Faleidet: Nordfjord 89
The Olden River 90
Lyth Fishing 91
Haugen, near Hellesylt 94
The Horningdalskrakken, near Haugen 95
Breen-stok, or Bucket for Sharpening Stone 97
The Landing-place: Molde 102
Molde, from above the Town 103
Sea Warehouse: Molde 104
The Flower Market: Molde 105
The Churchyard: Molde 106
The Coast Inspector 108
Carriole crossing a River 111
Næss 112
Ole Larsen, our Shoemaker 114
The Farm at Aak 116
Meal House: Fiva, Romsdal 120
The Laave at Fiva: Romsdal 121
Rauma River Boat 122
Sheep Boy’s Horn 123
Shipping a Carriole 127
Grave-board, Mølmen Churchyard 128
A Norwegian Salmon Stage 131
Hardanger 132
Powder Flask, &c. 137
Snow Plough 139
Snow Pass: Thorbvu 142
After Sport 144
An Anxious Moment 145
Thorbvu: Encamping 146
Easing down the Patriarch 147
The Gralloch 148
Maritz Sæter 149
A Friend in Need 152
The Eagle’s Nest 153
Reindeer Head 154
Red Deer Head 155
Worm Box 159
Fresh Fish al Fresco 160
Casting 162
A Good Beginning 163
Wool Holder 166
Reeb Holder 168
Eikesdal 170
Looking across Indfjord 176
The Halt at Griseth 177
Spinning in the Sæter: Isterdal 184
Melting Glacier over Valdal 186
Church Axe 187
Bridal Crown 192
The Wedding 193
Drinking Horn 194
Before the Wedding 196
The Arrival at Home 197
Hitterdal Church 198
The Funeral: Bergen 199
The Stolkjær and Boat 200
Sledging 203
The Gentle Reproof 204
Stabur and Wooden Tankards 208
Costume of Lutheran Priest of Norway 210

I.
CHRISTIANSAND AND CHRISTIANIA.

[Dropcap caption: _Tyssestrængene Fos._]

For comparatively few years has Norway received any attention from
the travelling public. The beauty and grandeur of the country and the
simple habits of the people were known to but few, and only heard of
occasionally from some energetic salmon fisher who preferred outdoor
life, good sport, plain food, and vigorous health to the constant
whirl of advanced civilisation, busy cities, over-crowded _soirées_,
high-pressure dinners, and the general hurry-skurry of modern life.
The words “Gamle Norge,” or old Norway, while exciting the greatest
enthusiasm in Norway itself, rejoice the heart not only of many an
Englishman who has become practically acquainted with its charms,
but of those who, having heard of them, long to go and judge for
themselves. Nor is the expression of modern introduction; it was
evidently well known in the sixteenth century, as our immortal bard
alludes to it in _Hamlet_.

Forty-five years ago Norway and its salmon fisheries were unknown
luxuries. Even as late as 1839 Murray published a post-octavo Handbook
for Travellers in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden, in the preface to which
occur the subjoined passages:—

“The principal object of the following pages is to afford such of my
travelling countrymen as are disposed to quit the more beaten paths
of Southern Europe, and explore the less known, but equally romantic,
regions of the north, some useful information as to time and distance,
which at present they can only obtain by time and experience. Beyond
Hamburg all is unknown land; no guide-book contains any account of the
Baltic steamboats, still less of the means of travelling, either by
land or water, in the more distant lands of Norway and Sweden. At the
steam-packet offices in London you may learn that an English steamer
sails three times a month from Lubec to Stockholm, but no further
information can be obtained.

• • • • •

“Unless the weather is unusually stormy, and the passage of the
vessel has consequently been delayed, the steamer remains in the
outer harbour, called Klippen, for four or five hours; enabling the
passengers who are going straight to Norway to inspect the city,
which is well worth seeing. A miniature steamboat, the smallest I
have ever seen, conveys you from the quay, at which the larger vessel
remains moored, up the long harbour to the town itself, the journey
occupying about half-an-hour. In the afternoon the _Constitution_
continues her voyage, stretching much further out to sea, in crossing
the Skager Rack, until, at an early hour the next morning, you reach
Frederiksværn, the principal arsenal of Norway, situated at the
entrance of the winding fjord of Christiania. From this place a smaller
coasting steamboat conveys the passengers to Christiania, touching, in
its passage up the Christiania fjord, at the various small towns and
villages on either shore.

• • • • •

“Steam vessels have for the last two or three years plied between
Christiania and Frederiksværn and Bergen, but their times of leaving
have hitherto been very irregular; beyond Bergen I am not aware that
any regular communication has hitherto been projected.

• • • • •

“No traveller has any business to intrude among the mountain fastnesses
of Norway, unless he can not only endure a fair proportion of bodily
fatigue, but can likewise put up with accommodations of the coarsest
description. As far as Christiania this, of course, does not apply: the
transport thither is by a comfortable steamboat, and the Hôtel du Nord
sufficiently good to satisfy any man; but when you attempt to penetrate
into the bowels of the land the case is different.

• • • • •

“The Norsemen are strict Lutherans; scarcely an individual is to be
met with professing any other creed, and no place of worship of any
other kind exists in Norway. No Jew is allowed to set foot in Norway—a
strange law in this free country. It has often struck me as a curious
anomaly, that in the free cities of the Continent these unhappy
outcasts were far worse treated than under many despotic governments.
Commercial jealousy in a great measure accounts for this enmity in a
city of merchants, but in a poor and thinly-populated country like
Norway this motive could have no weight. I have been unable to learn
from what cause the exclusion originated, though it is said to have
originated from some idle fear that they would possess themselves of
the produce of the silver mines at Kongsberg; but it is certainly a
most startling fact that the freest people on earth should cling with
such watchful jealousy to one of the most illiberal and inhuman laws
that can be conceived.”

Soon after this our real sport-lovers began to discover the charms of
Norway, Sir Hyde Parker, Sir Richard Sutton, and Lionel James leading
the van; and within the space of forty years the transition has taken
place from free fishing and shooting to the Scotch system of letting
moors—a state of things that would astonish Forrester and Biddulph,
whose work on Norway has now become historical and of the greatest
interest. Forrester begins thus (A.D. 1834):—“Eight days in
the North Sea, beating against foul winds, or, which was still worse,
becalmed amongst fleets of Dutch fishing-boats, and ending in a regular
gale of wind, which was worst of all, prepared us to hail the sight
of land, and that of the coast of Norway.” This passage was made in a
little Norwegian schooner, bound from Gravesend to the south of Norway.

How different is it now! Thanks to Messrs. Wilson, steamers take us
thither almost to the hour, unless, indeed, the clerk of the weather
should connive with old Neptune to teach us a lesson, by reminding us
that the elements are not yet to be ordered about entirely as we like.
English visitors commenced about 1824; Lord Lothian, Lord Clanwilliam,
and Lord H. Kerr, 1827; Marquis of Hastings, 1829; and in 1830 we
have Elliott’s account of Norway. Those were early days, when the
_bönder_ were astonished, and could hardly believe their own eyes, when
Englishmen went down with a piece of thread and a kind of coach-whip
to kill a salmon of thirty pounds; or, again, when the first flying
shot opened a new world to them. Those were the times when members of
the Storthing (or Parliament) appeared in the costume of their own
district, with belts, tolle-knives, &c. They were not so eager to grasp
at civilisation as the Japanese, who simultaneously took to elastic
boots, tall black hats, and the English language within a year. No;
they are a contented people, with no desire for change, or to have it
thrust upon them, until they discover that they can make money of the
delighted foreigner, who, elevated by the grandeur of the mountain
scenery, grows more warm-hearted, kind, and generous than ever. Then
the Norseman becomes rabid and exacting; but the provinces (thank
Heaven!) still preserve their primitive simplicity.

Let us, then, hasten to these happy hunting-grounds. The fjeld life
will blow all the smoke out of us, and if we love nature we can store
up health and purity of thought, and bring back concentrated food for
happy reflection, should we be spared to a good old age. How such
reminiscences will then come out, brightened by the fact that all the
petty _désagréments_ of travel have been forgotten as they receded
in the past! We need not enlarge on the pleasures of anticipation,
the punctual meeting at the railway station, the satisfaction of
knowing that nothing has been omitted or left behind—a congratulation
sometimes a little blighted by the discovery that some one, after
ransacking everything, cannot find his breech-loader or cartridge
cases, or that some one else has left his pet “butchers” or “blue
doctors” on his dressing-table. Should such mischances occur, they
are soon dissipated in the general atmosphere of enjoyment and
anticipation, assisted by the thought that it is of no use losing
one’s temper, as it is sure to be found again, and the temporary loss
of it grieves one’s friends unnecessarily, to say nothing of personal
discomfort. Happy thought—always leave your ill-temper at home; or,
better still, do not have one: it is not a home comfort.

[Illustration: _Christiansand._]

The first port touched _en route_ for the capital of Norway is
Christiansand, which is snugly hidden in the extreme south of the
district of Sætersdalen—that land of eccentricity in costume and
quaintness of habitation, of short waists and long trousers reaching to
the shoulders, above which come the shallow, baby-looking jackets. With
what zest does one strain for the first peep at a seaport of a foreign
land! What value is attached to the earliest indication of varying
costume, or even a new form of chimney! The steamer from Hull generally
arrives at Christiansand on Sunday, when it is looking its neatest, the
white tower of the church shining over the wooden houses of the town,
the Norwegian shipping all in repose, with the exception, perhaps, of
the heavy, compressed, Noah’s ark kind of dumpy barges, or a customs’
gig containing some official. As we looked up at the church tower we
could not but wonder if we should hear, during our short visit, the
whistle of the “Vægter;” for tradition says that, for the protection
of the place, a watchman is always on the look-out, ready to give the
alarm should a fire break out in the town, which, being built almost
entirely of wood, would soon be reduced to a heap of ashes. But no; we
heard no whistle, not even a rehearsal. _On dit_ that for three hundred
years has the Vægter looked out afar, and no alarum has issued from the
tower. Christiansand has been mercifully preserved from fire, and long
may it be so!

During the passage over a friend told me of a Norwegian he once met
on board. He was a Christiansander. The Norseman was in high glee,
and, having entered into conversation with my friend, soon proposed a
_skaal_ (health). This achieved, the story of the Norseman began to
run rapidly off the reel, and it is so characteristic of the people
that we cannot do better than repeat it here. Born at Christiansand,
at the age of sixteen Lars became restless, wanted to see America, and
make his way in life, for which there was not much scope in the small
seaport. Lars’s father and mother were then living, with one daughter,
who would take care of them whilst he started for the battle-field
of life. He therefore determined to go. On his arrival in America he
had a terrible struggle for existence, there being so many emigrants
of all nations and classes. After patient endurance he began to get
on, and saved sufficient to go to Chicago and California. During this
time of trial how he thought about the chimes from the old white
tower, the Vægter, and the fair-haired sister he had left behind, and
wondered if all were well with the old people! At San Francisco he
did pretty well for some time; but hearing one day that at Yokohama,
in Japan, there was a good opening for a supply of butter (_smör_),
his Norske associations were aroused, and his thoughts ran back to
_sæters_, _piger_, cows, cream, and green pastures. That was the thing
for Lars. So off he started for Yokohama, and having established a
lucrative butter business, he determined to write home and send some
money to his father and mother. This was a great pleasure to the
kind-hearted fellow, while their answer assured him of the joy of those
whom he had left behind on hearing of his safety and success, and
receiving such a token of filial love. But the associations of home
and childhood are strong, and it was not long before he experienced
a desire to return. At length, however, he decided on developing the
butter trade still further, and then, having a good offer to go back
to San Francisco, he sold the whole business and good-will for a good
round sum, and started on a new career, which this time took the form
of brewing. How Norwegian! what national items!—butter (_smör_) and
ale (_öl_). Again Lars was successful, and derived much comfort from
the fact that he was thereby enabled to enhance the home happiness at
Christiansand. Happy the son who comforts a father! Happy the paternal
old age cherished by a son’s love! Beer, or rather ale, became the
basis of a lucrative business. Lars, however, speedily discovered that
bottled ale was the leading article to make the concern pay largely.
But bottles were the difficulty; they were expensive items, and not
manufactured in San Francisco. Lars often thought over this problem,
which his partner, likewise, was unable to solve. Luckily one evening
the good Norseman—he must have been indulging in a quiet pipe—had
a happy thought. While musing over his early days the bottle-makers
of Christiansand passed before him. He at once decided on making
arrangements for visiting the old seaport, and, having seen those
most dear to him on earth, to bring a bottle manufacturer back with
him, thus combining business with pleasure. This is the yarn he told
my friend, and when they entered the harbour poor Lars’s anxiety was
intense. He had telegraphed to say that he was coming, and expected
some one to meet and welcome him. During his absence he had heard
that his sister had married happily, and that the son-in-law was very
kind to his father; so Lars’s mind was set at rest. A boat neared the
steamer, in the stern-sheets of which sat an aged man, a fair-haired
Norseman rowing him. The old man was Lars’s father, who was soon on
deck looking round, but he could not see his boy. At last, however, he
spied him, and, throwing his arms round his neck, was fairly overcome
with joy. On recovering, the old gentleman began a good flow of Norske,
when poor Lars for the first time realised how long he had been away;
for, like the Claimant, he could not remember his native language, and
it was some time before either of them thought of landing. Meanwhile,
we heartily wish the good Lars increased success. May his bottles be
manufactured on the spot, and his good _öl_ cheer the heart without
muddling the brain!

When _we_ entered Christiansand _we_ also looked out for a boat; for
Hans Luther Jordhoy had come down from Gudbransdalen to meet us, and
was soon on board. A closely knit frame, fair beard, moderate stature,
and kindly eye—there stood our future companion before us. Our first
impressions were never disturbed; he had very good points, and has
afforded us many pleasing associations in connection with our visit to
Norge.

As we steamed out of the harbour of Christiansand we met a passenger
coast steamer coming in—one of those innumerable small screw steamers
which run in and out of every fjord from Cape Lindesnæs to the North
Cape. Are their names not written in _Norges Communicationer_, the
Norwegian _Bradshaw_? The kindly feeling of the Norwegians towards the
English was at once manifest, for no sooner did the brass band on board
the excursion boat recognise our nationality than it struck up “God
save the Queen.” We quite regretted that we had no band to return the
compliment, and the only thing left for us was to give them a hearty
cheer.

This done, we started on our run to Christiania, with comparatively
smooth water, a lovely evening, a prolonged _crepusculum_, and,
late in the evening, a sweet little French song, sung with the most
delightful simplicity by a lady. “Petites Fleurs des Bois” is indelibly
impressed on the mind of the Patriarch. When it afterwards became known
that we were indebted to an English bride for such a treat—which
it really was—the bachelors whispered “A happy bond of union!” but
considered, at the same time, that Norwegian travelling was scarcely
made on purpose for honeymooning. Take carrioles, for instance, or the
jolting _stolkjærre_, in which the bride might sometimes find herself
unceremoniously thrown into the lap of the bridegroom, or _vice versâ_.
No; unless the lady is familiar with the manners, customs, and petty
inconveniences attendant on travelling in Norway, that country will not
prove the happy hunting-ground for honeymoons.

[Illustration: _The Courtyard, Victoria Hotel, Christiania._]

The whole of the Christiania fjord is both grand and immense. A
decided flutter takes place on board when the town is in sight, and
preparations are made for disembarkation. Hans Luther had by this
time made a personal acquaintance with our luggage, and went to the
Custom House, whither we were soon sent for. Among our possessions
were discovered certain condiments and preserved provisions unknown to
the officials, one item especially—pea soup in powder. On our arrival
we suggested that the unusual product should be tasted. To this the
official at first demurred, but ultimately yielded. Unfortunately,
at the very moment of putting the powder to his lips, he drew a long
breath, which sent the dry powdered pea soup down the wrong way.
However, after a time he recovered, when doubtlessly he registered a
mental vow never, never again to taste any foreign importation.

We were soon at the Victoria Hotel, with its quaint courtyard, with
galleries running round it, excessively tame pigeons hopping and
perching on all sides, and a reindeer head nailed to the woodwork.
During the tourist season a large marquee is erected in the centre of
this courtyard for _tables d’hôte_ and extra meals. In the meantime we
hurried to our rooms, longing to be out in a boat for a general view of
the city. A few extras were, however, requisite before starting in real
earnest, amongst which were two rifle slings. These had to be made,
and are referred to here because they were the means of initiating us
into one of the customs of the place. The leather slings were well
made, but the price was most _tolky_ (exorbitant). This led to a mild
remonstrance, upon which the saddler wrote us a remarkable letter,
which it is a pity we cannot present _verbatim_. It was to the effect
that the saddler was happy to serve us well, but thinking we were
English gentlemen, he imagined we should prefer giving English prices.
However, if we merely wished to pay in accordance with the Norwegian
tariff, it would only be so much, which was precisely the amount we did
pay.

Christiania has a population of about seventy thousand, and owes
its modern appearance to the destruction of the old town by fire.
Nowadays the suburbs extend widely all round it, while to the westward
villas reach almost to Oscar’s Hall, an object of interest distinctly
visible both from the town and the fortress, being only about four
miles distant by land, and half that amount by water. The villa,
with its high tower, is the property of the King, and is rich in the
native talent of Tidemand, who was the national genre painter of his
day. There are magnificent views of the fjord, bay, and surrounding
mountains from all points, whether high or low, from the fortress or
from the Egeberg, from the tower of the church in the market-place,
or, farther off, from the Frogner Sæter and the Skougemsaas. For the
latter, however, a long day should be taken.

[Illustration: _Christiania._]

To visit Oscar’s Hall the most pleasant way is to take a boat and row
across. This was suggested by Hans, and we were glad to find that
he took kindly to boat work, as he came from Gudbransdalen, which
is inland. More pleased, however, were we to discover, when about
half-way across, that Hans was gradually bursting out into song,
singing in a clear voice one of Kjerulf’s sweetest compositions,
which we give in part at the end of the chapter. There is a plaintive
sweetness throughout it, and the beauty of the evening, coupled with
the surprise, caused us to anticipate many future repetitions, as
nothing, when travelling, is more humanising and soothing than vocal or
instrumental music.

[Illustration: _A Timber Shoot._]

The University, the Storthing, museums, and Mr. Bennett have already
been frequently described: still just one word. Every Englishman is
received by Mr. Bennett, who carries out his slightest wish. We only
called to see him, and get some _smaapenge_; for if we had not, no one
would have believed that we had been to Norway. Before the country
was well opened Mr. Bennett must have been of the greatest service to
visitors.

During our very short stay we had an excellent opportunity of judging
of the character of the people when collected in masses. There were
to be a great procession of guilds and all kinds of things at the New
Palace. These we attended, and very gratified we were to find how
orderly the good folk were; how quiet, and yet with what a sense of
comfortable enjoyment, if we may use the term; no excitement, but a
cheerful interest in all that was going on; no crushing, no rush of
roughs. If such were the case in large towns, we considered it augured
well for the provinces.

Between Christiania and Kongsberg much timber is seen wending its way
down to the fjord. An instance of a _timber jam_ after a shoot is
given in the accompanying illustration. Sometimes trees are torn away
at flood-time. The regular timber is duly marked and started, and at
certain periods of the year persons follow the course of the river for
the purpose of releasing the _jams_ and helping the timber on its way
to Drammen, where it is shipped for all parts of the world.

Little is said here of the cities of Christiania, Bergen, and
Trondhjem, as our path lies in the open, the fjeld life, _sæters_,
peasants, and sport. Our delight is to live out of the present century
in fresh air and simplicity, where trolds might cross our path, where
we might see the lovely Huldre, the beauty who had the unfortunate
appendage of a cow’s tail, which, when exposed to view, was the signal
for her to vanish into thin air, or where Odin and Thor had had great
_jagt_, and killed bears, elks, gluttons, and wolves. The scenes we
longed for were those in which pagan rites had been carried out with
all the grandeur of mighty warriors and priests worthy of Valhalla;
wherein Vikings, after deeds of valour, were laid low, and buried with
great solemnity and becoming pomp in their own war vessels, with their
treasure, their arms, and their hunting-gear about them, waiting for
the call to glory.

[Music: INGRIDS VISE.

RENDYR CHORUS.

Music by H. KJERULF. Words by BJØRNSON.

Og Ræ-ven laa under Birke-rod bortved Lyn-get, bortved
Lyn-get, og Haren hoppede paa lette Fod o-ver Lyn-get, o-ver
Lyn-get. “Det
er vel no-get til Sol-skins dag! det glitt-rer for og det
glitt-rer bag over Lyn-get, over Lyn-get!”]

II.
THELEMARKEN.

Thelemarken is a large district, lying in the south-east of Norway,
north of Sætersdalen, which is the most southern part of the kingdom.
It is characterized by forest, costume, and wood-carving, the latter
being applied on a large scale to the external decoration of houses,
and especially to the storehouse, which is always a separate building
of one story, and locally called the _stabur_. On the exterior of
this structure is lavished all the carving talent and energy of the
proprietor and his friends; while inside will be found good old
coffers, containing the silver and the tankards, the brooches and
the bridal crown, which is handed down from generation to generation
amongst the _bönder_, or farmers. A public parochial crown is sometimes
to be heard of, and may be seen at the lawyer’s, for that profession is
known in Norway; and, when litigation commences, it is impossible to
guess the time over which it may extend. But to return to wood-carving,
so important a feature in the dwellings of the inhabitants of this
part. A fine specimen of carved lintel, or side-post, is in existence
near Lysthus, displaying wonderful solidity, and a flowing Runic design
extremely difficult to copy. How was it originated? What was the
_motif_ of the design? After making a careful study of it, it appears
to be the result of “eyes”—generally associated without hooks—being
kept to themselves, and interlaced, one following the other. On trying
this, it was found to be practicable and most successful. Talking
over this glorious old work with the good housewife, she called her
husband, who went off to the _stabur_, and, quickly returning, told me
there was a very old and handsome pair of these lintels lying under
the “provision house,” and begged me to accept them in recollection of
my visit, and take them back to my own home, that they might give me
pleasure there. Great was my wish to accept them, but the difficulty of
transit soon flashed across my mind. Our route lay over the Haukelid,
with hours of snow—ponies sinking in, and perhaps through. So the
transit being impossible, I tendered my thanks for the kindly offer. It
was with much regret that I did so, but what could be done hundreds of
miles from home, and just starting over the roughest mountain tracts
to the north-west of Norway? Nothing but a grateful negative, and a
suggestion that they should be given to the next nice young couple who
were starting housekeeping. The principal carving, as we have already
observed, is lavished on the storehouses; and as soon as a loving
couple are engaged, the man begins to build his nest, with nothing much
but his axe for strong work and a knife for ornamentation. The latter
instrument is most adroitly used by the peasants, cutting all sweeping
curves, with the left-hand thumb used as a lever. The house-building
is characterized by large timbers squared, afterwards calked with
moss, and the ends crossing. As will be hereafter shown, the timbers
are generally numbered externally up to twelve, so that they may be
easily rebuilt should occasion arise to remove the house elsewhere.
Looking at these immense solid timbers, what a contrast they present to
modern work; how like their sturdy forefathers, who worked so solidly;
how unlike the feather-edged boarding of the new half-civilised houses
which are now being introduced near towns, and are flimsiness itself,
and only carpenter’s shoddy!

[Illustration: _Norwegian Carved Lintels._]

[Illustration: _Carved House in Thelemarken._]

Kongsberg is a city of rushing waters, or rather a small town; and
approaching it is suggestive of proximity to a seltzer-water bottle
with the cork partially out. The river rushes, splutters, fumes,
foams, and steams; huge sticks, fir poles, and stems battling their
way down the broken waters to Drammen, preparatory to their being
shipped for the warmer and drier sphere of civilisation and circular
saws. Some three English miles below Kongsberg is the Labro Fos, which
is very interesting, and well worth visiting, inasmuch as it affords
an admirable opportunity of seeing the timber shoot the Fos—large
fir-stems sometimes coming clean over the fall into the roar below.

[Illustration: _Carved Houses, Bru, Thelemarken._]

Kongsberg is a centre of interest, as close by are found the silver
mines which have for ages supplied the raw material for the _gamle
sölv_, such as silver crowns, belts, cups, tankards, and all the
endless variety of ornament for which Gamle Norge has been, and is,
so famous. However, we will not now enter into this subject, but will
merely mention that interesting specimens of this class of work are to
be found in England, souvenirs of travel which are highly prized by the
happy possessors and their friends also. The silver is not considered
very pure, but the old designs are very grand and admirable. The modern
specimens, and especially those in filigree, are far inferior, being
poor in design and unsubstantial.

[Illustration: _Kongsberg: Thelemarken._]

Forests are most typical of Thelemarken, and very suggestive of bears
in winter, a season much more severe here than in some other parts
of Norway, as the district is away east, beyond the influence of
the gulf-stream. It is a curious fact that directly an Englishman
arrives in Thelemarken everybody seems to have seen bears, or, to be
more precise, to have had visions of bears. That there are bears is
certain. A sport-loving Oxonian last year was disappointed of a bear
in the north, and, coming south on his return to shoot blackcock, had
lighted his pipe and was walking quietly back when he saw a bear! He
was seventy yards off, and had only one cartridge. He fired. Bruin,
falling back on his haunches, put out his “embracers,” and rushed
forward for the “hug,” when he gave a roll and fell backwards—dead.
He was a splendid beast, judging from the skin. What a trophy to bring
home! “What luck!” some said. On his return, the fortunate hunter—who,
by-the bye, was a week later than he should have been—heard the
momentous words from his dear parent, “Well, sir, where is the bear you
went out to shoot in Norway?” “Have you not seen it? It’s in the hall.”
“Oh, my dear boy, I am so delighted—so glad! Come, let us have the
skin up here. Send for mamma. This is capital!” How much nicer it is
to bring home a bear-skin than to have to say, “Didn’t shoot one!” Who
does not know what zest there always is in success?

The costume of the district is worn in every-day life, by the farmers
as well as the peasants; in fact, the farmers, or _bönder_, are very
proud of their dress. First and foremost is the typical white jacket,
with light blue facings and silver buttons; blue collars, blue pocket
flaps, with silver buttons also; the jacket turned well back, with a
light blue _revers_, as I think the ladies call it. But the great
characteristic of the jacket is not to be too long; the _ton_ only have
the back to come down just below the shoulder-blade; and, as the black
trousers rush up to meet the curtailed garment, one can imagine the
vast area of black trouser before arriving at the foot of the figure;
it really makes them all look out of drawing.

The women wear a chocolate-coloured handkerchief cleverly twisted round
the head and falling down the back, with the hair plaited; and well
they look with their fair hair and ribbons, their homespun or _vadmel_
petticoats closely kilt-plaited, old silver brooches and studs, and
sometimes silk handkerchiefs as aprons, with coloured cinctures, the
bodice with dark ground and flowers, crewel-worked, in relief. Near
Lysthus the costume is nearly all blue, a kind of short frock-coat,
with dark blue trouser-gaiters, embroidered up the side with yellow and
scarlet; but this is not a successful phase of costume.

On Sunday every variety is seen, and the additional interest of lake
travelling is met with—namely, the raft boats, consisting of seven
stems of trees, the longest in the middle, the six cut shorter, like
organ pipes; midships a seat for one; while the oars are tied in with
green birch twigs with the leaves on. How suggestive of early lake
habitation, and yet how like a modern outrigger; for there is only room
for one and a _fine_, or provision box, from which a Norwegian, male or
female, is inseparable.

The shortness of the jackets is shown in an illustration which
represents a custom peculiar to this part, namely, smoking the cows
(see p. 36). Many travellers have complained of the flies in Norway,
and now even Norwegian cows object to them, and the farm folk, in
kindly sympathy, make fires of juniper, the smoke of which is unwelcome
to the mosquitoes. Into this smoke the cows are only too glad to go,
and being well flavoured with juniper, are ready to start forth for the
day, regardless of their little winged enemies. We speak from practical
experience when we add that the traveller likewise will be rather
benefited by participating in the process.

Here, perhaps, it would be as well to refer to the hour-glass under
the initial letter at the commencement of the chapter. It is composed
of brass, and placed by the side of the pulpit, which is opposite
to the King’s pew or box in the church at Kongsberg. There are four
hour-glasses—quarter, half, three-quarters, and hour; so the domine,
or minister, turns the glass before commencing his discourse, and the
congregation knows how long he will continue. At Tönsberg there is a
curious mural historical souvenir, consisting of the top of a stool let
into the wall, on which may be read the following:—

“In the year 1589, being the 11th day of November, came the well-born
gentleman, Mr. Jacobus Stuart, King of Scotland: and the 25th Sunday
after Trinity, which was the 16th day of November, he sat on this stool
and heard a preaching from the 23rd Psalm, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’
Mr. David Lentz preached, and he preached between 10 and 12.”

[Illustration: _The Raft Boat: Thelemarken._]

This “well-born gentleman” was evidently James the First of England and
Sixth of Scotland, who married Anne of Denmark, sister of Christian IV.

Leaving Lysthus, we settled down for steady travelling in that most
delightful style, namely, with our tents and luggage, sometimes in
a _stolkjær_, or country cart, sometimes with ponies only. Such
independence, such health-giving enjoyment, can hardly be obtained
under different circumstances. The travellers in this case were three,
happily organized in the following manner. They might for the nonce
be called Brown, Jones, and Robinson, as a tribute of respect to the
originals in the “Primer or Spelling Book,” published in 1790, where
those now world-known names are first found associated. Let us rather
go with the times, and number them—a treatment now general in hotels,
both at home and abroad.

So, to commence, No. 1 was the youngest, and unanimously elected
Paymaster-general. Polyglot in his knowledge of languages, he shone
when asked to explain: then came such volleys of Norske, German,
Danish, Swedish, French, Italian, all in one flowing Norskey catena,
that, if people did not understand them, they felt they ought to,
and acted accordingly. All this was carried out with the dash of a
Zouave, and garnished with a profound knowledge of music and brilliant
execution on the piano. How we longed sometimes for a pocket piano! No.
1’s great _forte_ was enthusiasm for fishing—trout, salmon, greyling,
and split-cane fly-rods. Tradition says that he has often in his
sleep talked of “blue doctors,” “large butchers,” and “black doses,”
these sounds having been heard in the small hours of the morning
zephyring from his tent with nasal accompaniments; but he was always
equal to the occasion, even when some one had landed with the luggage
by mistake. “Never mind, my dear boy; sure to find it; most honest,
charming people, these Norwegians—never lose anything.” Such were the
comforting words which emanated from No. 1 when he understood that No.
3 had lost his luggage; but when he found that it was his own a change
came over the spirit of his dream. The polyglot vocabulary was soon
launched, the fire of the Zouave flared up, a carriole was ordered,
and the pursuit commenced, which happily ended in the recovery of the
wandering impedimenta, when Richard became himself again.

No. 2 was Tentmaster-general, and a sportsman to the core. Reindeer,
salmon, and Gamle Norge—these he had chronically on the brain,
mixed up with a great love of old tankards and a yearning for silver
belts and _gammelt sölv_. Once in his Norfolk jacket and knickers, _pua
de höie fjelde_, how happy was he! rejoicing in the _friske luft_,
mountain air, and snow peaks (_snebræer_), ready for any amount of
fatigue, and always willing to cook first and eat afterwards. A rare
good man was the Tentmaster.

[Illustration: _Hitterdal Church: Sunday Morning._]

No. 3 was generally known as “the Locust,” from his constant appetite
for all kinds of food, and general thirst for knowledge about
everything connected with Norway. Note-book in hand, he was ever
jotting down everything, even to catching mosquitoes between the leaves
of it, so as to bring home the real thing. Still No. 3 had an important
duty to perform. As the travellers were three, he was allowed the
casting vote—a most wholesome arrangement, as he was a married man,
and consequently likely to be useful in some weighty matters. Happily,
to the credit of No. 1 and No. 2, the exercise of No. 3’s prerogative
was never called for, and by the end of the trip was looked on as a
sinecure. Still he always travelled ready to apply “a touch of the
oil feather”—one of the best companions a traveller can have ready
to hand. May many such trios have a trip of such great yet simple
enjoyment, such health, and such pleasing diversion of thought! It is
a joy to fall back upon throughout life, and the longer the life the
greater the relish of recollection.

Hitterdal Church is one of the two wooden churches of which Norway
can boast, the other being that of Borgund. They are built of wood,
Byzantine-Gothic, _on dit_, but grotesque and pagodaist in form. The
old porches are grandly carved with serpents, dragons, and Runic
interlacings. The church itself at Hitterdal is nothing like so quaint
or picturesque as that at Borgund, neither is it so weird; still, its
early carving forms a noble monument to come down to us, and at once
draws forth the admiration, not only of the antiquarian, but of the
casual passer-by. The lintels at the entrance are especially beautiful.
The bell-tower is unusually detached, in this case being placed on
the other side of the highway. Unfortunately, time prevented a more
detailed sketch of the old chair or seat given on page 29: it stands in
the church by the altar, and is considered episcopal, but the date is
most likely _circa_ 900. What grand solidity of form! Vikingly to a
degree, and fit for Thor or Odin. There is a great air of majesty about
it.

The roof of the church is also of wood, carved in the same way as many
of the churches in Sussex, and covered with small wooden tiles, if
that term may be used to describe the process which in that county is
generally known as “shingling.”

[Illustration: _Porch at Hitterdal: Thelemarken._]

The churchyard is very interesting, and the grave-boards have a
peculiar form worthy of notice; for this reason one is introduced
here. The shape of the upper part is that of a cross, but below come
up two horns, rising right and left. These horns have a kind of anchor
form; and what could be a more appropriate emblem in a country so
sea-bound as Norge? The blending of Faith and Hope is, I think, most
poetically suggested. Can we do better here than pay a tribute of
respect to the beautiful simplicity of the religious character of the
Norwegian peasantry? Their love of God and their reverence for religion
are refreshing, and offer a good lesson to many who rejoice in mere
flourish of external worship. We shall have occasion to refer to the
curious anomaly of Roman Catholic vestments continued in the present
day in the Lutheran service, but allusion may now be made to the happy
link which exists between the ministers and people. This is shown in
the character of the sermons, the whole tone of which seems to aim at
binding the parish together in Christian love and sympathy, bearing
each other’s burdens, caring for one another, and curbing self—the
most difficult of all tasks, as it comes nearest home, and is in itself
so antagonistic to the inclinations of human nature. The whole climate
rather tends to develop this frame of mind: there is a certain sedate
expression throughout the provinces; the long darkness of winter,
extending its influence even into the continuous light of the northern
summer, brings every one into close and constant proximity, whilst the
mountains isolate the valleys one from the other without any access.
Still, when the summer comes and the whole energy of vegetation
bursts out at once, how their gladdened hearts rejoice! They pluck
these outbursts of beauty and revived nature, and joyously take them
to the house of God—no mere form or ritual, but the wholesome outcome
of heartfelt, unsophisticated joy and gratitude for brightness after
lengthened gloom and months of pent-up feeling.

[Illustration: _Chair in Hitterdal Church._]

Leaving Hitterdal, we were off in earnest for the Hardanger, with
a grand country before us. The first night we pulled up at Skeje.
Before coming to our resting-place at the end of the lake, we noticed
the saw-mills and corn-mills (seven, one above the other); not that
torrents are scarce in Norway, but in this valley there was employment.
Arrived at Skeje, our Tentmaster having selected his spot, tents were
pitched, and everything put ship-shape for the night. The only milk we
could get was goat’s milk, and _fladbröd_ in abundance. It is, perhaps,
superfluous to mention here that _fladbröd_ can be made very toothsome
by drying it before the fire: the peasants keep it in a state ready for
travelling, with the means of folding it up so as not to be shaken into
dust by the jolting of the _stolkjær_, which certainly would be the
case had it been fit for eating. The smoke of our fire had gone up, and
after our meal and a chat with our neighbours we turned in. A strange
dog came into the Patriarch’s tent, and eventually curled himself up
for the night, and, as a mark of gratitude for welcome, woke him in the
morning by licking his face.

Next day brought us on to Flatdal. Looking over that grand, deep
valley, we halted awhile at a picturesque wooden house: we asked
for milk, which was brought forthwith, and it was goat’s milk. The
daughter, as it was Saturday afternoon, was engaged plaiting her two
long tails ready for the morrow. The good mother had a very fine
antique silver brooch, and the proprietor one also on his shirt-front,
and after we had drunk our milk they showed us their rooms, which
were most interesting, and dated very far back; for traces of the
fact presented themselves on all sides, especially in the harness and
elaborately carved horse-collars, which bore the crest of a lion’s
head on an escutcheon—evidently belonging to the days of aristocratic
Norway.

[Illustration: _Flatdal: Thelemarken._]

We had bivouacked on a green lawn near the village, close to a house
which was a carriole station. Our three tents were a novelty, and our
cooking at last brought a crowd around us; but we must say that the
people were most kindly and considerate towards us. They had never seen
such a thing before, and hated _fanter_, tinkers, and gipsies, which
nearly included all wanderers in tents: such latter were we.

Next we inspected the _loom_, where a daughter was hard at work. There
were a fine old bed, with inscription, and many spinning-wheels, highly
coloured (green, red, and blue and white, with black). It is a pity an
illustration of this room cannot be given in colour. We descended into
the _dal_: the heat was intense, no air below, and a pandemonium of
flies. Bathing under the wheel of a mill was a temporary relief: our
torment was renewed at lunch. But we were out to enjoy ourselves; so
we did, in spite of mosquitoes. At lunch we cooked some of the trout
our chief had killed _en route_, which that day numbered thirty. We
were immensely amused here by noticing the very comic and inquiring
expression in a magpie while listening, for the first time probably,
to the English snore with which one of our party favoured us on this
occasion, putting his head first on one side and then on the other,
then taking a hop, and, when the music broke into a staccato bass
passage, hopping back still more interested, until it finally flew
off. Magpies are the sacred birds of the land, and are regarded as the
private property of his Satanic Majesty.

After a long day and a mid-day meal, during which we were devoured by
mosquitoes until nothing was left of us but our monograms, we arrived
late in the evening in front of a farmhouse at Sillejord. It was
Saturday night, and no room in the house, but an open space close by,
most inviting for tents. In the twinkling of an eye the Tentmaster
issued his order, each man had his tent laid out, and up they went
simultaneously, to the astonishment of the natives. Was it a sort of
fair, only read of in books? Was it the first germ of the great Russian
fair of Nijni Novgorod? Was it one of the lost tribes of Israel come
down from the clouds? Or were we Germans, who, having already annexed
Denmark, had just run on with a message from Prince Bismarck to say
that Norway also was annexed? No; the peasants rather looked on at a
respectful distance, with a certain openness of mouth and absence of
expression. By this time, the tents being up, beds laid, saddle-bags
in places, and guns hung on tent-pole with telescope, food had to be
thought of, and the canteen business looked after. The canteen was well
organized and an old traveller—almost self-acting; so accustomed to
the names of Fortnum and Mason’s tinned soups, &c., that the very words
“mock-turtle” made it burn and bristle up to a really good fire. That
night we had good lake trout; and how welcome, with our then appetites,
the mock-turtle! Three cheers for Fortnum and Mason! And then the
_mörbradsteg_! Some of our readers have never been introduced to those
satisfying and necessary pleasures of life; if not, let us explain.
_Mörbradsteg_ and other good things in tins come from Stavanger in
Norway, which is great in potted meats, _ryper_, tins of all kinds of
preserved things, soups, lobsters, &c., and these _mörbrader_. The
inquiring mind may ask, “But _mörbrader_—what is it? how made?” All
I can say is, that it was so good we thought we had no time to ask
what it was: perfect in flavour, solid in substance, very satisfying
to the most energetic of gastric juices, and wholesome. Three cheers,
therefore, for Stavanger! Then came wild strawberries, brought by dear
little children in costume, who had already begun to go through the
process of purification ready for Sunday, biscuits and Dutch cheese,
and a _skaal_ for Gamle Norge. After this we followed the suggestion of
the good motto, “Rest and be thankful,” and then some hunters’ songs.

The following day (Sunday) was a curious scene; everybody came to
look at us. All the characteristics of national costume, as worn in
Thelemarken, were in full force. Let us first describe the _piger_,
or girls. They wear very short petticoats, and most becoming and
picturesque they are; dark blue stockings with lovely clocks, and
buckles on their shoes; the apron is embroidered with what now would be
called crewel patterns of flowers; while a little below the waist is a
rich many-coloured girdle, ending in knobs of tassels of the brightest
colours. The top of the petticoat is bound with a bright colour, and
shown, as the scarlet jacket, which is frequent in this district, is as
short as the men’s, coming only a little below the shoulder-blades.
Tucked inside the girdle is generally seen a rich silk handkerchief,
and in some cases two. The head-dress is another silk handkerchief, and
into the tail of the back hair more colour is worked. On week days they
wear large gaiters, like cloth trousers, which certainly attracted our
attention when first seen.

Now for the lads of the village. They are not one tittle behind
the girls in the pains they take as to their points, especially
these—shortness of jacket, length of trouser, and brightness of
colour. At Dabord they all adopted the shaven cheek, upper lip, and
chin. The jacket is generally white, very short, as in Sætersdalen,
just coming below the shoulder-blades: this curious garment is turned
back at the cuffs and _revers_ with light blue, the effect being
heightened by silver buttons. The trousers are very curious—a fact
necessitated by the shortness of the superstructure. The expanse of
back is prodigious from the shoulder-blades downwards, they are wide in
the leg, and generally have a stripe down the side. The short coatee
affords a grand display of tolle-knives, the handles of which, in this
part, are generally made of _lom_ (maple), smooth, and uncarved, and
deep in the sheath. In most cases they are suspended from a button, and
not from a belt; in fact, belts are not of very frequent occurrence
here. Skull-caps and hats are worn by the men, and the richest farmers
maintain the national costume of the district. In some few instances
for weddings the white jacket is daintily touched up with a little
worked flower here and there on the edge and corner, which gives great
finish. The clocks on the men’s stockings are very rich: these are worn
on fête days with breeches, which are worked in red and white round
the buttons and up the seams. The garters are always objects of great
taste and careful arrangement. It is when the holiday costumes are worn
that the beautiful and mysterious Huldre appears, generally frequenting
the mountains and forests, but sometimes joining in the festive dances
of the mountaineers. When she vouchsafes this favour every young
_bonde_ is eager to dance with her—the handsome strange girl with the
blue petticoat, and white handkerchief over her head. Tradition does
not enlighten us much about this beauty, and the story of her sudden
disappearance immediately her cow-tail is discovered is cruel. Why
does she come to Thelemarken, where the skirts are so short, sometimes
only reaching the knee? If she be so fond of dancing, why not frequent
country balls? Or she would be safer with a train of the present
fashion; even if that were trodden on, her tail would be safe. Having
noticed the general costume, let us enjoy the day of rest.

The brightness of the morning favoured our _al fresco_ toilets, and
one of our party (who carried a dressing-case full of wonderful
things, and generally known in the list of impedimenta as “Somebody’s
luggage”) became the centre of attraction. In front of his tent were
laid out a waterproof sheet and a saddle-bag, partially opened and
supported at the back; the latter sustained the looking-glass, in
front of which knelt a figure shaving (No. 1). Now, although the
Norwegians shave almost universally, there was something about our
friend’s manipulations which took the fancy of all present. The girls
giggled; the short ones tried to peep between the tall ones. Why? Did
the performer pull his own nose to a greater length than usual in this
country when he took the long sweep down his cheek? Hardly. The fact
was, the good folk thought the whole thing was but an overture to
some other performance, and that the dressing-case, with its numerous
silver-topped glass bottles, contained all kinds of medicines, panaceas
for everything—cures for gout, sciatica, tic douloureux, trichinæ
spirales, hypochondria, dipsomania, and every other mania.

After the shaving came a pause. A fortunate inquiry for old silver
ornaments now changed the whole scene, and for the rest of the day, at
intervals, the _penates_ of the neighbourhood were being brought for
our edification. Some of the old brooches were remarkably beautiful;
the rings were very characteristic, some having small pendant rings,
some with the usual cup ornaments; and when it was discovered that much
interest was taken in old costumes, we had really a treat—embroideries
on _vanter_, or winter gloves without fingers, eider-down cloaks,
swaddling-bands, babies’ caps, worked aprons, the open-work at the
lower part being admirable in design. A wish was expressed to see a
baby ready swaddled for baptism. Unhappily, there was no such thing
to be had within miles upon miles; but rather than “the Locust”
should be disappointed, these good people dressed up a woollen one,
which answered every purpose, and was considered a great success.
The kindness of the people was very striking; a certain shy curiosity
characterized their movements at first, but they soon settled down
to taking every possible pains to oblige us and meet our wants. It
seemed very odd, however, to see a church so near, and yet no service.
How was it, when we saw almost enough people to form a congregation?
It happened thus. The _præstegaard_, or clergyman’s house, is at the
central church, which often has two or three _annexer_—small churches,
each eighteen or twenty miles from the principal one; the services,
therefore, are only held about every third Sunday in each church.
Well educated, well read, and, much like the old fathers, revered
and well beloved by their flocks, the clergy lead a hard life. The
vast extent of their parishes or districts is very trying to their
health, necessitating long drives, and in winter much severe sledge
work; while on the coast there is such boat work that the minister and
doctor of the locality seem more like “old salts” than members of those
professions. I remember particularly one clergyman, whose _annex_ was
on a group of islands off the coast. As the steamer passed she swung
round a point, when a boat came off to us, with a grand figure standing
up steering her. From beneath an old sou’-wester streamed his white
hair, grandly blown back, and he wore silver spectacles, large muffler
round his throat, oilskin coat and trousers, and long sea boots. As
the boat neared the steamer and was turned to the gangway, a sailor
on board said, “Now, sir, you’ll see one of the fine old sort; this,
sir, is the priest, and not a better seaman will you find all along
the coast—nor a better man.” No wonder religion takes so simple and
earnest a form when its exponents practically exemplify, in their
every-day life, its sublime teachings with a simplicity, energy, and
dignity far beyond the conception of those working in densely populated
districts; for the priest, although but an occasional visitor to some
parts, is a source of comfort and sympathy to all in their trouble, and
enters with the greatest interest into their rejoicings and pleasures,
whether they be public or domestic. In this way their relations with
their flocks are most “good shepherd-like,” and their constant care and
solicitude for their parishioners rivet the love and confidence of
all around them. No doubt these relations are materially assisted by
the tolerably equal distribution of this world’s goods in spots remote
from busy towns; or rather, to speak more correctly, by the absence
of wealth and the even-manneredness of all such Norwegian residents.
Any stranger visiting Norway will be struck with the large Elizabethan
frill worn by the priest, which, with the sombre black gown, and the
two candlesticks constantly kept on the altar ready to be lighted on
three occasions—generally Christmas, the end of the forty days, and
Easter—imparts a very mediæval character to the service. All that we
have here said of the relations of the clergy with their congregations
is abundantly confirmed by the homely way in which the former give
out the notices from the altar as to the working of the parish or
the schools, or any extra communion, when requested by any of the
parishioners.

[Illustration: _Smoking the Cows: Thelemarken._]

[Illustration: _Jamsgaard Laave._]

Going to Berge from Sillejord, we had torrents of rain—a deluge: we
now approached higher ground and a blacker country. Snow ploughs on the
side of the road told tales of wintry difficulty of transit, while
sledges were round most of the houses. Arrived at the station, we
found one small bedroom with strong store-closet atmosphere, game lost,
&c. In the _vand_ are perch; in the river, greyling. The hunter and
_bonde_ here was building a large room, which, though still unfinished,
we decided to sleep in. We soon had a roaring fire; the beds were made,
the Patriarch slinging his hammock under a huge carpenter’s bench;
then came the cooking, followed by a few songs; and finally stories of
bears, wolves, wild cats, and lynxes from the _bonde_. There was a very
fine old _mangletræ_ here, two feet long. So peculiar an instrument
of Norwegian household necessity is deserving of explanation: it is
two feet long and four inches wide: B represents the things
to be mangled; C the roller; the right hand of the mangler
takes hold of the lion at D, and the left hand on A
balances the _mangletræ_, which is worked backwards and forwards until
the things are done. _Mem._—Last night reindeer were seen above here;
and at the _vand_, high over this place, the _bonde_ had seen a glutton
after a wounded or sick reindeer. The chief brought in three trout for
breakfast. Now the real life was bursting on us. How we drank in the
stories of the hunter, rising in the morning to delight in the health
and beauties about us!

[Illustration]

At Mogen we found more signs of winter—sledges abundant, and one
pigsty kind of hut surmounted by a wonderful group: snow shoes, old
reindeer horns and heads, sledges, and a plough.[1] This is primitive;
but it is not all: there were the old querns, or _haandkværn_. In spite
of this we had not shaken the influence of travelling civilisation;
the _bonde_ asked us if we would like some “Bockley and Pukking’s
black-brown beer.” Certainly. “Men hvor meget?” Two and sixpence per
bottle: it had been left by an Englishman. Eheu, what an anomaly!

[1] The iron of this plough is exactly the same as the hand-plough, or
“casarhome,” used in the Western Highlands, and now fast disappearing.

JAMSGAARD.—This was such an evening: north wind strong, bad
for tents; large lawn discovered, camp inside; camp beds fitted up,
cooking outside. The hammock was slung. How the north wind whistled,
until we barricaded that side with hay! Then we all slept. In the
morning we were to start early, and the perfect dignity with which the
page entered the dormitory, with coffee for all, was truly a picture.
We got a very good pony here, a true _bakken_, with black-centred hog
mane, and zebra-marked legs, and started in lovely weather by the
crystally clear Totak Vand, where we saw a large white owl; then to the
larger Toftland, and on to Botten. We are now in snow-shoe land, with
spills of birch-wood for pipes, and more mills, one over the other,
for grinding. Grouge Kirk was interesting; and we saw a woman rowing
over with homespun, to be sent to some commercial centre. Starting
in a _stolkjær_, Botten is a good high-latitude station: bleak to a
degree. The snow was close to the house, but within all one could wish:
preserved meat, reindeer flesh, port wine, but no white bread; looms,
spinning-wheels, snow shoes; many old ale bowls, saddles, carved boxes;
and, at one end of the barn, boughs of trees brought up from the _dal_
for the magpies to build in; at the other end a bunch of wheat, also
brought up and placed on a pole for the birds. After leaving Botten we
started for Haukelid Sæter, and found the men working on a new road
to the Hardanger. As they progress, large monoliths are put up at
intervals with the date of construction, and sometimes the elevation
above the sea; here it is 2,800 feet, and at this point very large
Scotch firs are found in skeleton state, monuments of a past period of
giants.

III.
HARDANGER.

The Haukelid Sæter is 3,500 feet above the sea. Here we had the
pleasure of meeting the Norwegian engineer of the road, and in the
_vand_ below were floating masses of ice. In the morning the _vand_ was
frozen (July 15), so that we could not cross in a boat, but had to go
round. Near this was the scene of a reindeer slaughter by natives: they
had a Remington breech-loading rifle; drove a herd into a _botten_, or
_cul-de-sac_, and shot forty in six days—nine in one day; but we shall
refer to this later on. On our journey we found the bridge carried
away, and had to ford, which was great fun. We sent a knowing old pony
over first. How we enjoyed it—one might have taken us for schoolboys
out for a holiday—in and out of the water! One poor pony, however, did
not find it agree with him, the ice-water was so cold, and for a time
he was very bad indeed.

Once more in the flat of the valley, it seemed like old times, and we
thought a hearty meal at Seljestad would do us good. In the latter
respect, however, we were doomed to disappointment, meeting with
nothing but picturesqueness and some costume, in which red bodices
were conspicuous; so we had to fall back on potted meats and biscuits.
Whilst waiting we saw some peasants _en route_ for their _sæter_, with
all their milk apparatus. The only good thing we got was a pony—a
beauty—to go down this grand valley, and drive, one may say, through
the Laathe Fos. At this point there are three falls in view of each
other—Laathe Fos, Espeland Fos, and Hildal Fos. This we enjoyed, and
late at night, or rather early in the morning—for it was one o’clock
when we got into the boat to go down the Sanden Vand and row to
Odde—having had such a good day, we sang “God save the Queen” and many
songs about Rensdyr, Jagt, Norwegian love, “det kjære Hjem,” &c.

In the morning we arose, and before breakfast read the following
encouraging entry in the Dagbog:—“Wel Satisfed everything is good
order;” and so we found it.

[Illustration: _Seljestad._]

Roldal itself is very beautiful. Our guide (Knut) returned to Haukelid,
and next morning we left the lensmand’s house for a very long day,
hoping, if possible, to reach Odde. At Hore we could only obtain some
sour milk, and then started over the snow for Seljestad, when we
noticed an old _bonde_ preparing barley for brewing, assisted by his
wife, with a scarlet body to her jacket. About two P.M. we
saw a grand effect of double solar rainbow—blue sky, no cloud.
The sky between the inner and outer circles, which were complete, was
deep lavender. This was seen from the head of the pass, above 3,500
feet, with snow all round us. As we came down we cut our road, and
after lunch, on arriving at the outburst of snow-water, we were all
wild enough to bathe in it. However, we were none the worse, but, on
the contrary, much the better for it. Soon after we came on one of the
grandest bursts in Norway; a deep zigzag went down below us; and we
looked upon the Gröndal, which is immense, and at the end of which lies
the vast expanse of the Folgefond. We now began our descent, and worked
along the valley. The curious part of the fording was this—that the
old pony, having taken one man and baggage over, came back by himself,
so that the “aspirants” might swim over without any load. After this
we had a long ascent and heavy drag, beneath a scorching sun, over
the snow, so much of which had not been known for years, to a tiny
Ligaret _sæter_. The best thing to counteract the sun’s influence is a
sou’-wester hind side before.

[Illustration: _Wooden Bridge at Roldal._]

“Rein” were seen here. Later on, at an altitude of 4,000 feet on a
bare rock, we partook of dinner, icing our claret _au naturel_ in the
snow. Soon afterwards we began our descent, and, on leaving the snow,
found a young girl goatherd with a little bit of costume, showing that
she belonged to Roldal—viz. a dark blue cloth cap, with yellow-orange
border. Then we passed a hunters’ hole or hut, and again forded;
finally coming, late in the evening, to a spot particularly mentioned
by Forrester and greatly admired by us—the old bridge, with torrent
roaring beneath, and the distant lake at our feet. We all paused, lay
down, and murmured with delight over the beauties of the spot. Now that
we had arrived at vegetation, we put leaves inside our caps, and longed
for glycerine for our faces.

Norway is grand, picturesque, wild, and bold, its principal features
being the long arms of the sea running inland for many miles, sea-water
dashing against the most precipitous façades of rocks, and the
snow-water, in many instances, coming down from the high ranges, and
falling straight into the sea itself. These arms of the sea are called
_fjords_, and two are especially grand and of immense expanse—the
Sogne fjord (the larger) and the Hardanger: both of them are rich in
snow-scapes and waterfalls. The Hardanger is the richer of the two in
the matter of waterfalls, having two to boast of—the Vöring Fos and
the Skjæggedal Fos, sometimes called the Ringedal Fos, as falling into
the Ringedal Vand. The Vöring Fos, which is approached from Vik, is
better known than the latter, which is more grand in form and power:
to reach it one should stop at the end of the fjord. The difficulty
of access and roughness of road have prevented many from making the
attempt; still it is well worth any passing discomfort or fatigue to
have the privilege of communing with nature under such a combination of
circumstances.

[Illustration: _Odde: Hardanger._]

Arrived at Odde, arrangements must be made to remain at least three or
four days, so as to visit the following most interesting localities:—

1. Skjæggedal Fos.
2. Buerbræ Glacier.
3. Folgefond.
4. Gröndal Laathe Fos, and other fosses.

The immense extent of the snow-fields of the Folgefond should not
be missed, and for these a day not too bright should be specially
selected; for pleasant as fine cloudless weather undoubtedly is, still
nature is not always seen to the greatest advantage in it, and more
particularly in mountain scenery, where mist and broken cloud relieve
the various peaks, detach them one from the other by the most delicate
films, and impart grandeur, endless variety, and size, draping the
peaks with mystery and majesty. What a delightful sensation is that of
rising on a fine fresh morning, with the early mist waiting its bidding
to rise, and the anticipation of a glorious excursion in a mountainous
country before one! Now for the fos.

The village of Odde, our starting-place, with its simple church, a
station for carrioles and boats, its few wooden houses, kind simple
people, and one lazy-looking sailing craft, or _jægt_, is fortunate in
having a young guide, who, following in the steps of his father, has by
his many good qualities influenced numerous people to visit this most
excellent place; and all who have been there once seem to wish to go
again. Our arrival from the Haukelid route, coming down the Gröndal,
was late; in fact, about two A.M. Leaving the lake above Odde,
we first caught sight of the Hardanger fjord, with the village lying
below, the church in strong relief, and its few buildings against the
bright water. One felt greatly inclined to sit and muse over such a
scene, so calm, so peaceful, so solemn, so silent, for no singing
birds ever chirrup in this northern land, and their absence is most
noticeable.

Early in the morning we are up, and, with every promise of fine
weather and comfort from our “nosebags” (most necessary items for this
travelling), we start for the Skjæggedal, an excursion which should
take fourteen hours to do comfortably. What enjoyment can there be,
what satisfaction, what knowledge gained in a strange country, if one
flies through it as if in training for some event or actually engaged
in athletic sports? The start is made from Odde down the lake to
Tyssedal, about an hour’s row on the fjord. Soon is seen a white line
running out from the shore, the boat is caught by the stream and swung
round, and we near the land in the backwater. This is the exit of the
snow-water from the fos into the sea-water of the fjord.

[Illustration: _Odde: Hardanger._]

Now to begin three hours’ good steady walking up, up, up through
pine woods, with boot soles polished by slippery needles, now and
then ledges of rocks, and ofttimes a shelving sweep of smooth rocks,
dangerous for most people, ticklish for every one, especially should
they have any tendency to giddiness. In some parts logs have been laid
in the fissures, and in one place a kind of all-fours ladder; still
all enjoy it, and glory in the freshness of the trip. After this tough
walk the upper valley is reached, and the farm, “Skjæggedal Gaard,”
is in sight. Here we found milk and coffee; the homestead, so lonely
in winter, now bright in summer light, with peasant farm folk quite
out of the world, and a singing guide; but even Danjel, with his eagle
profile, is not always inclined to sing his best. Perhaps he is
aware of the report that the priest, having heard that Danjel had
fallen in love, had forbidden the banns, simply on the score of his too
strong resemblance to the feathery tribe just mentioned.

[Illustration: _Skjæggedal Fos._]

Leaving the farm, we go down to the boathouse, covered with huge
slabs of stone to prevent it being blown away by the wintry winds,
and enter the boat to cross the river at the foot of the fos from the
Ringedal Vand. Once over, we are soon at the Ringedal Lake, which is
all snow-water, most crystally clear, and containing no fish, no life,
on account of its extremely low temperature. On the left of the lake
is seen high up the Tyssestrængene Fos, as shown under the initial
letter of our opening chapter. Near the foot of this we stop to go
up and see the bear self-shooter, or trap, where Bruin, it is hoped,
may run against a wire which fires two barrels heavily charged—a bad
look-out in the future for tourists who eschew guides, as this is
the only accessible road. At the back is the immense snow expanse of
the Folgefond, and in front of us we hear a distant roaring thud of
continuous waters—our “fall.” Rounding a point, we look up and see
it. The best time is when the snow-water is in full spate; then it is
truly majestic. The whole air seems whirled round in eddies; the water
comes shooting and leaping over, falling in inverted rocket forms,
half breaking on a ledge of rocks; the foam, the roar, the vast spray,
everything is soaked and dripping—the energy of nature in a most
sublime form, the Skjæggedal Fos itself. We were loath to leave the
spot, but started off a little taciturn from the impression the scene
had made on us, and safely returned to receive the kind hospitality of
our friends at Odde, and next to visit the Buerbræ Glacier.

This glacier has especial interest for all lovers of nature, from the
fact of its being not only a new formation or creation, but being
still in process of development. It is caused by the immense pressure
of the large snow-fields above in the Folgefond, which bodily weigh
and force down the ice into the valley. Our good friend Tollefson,
father of the young guide previously mentioned, was born in the valley
where the glacier is now gradually carrying all before it. Fifty years
ago, he told me, there were no symptoms of ice; gradually it formed
and advanced—in 1870, ninety yards; in 1871, four yards in one week;
and in 1874 a still more rapid progress. When we were there the front
ice was just ploughing up a large rock and pushing it over; on either
side the rocks are steep; and throughout the colour of the ice is very
beautiful, rivalling the hues of the Rosenlain Grindelwald. Where will
this glacier end? Most likely it will drive steadily on to the lake
above Odde. Who can tell?

At the farm was seen a beautiful piece of carving, in the form of a
salt-box, very old, but well worth preserving. We shall give some
specimens of native work further on.

[Illustration: _Buerbræ Glacier._]

The costume of this district is very striking and characteristic, the
chief feature being the head-dress, or cap, called in Norske _skaut_.
It is formed of white muslin crimped, the hair hidden by the white band
over the forehead, the cap rising in a semicircle above the head, while
the corners fall down the back in a point nearly to the waist; white
linen sleeves, with scarlet body bound with black velvet; the stomacher
worked in different coloured beads and bugles; the chemisette fastened
with old silver brooches; and the collar joined either by a stud or
brooch. The apron is equally picturesque. Like the cap, it is of white
muslin, with three rows of open insertion-work on a pink ground, which
is generally well thrown up by a dark petticoat, so that the whole
costume produces a very striking effect.

[Illustration: _The Spring Dance: Hardanger._]

These costumes were pleasingly brought together one evening when we
were invited by Svend Tollefson to a little dance at his mother’s
house. The father and mother sat together, whilst the younger folk
were either standing or sitting round. The fiddler was grand both in
action and eccentricity, with tremendous catgut fire, a few involuntary
notes trespassing now and then, and producing a stirring effect on the
dancers. The young Svend, evidently a favourite with the youth and
beauty of Odde, was continuous in his dancing, principally the Spring
Dance—a waltz in which it is most desirable that the swain should be
taller than the maiden, for the former, holding her hand over her head,
has to run round the latter as she waltzes. The Halling Dance, in which
the performer jumps a great height into the air, was attempted out of
doors, but hardly with success. After each dance the guests partook
of wine, and on this occasion we had some _gammel fiin hvid portvün_
(fine old white port wine). The politeness of the Norwegians is most
noticeable. After taking wine there was a constant shaking of hands,
while the host was profusely thanked by, “Tak for vün,” or “Tak for
mad,” the charm of which is considerably enhanced by the fact that
these simple-hearted people mean what they say.

IV.
BERGEN AND ARCHÆOLOGY.

FROM ODDE DOWN SÖR FJORD—UTNE—HARDANGER FJORD—FAIRY
TROLDS—BJERG TROLDS—THE HULDRE—THE NÖKKEN—THE NISSER—HAUGE
FOLKET—TUFTI FOLKET—THE DRANGEN—CRACA, THE WITCH OF
NORWAY—OLAF KYRRE, THE NORSE KING—BERGEN—THE HANSEATIC
LEAGUE—THE GERMAN MERCHANTS—THE “PFEFFER JUNKERS”—THE FISH
FOLK OF BERGEN—THE MUSEUM—STRAX—THE SILDE KONGE—NORWEGIAN
WHALE SKELETONS—THE FLINT PERIOD—BRONZE PERIOD—INHUMATION
AND CINERATION—ROMAN INFLUENCE—THE IRON PERIOD—ARCHÆOLOGICAL
PERIODS IN NORWAY.

Odde is situated at the most southern point of the Sör fjord—the last
inland effort of the Hardanger; and we left it with regret, although we
knew there was a new world before us in sea-coast experiences: the most
bracing sea air, together with the excitement of putting into all kinds
of out-of-the-way villages nestling behind headlands and huge bastions
of gneiss, to protect them from the furious gales which lash this coast
from the south-west. We therefore laid ourselves out for thorough
enjoyment of steamboat travelling, aided all down the Hardanger by the
clearest and most lovely weather. We proceeded down the Sör fjord, _en
route_ to Eide, the boats coming off to the steamer at Utne. Some of
the costumes were most brilliant in colour. One bright green bodice,
the edging of which was blended with other colours, bore the palm, and
everything bespoke joy save the face of the poor girl who wore it.
She had come to see a brother start for America, and to wish him “God
speed.” Then away we went from Eide down the Hardanger to Rosendal,
under the Folgefond. We had looked forward to visiting Rosendal, as the
last château of Norway. Unfortunately there was not sufficient time
to land. Sometimes, late in the season, the steamers visit outlying
spots for cargo, and then much may be seen, as, for instance, when
the Bergen steamer calls at the sulphur mines of Varalsoe. On one of
these occasions we not only had the opportunity of going up to the
mines, but through them, as five hundred tons of ore were being shipped
for England. Some people find the steamer journey wearying: there is,
however, so much information to be gathered from those who come on
board, generally for short distances, that the local details are always
worth inquiring into.

[Illustration: _The Market: Bergen._]

The whole of the Hardanger is grand and impressive, the Folgefond, with
its immensity of snow-spread, being the chief attraction. The peace of
fine weather makes one almost incredulous of what it is when winter
storms tear up the fjord, and the now unrippled surface is lashed into
a fury which defies the stoutest hearts and boats.

We are nearing Bergen, and there is a flutter on board as the town
first opens to view—_mirabile dictu_, without rain. On the port side
is a fort, and apparently there are fortifications on the starboard bow
too. At last we enter the town.

[Illustration: _Rosendal._]

NORWEGIAN FAIRY AND SPIRIT LORE.

Before travelling farther we shall do well to prepare ourselves for any
unexpected apparitions, should such be our good fortune. Let us then
review their varieties, as we hear them described by some who believe
they have seen them. They may be classified as follows:—

The _Trold_, or _Eventyr Trold_—_eventyr_ meaning “fairy tale”—is
more frequently introduced into fairy tales than met by tourists, or
even sportsmen: it is very shy of foreigners. This particular class
is distinguished by having one, two, or three eyes, and sometimes one,
three, six, or nine heads—a sort of giant, wild man, or inland Caliban
of eighteen feet high.

[Music]

The _Bjerg Trold_, as the name suggests, frequents the mountains, and
belongs to the same class as the former, though smaller, attaining a
height of only twelve feet; in fact, it is a medium male ogre.

_The Huldre._—This is a great fairy-tale mystery—the refined beauty
in peasant Hardanger costume, who sometimes appears—as mentioned in
our notes on Thelemarken—at dances and festivities, turning the heads
of all the beaux of the evening until, in some swing of the spring
dance, her dread cow-tail is revealed, when she vanishes as the music
of D. T. A. Tellefsen suggests, leaving many broken hearts behind her.

_Nökken._—Water sprites, generally depicted with Neptune crowns, grey
beards, and seaweed garments.

_Nisser._—These are the mischievous little rascals who are always up
to tricks here, there, and everywhere, and are closely allied to the
sprites known in the Romsdal fjelds as the Höboken. These latter are
seriously spoken of as existing, and having blue heads; and while up at
the _sæters_ a spare place inside is invariably left for them by the
_piger_. The Nisser are depicted with grey clothes, long beards, short
bodies, and red caps; the shortness of the body recalling to our minds
a remark of days gone by, “Perhaps Mr. Nobody did it.”

_Hauge folket_ are a combination of Huldre and Nisser.

_Tufti folket_ are a peculiar variety of Nisser.

_Drangen_ are the ghosts or spirits of drowned persons.

Having classified these mystic folk, we can only hope that the
information we have culled from authentic and local sources will not
only help those who have already read Norwegian legends, but give a
zest to those that may be forthcoming in future translations. Those
interested in early witches will find details of Craca, the witch
of Norway, in Olaus Magnus, “De Gentibus Septentrionalibus,” a work
probably well known to our immortal bard Shakspere, as Craca was great
in using “venomous moisture of snakes.” A caldron, too, was the common
instrument of witches, wherein they boiled juices, herbs, worms, and
entrails for enchantments.

Norwegian fairy tales are numerous, and traces of Trold lore are found
all through the provinces, and constantly referred to in every-day
life; at least, so we found. It is, however, possible that “the wish
was father to the thought,” and that we rather courted than avoided
referring to them. Unfortunately they came not, although a rattle
of flying rocks down a _couloir_ was always attributed to them. We
shall not find them in Bergen, that is certain; only Huldre appears
in public, and she coyly at the festivities: she delights not in
war-paint, _gibuses_, or opera hats.

• • • • •

Olaf Kyrre, the old Norse king, built, or rather developed, Bergen into
a town about 1070. Easy of access, and naturally adapted as a centre
for trade, it has now become the most important commercial town of the
west coast. The principal tradition of Bergen is, that ever since the
introduction of umbrellas every little Bergenite has been presented
with one as soon as born, another being bestowed by the godfathers and
godmothers at confirmation; and it is only reasonable to suppose that
at a wedding every one gives the bride a Sangster or a Gamp, according
to circumstances. Anyhow, it is an indisputable fact that umbrellas are
plentiful in Bergen, and, when not devoted to keeping off the rain,
they serve as a screen against the occasional visits of the sun. No
doubt this humidity is owing to the position of the town, which lies
between two mountains not less than 2,500 feet high, upon and around
which Jupiter Pluvius reigns supreme.

Passing from the climate, we must notice the town or city. Approaching
it from the fjord, it looks picturesque and busy, with merchantmen,
steam tugs, steam launches, and coasting steamers entering the
harbour. On the left is the old castle or palace, with the remains of
its banqueting hall, supposed to have been built by Olaf at the same
time as the church. On the right is the landing-place for steamers,
above which, on a part of the town abutting on the fjord and forming
a continuation of the principal street, is a fort. Proceeding farther
down the harbour, with the churches before us, on the left we pass the
ship-building yard, and come upon a long line of white wooden houses
with wharfs in front of them—a busy scene, fraught with energy and
_bouquet de stokfiske_. Alongside lie the Nordland _jægts_, or vessels
which bring the fish down dried from the Lofoden Islands, and their
crews are in close commercial relationship with the owners of the white
wooden structures which are known by the name of the Hanseatic Houses.
Olaf Kyrre had favoured the Scotch with certain privileges for trading
at Bergen, but in after years the Hanseatic League made great efforts
in the same direction, and successfully; for in 1228 they settled and
began to trade in Bergen, and by some extraordinary means ousted the
Scotch and English entirely by 1312, when they were left in their
trading glory. They soon developed the vast fishing trade of Nordland,
and made Bergen the great commercial centre which it now is, receiving
dried cod-fish and roes from the north. These are sent, in exchange for
wine, corn, iron, and so forth, to Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Spain,
England, and various parts of the Mediterranean, but especially to
the Roman Catholic countries. Still, these German merchants were not
entirely happy; they, the Hanseatics, located together on one side of
the harbour, were not much liked by the youth and beauty of the Bergen
proper side of the town, receiving from the Norske _piger_, or Bergen
beauties, the characteristic and appropriate _sobriquet_ of “Pepper
Youngsters” (_Pfeffer Junkers_), which still clings to them.

[Illustration: _Bergen._]

[Illustration: _Bergen: Fish Market in the distance._]

Bergen must have been very imposing in appearance in the old times,
when the large Hanseatic craft were warping out of the entrance of the
harbour, with their high quarter-deck and taffrail-deck lamps,
squarely rigged three masts and steeving bowsprit, jack-yard and
water-sail, long pennons and streamers from the yard-arms, the sides
of the vessel falling well in, and the guns bristling to frighten any
who might take a fancy to the good cargo on board. Now the Hanseatic
League is a matter of ancient history, but it did its work well, and
will not soon be forgotten. Bergen is at present the source of supply
to all places to the north of it, and in itself is interesting to the
visitor as being a centre of costume—that charming relic of days
almost bygone, when each district had its distinctive dress and its
special form of silver ornament, which, however quaint, or, to go
further, even ugly, still commanded favour by the respect its presence
offered to those who had gone before, and most likely had worn it. The
costumes are well seen at the market, when the farmers, or _bönder_,
come in with farm produce, bringing their wives and daughters, with
the milk in wooden kegs formed like churns, with leather stretched
over the top, and hoops pressed down tightly to keep it from spilling.
These milk-cans are carried by the women on their backs, with straps
or ropes, like knapsacks. One costume is very noticeable here, that
of the fish-girls. It consists of a dark blue petticoat and jacket,
a kind of Scotch bonnet well pulled over the head, with a white
edging of cap coming a little down and showing all round, and roll
upon roll of kerchief round their necks. Robust, pictures of health,
and muscular, how they row! When their husbands or brothers are with
them they row all the same, being quite capable of the first law
of nature—self-preservation. They work hard and in earnest, and
always look _bien soignées_. For flow of language the early fish
market conveys a good idea of the activity of the tongue and power of
gesticulation—features of life not common to Norway. The boats are all
down below, and the purchasers, generally domestic servants, hang over
the woodwork above, craning their necks and stretching down, pointing
first to this, and then to that, and possibly pushed aside ere long by
some one else worming in for a bargain.

In the meantime the fishermen in the boats are taking it very quietly,
sorting their fish, feeling that their purchasers can be supplied
_strax_. Now this word in the dictionary is described thus:—“_Strax_,
directly or immediately.” Practically, in Norwegian life, the traveller
finds that it is no such thing, _strax_ being a movable feast—so
movable that it is impossible to say where it will be. It is not even
so sure as the “Coming, sir,” mumbled by a flying waiter in the midst
of a crowd of customers about one o’clock; for in the latter case, if
you wait until two o’clock, you feel there is a probability looming,
but with a Norwegian _strax_, especially if applied to getting horses
for carrioles, it may be hours, or, in the words of what was thought a
charming song in our younger days, though now half forgotten, “It may
be for years, or it may be for ever.”

Bergen is especially associated with the registers of the sea serpent;
therefore the subject should be referred to here. Crews and captains
have voluntarily sworn to having seen in various parts of the ocean
strange monsters of the deep, usually of serpentine form; and judging
from the illustrations in that interesting work by Olaus Magnus the
Goth, “De Gentibus Septentrionalibus” (dated A.D. 1530), the
sea monsters depicted therein were enough to frighten any artist,
particularly if he were on the spot where the said creatures were
visible. Still many wonders of the deep may be studied with advantage
at the Bergen Museum. Lately this institution has been brought
prominently to light, thanks to the energy of M. Lorange, who has
found a grand field for his enthusiasm in Scandinavian relics, flint
implements, and specimens of the “glorious Viking period.” But we must
not be carried away by this interesting topic from paying due attention
to a strange-looking creature in this museum, which is kept in spirits
and labelled—

“SILDE KONGE (_Gymnetrus Glesue Ascanius_).

“Length (dried), without tail, 12 feet. Depth, 1 foot. Head blunt,
square. Bristles, or capillaries, 3 feet; 8 from above, 6 under the
chin.”

The whales are very fine and enormous specimens, being eighty feet
long. Why, then, should there not be gigantic _silder_? A Highlander
was once speaking of the grandeur and size of Scotland, when a remark
was made that the area was small. “Tout, tout, mon! But if you saw it
rolled out, just think what it would be then!” So, were we to roll out
a ninety-foot whale, should we not have as good a sea serpent as any
newspaper might desire?

Now that costume is being fast swept away, the old silver of Norway
bought up by travelling dealers for the town silversmiths to export,
the old carving replaced by cheap feather-edge boarding, and the
_mangel brats_ chased away by “Baker’s patent” or some other brand-new
patent, a general national museum like this of Bergen becomes
especially desirable, and even necessary, for retaining in the country
itself its own characteristics. In flint weapons it is especially
rich, thanks to M. Lorange, who has opened many tumuli with reverence
and care, his perfect knowledge of the subject being a guarantee that
nothing will be overlooked. Natural history, too, is well represented.
The corals found at the entrances to the fjords are astonishing,
immense, being more like shrubs in size. The Runic inscriptions
and carvings, portals, and chairs are most interesting; while the
church decorations of early Christian periods, the ironwork, arms,
and numismatic records, so useful as collateral history and in the
assignment or corroboration of the dates of tumuli, are well cared for.
Most heartily, therefore, do we wish success to the national collection
now so happily commenced, and so full of promise.

The somewhat modern appearance of Bergen and the absence of old wooden
houses are attributable to the disastrous fires which have raged from
time to time in different parts of the city; in fact, so much was
destroyed by the great fire in 1702, that nearly the whole of the town
has been rebuilt, except the old Hanseatic houses. Neither has Bergen
escaped its share of scourges, for the black pestilence made sad havoc
about 1348 or 1350, and the plague destroyed immense numbers about 1620.

Although Bergen is the most important fish mart in Norway, it will
be better to give a detailed description of its working, extent, and
season, when we arrive at the Lofoden fishing grounds and islands,
and the coast of Heligoland and Salten. It seems curious that these
slow-sailing _jægts_ should come five hundred miles with their cargo
of fish, when Trondhjem, Molde, and Aalesund are close to hand; but
on consideration it will be easily understood what an advantage it
must be for them to get a quick and ready sale for their fish, and a
selection of every kind of produce from the warmer climates of the
Mediterranean, or even the West Indies. Whether articles of necessity
or luxury, Bergen can supply anything, from a marlinespike to a sea
serpent.

The museum of antiquities at Bergen now deserves attention, and
in it the Nordfjord is brought especially before us, as we shall
see hereafter. In the meantime we will turn to a few chronological
landmarks in the early days of Gamle Norge, which will be most
valuable, as the catena of Scandinavian history is complete in
specimens of the different periods, corroborated by the archæological
treasures of Denmark, now so admirably arranged by Professor Worsaae
in the museum at Copenhagen, and the collection of antiquities at
Stockholm. Having followed out these different periods, we need only
casually refer to the objects themselves when we come to the districts
where they were originally discovered or still exist.

[Illustration: _Church Candlestand: Bergen Museum._]

_The Flint Period._—For a long time it was supposed that Norway
had no stone period: now flint implements of beautiful surface and
exquisite finish are found up to lat. 65°, beyond which, and near the
North Cape, the implements are of hard schist, the local formation of
that part. Among these specimens are found of arrow and spear heads,
and knives. The hammers are generally made of whatever the rock of
the country may be. This use of hard schist for stone implements is
corroborated by discoveries in similar latitudes in Sweden and Finland.
A very fine dolmen is still in existence at Frederickshald, in the
south of Norway—a spot which, to judge from the number of tumuli in
the neighbourhood, generally placed on rising ground within view of
the sea, is a perfect cemetery. Their average height is about 3 feet 6
inches to 4 feet, and length about 35 feet. Near Stavanger the flint
implements are of exquisite finish.

_The Bronze Period._—It is interesting to associate this period with
two systems of burial, namely, Inhumation and Cineration.

_Inhumation._—Wooden coffin—a tree scooped out; at the bottom was
placed a bullock’s skin, on which the hero was laid in his garments,
and with his arms by his side. An instance occurred in which the
following items were preserved quite perfectly:—A _vadmel_; a kind of
Phrygian cap; a wool plaid and petticoat, or rather kilt, to the knee;
a small box; a comb; and a bronze sword and knife. These, with a belt
for the waist, convey a vivid idea of the costume of the period.

[Illustration: _Knife-stone on Bronze Belt: Bergen Museum._]

_Cineration._—Flint stones seem to have been the base of the grave,
which was about seven feet long. Remains of cinders prove that the skin
of some animal was first laid down, then the body with extra garments,
in the cinders of which the bones were found, accompanied by a bronze
sword, with sheath; two knives of bronze; and a cube of wood, not
burnt. The bronze implements are so generally known that it is not
necessary to illustrate them.

[Illustration: _Hard Schist implements: North Cape._]

_The Iron Period._—During this period the tumuli were consumed on
elevated positions within view of the sea; the bones discovered are
burnt, the ashes being in urns. The objects burnt with them were
generally small ornaments of bronze or iron, the workmanship of which
betrays no Roman influence. Sometimes, also, glass vessels were
consumed, as globules of melted glass have been occasionally found.
In other cases the ashes are in bronze vases, showing a transition
state. Should there, however, be any swords, they are bent and twisted,
and are undoubtedly attributable to Roman influence, as some of the
bronze vases bear Roman inscriptions. The next stage covered a large
space, and was characterized sometimes by cineration, and sometimes
by inhumation. In the latter case the objects are placed with great
care after the old Roman manner, and consist of urns of burnt clay,
bronze, and glass; ornaments, arms, &c. Here we have not only actual
Roman work, but Norwegian imitations, such as bracteates, which have
been found with Byzantine moneys struck about A.D. 450 or 500.
This brings us to an important epoch in Scandinavian history, which
is very ably described by Dexter Hawkins, Esq., in a pamphlet on the
Anglo-Saxon Race, being an address read by him before the Syracuse
University, June 21, 1875:—

“THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE.

“A providential event, not originating from themselves, but from
a Roman emperor who intended no such results, occurred at the
close of the third century, which, by directing the attention of
the Saxons to maritime exploits on a larger scale, with greater
prospects, and to more distant countries than before, exerted an
important influence upon their own destiny and that of Europe, and
finally of America.

[Illustration: _Sword: Bergen Museum._]

[Illustration: _Bracelet: Bergen Museum._]

[Illustration: _Rowlock Knot of Birch-stones._]

[Illustration: _Viking Rowlock._]

“The Emperor Probus, harassed by the annual incursions of the
barbarous hordes around the Euxine, now the Black Sea, transplanted
a large body of various tribes, including Saxons from the vicinity
of the Elbe, to that region to serve as a protection against
future inroads. But the attachment of mankind to the scenes of
their childhood, and their ardent longing when in foreign lands
for the country their relatives inhabit, where their most pleasing
associations have been formed, where their individual characters
have been acquired, and customs like to their own exist, are
feelings so natural to every bosom, and so common to every age,
that it is not surprising that these exiles longed to return to
their native wilds. Impelled by this desire, they seized the
earliest opportunity of abandoning their foreign settlements and
possessing themselves of the ships lying in the adjacent harbours;
they formed the daring plan of sailing back to the Rhine, though
they were more than two thousand miles distant by sea, with no
charts, compass, or pilots, and ignorant of the many islands, and
shoals, and currents of the Black and Mediterranean Seas. Compelled
to land wherever they could for supplies, safety, and information,
they ravaged the coasts of Asia and Greece. Arriving at Sicily,
they attacked and plundered its capital with great slaughter.
Beaten about by the winds, often ignorant where they were, seeking
subsistence, pillaging to obtain it, and excited to new plunder
by the successful depredations they had already committed, they
carried their hostilities to several districts of Africa. They
were driven off that continent by a force sent for that purpose
from Carthage. Turning towards Europe, they passed the pillars of
Hercules, sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean, rounded the Iberian
peninsula, crossed the stormy Bay of Biscay, passed through the
British Channel, and finally terminated their remarkable voyage by
reaching their fatherland at the mouth of the Elbe.

[Illustration: _Sword Handle: Bergen Museum._]

[Illustration: _Arrow Heads and Sword Handle: Bergen Museum._]

“This wonderful expedition discovered to these adventurers and to
their neighbours, to all, in short, who heard, and had the courage
to imitate, that from the Roman colonies a rich harvest of spoil
might be gathered if sought for by sea. It removed the veil of
terror that hung over distant oceans and foreign expeditions; for
these exiles had desolated every province almost with impunity.
They had plunder to exhibit sufficient to fire the avarice of every
spectator. They had acquired skill which those who joined them
might soon inherit. On land the Roman tactics and discipline were
generally invincible; but at sea they were comparatively unskilled
and weak. The Saxons perceived this, and immediately turned their
whole attention to naval warfare. Like their American descendants,
they were cunning and apt at whatever they undertook. Their navy
became so effective in a few years that every country in Europe
bordering on the sea had contributed to their wealth, and they
annoyed the Roman commerce to such a degree that large fleets
were fitted out against them, and an officer appointed by the
Romans as early as the beginning of the fifth century styled ‘The
Superintendent of the Saxon Shore.’ These exploits had filled their
island with wealth.”

• • • • •

A very interesting antiquarian discovery was made in 1877 close to a
village in Sealand, some twenty miles from Copenhagen, of which the
following are the most important details:—About three yards below
the ground a grave was discovered, surrounded and covered by large
monoliths, the grave being about six yards long and two yards wide, and
the floor consisting of rough oaken planks, on which were found the
remains of a female in a mummified state. Round the head of the body
were placed several glass cups, one of which bore an inscription, in
Greek characters, signifying “Good luck to you,” and in other cups were
found the remains of various kinds of fish, as well as a gold coin of
the reign of the Roman Emperor Probus. A solid ring of gold encircled
the neck, and a heavy pin of the same metal was also found close to
the body, as well as a couple of finger rings. At the feet were placed
several vessels hollowed out of oak, in which were deposited the bones
of various animals, especially young pigs, and in one of these basins
were discovered forty-two dice burned in bone. In the earth round this
tomb were discovered the remains of several human beings lying in
great disorder, and it is supposed that the bones are those of slaves
sacrificed to the manes of the deceased lady. It is thought probable
that this tomb dates as far back as the third or fourth century after
Christ.

With regard to the initial letter at the head of this chapter, it
is from a remarkable specimen of Runic wood-carving—part of an old
episcopal seat—which will be more fully described when considering
that class of work, of which we find such interesting specimens in the
museums of Norway, especially that of Bergen, and which happily are
well preserved for our study and guidance.

ARCHÆOLOGICAL PERIODS OF NORWAY.

+------+---------------------------------------+-----------+---------------------+
| |STONE.—Silex for stone implements.-- | | |
| | Arctic stone implements recently | | |
| | discovered near the North Cape | | |
| | are of hard schist, the stone found | | |
| | in that part. | | |
| A.D. | | | |
| 100 |BRONZE.—Period of Cineration and | | |
| 200 | Inhumation in wood, trees scooped | | |
| | out. | | |
| | | | |
| 300 {|IRON, 1ST PERIOD.—Sudden transition | | |
| {| from cast bronze swords to iron | | |
| 400 {| swords damascened.—Roman coins |Urns for | |
| {| found in tumuli of 63 A.D.—217 | ashes. | |
| 500 {| A.D.—Iron and glass come | | |
| | together.— Roman influence. | | |
| | | | |
| 560 {|IRON, 2ND PERIOD. Byzantine Coins. | | |
| 600 {| Byzantine Barbaric Roman Bracteates.| | |
| 700 {| influence. | | |
| | | | |
| | | | A.D. |
| 800 {|IRON, 3RD PERIOD. VIKING PERIOD. |Norsemen to| 863 Harold Harfager.|
| {| | Iceland. | 936 Haco the Good. |
| 900 {| Christianity. | | 994 OLAF. |
| {| RUNIC 1ST PERIOD.| |1000 Eric and Sweyn. |
|1030 {| | | |
+------+---------------------------------------+-----------+---------------------+

V.
WEST COAST AND NORDFJORD.

COAST TRAVELLING—BERGEN HARBOUR—THE SCHOONER YACHT—SKAALS
OVERDONE—WEST COAST—STEENSUND—ALDEN—OUSEN AND ITS
GARDEN ROOFS—EN ROUTE FOR SANDE—DELIGHTFUL STATION—GOOD
FISH—JOLSTER VAND AND NEDRE VASENDEN—THE ANXIOUS
BATHER—PICTURESQUE CHURCH-GOING—NORWEGIAN BLAKKEN—THE
ACCIDENT—THE FRIENDLY TOILETTE—COSTUMES AND BABY
SWADDLING—SCARCITY OF FOOD—THE TENTMASTER COOKING—NORDFJORD
ANTIQUITIES—PROFESSOR WORSAAE AND M. LORANGE—CONTENTS
OF TUMULUS—THE VIKINGS’ GAME OF “MYLLA”—UDVIG—THE BAD
PASS FROM MOLDESTADT—SNOW POLES—THE POSTMAN AND BIRCH
BOUGHS—BIRTHDAY FESTIVITIES—FALEIDET—LYTH FISHING—HAUGEN
AND HORNINGDALSKRAKKEN—HELLESYLT—BELTS—THE GEIRANGER
FJORD—CAPTAIN DAHL—THE SEVEN SISTERS—THE VIKING’S HEAD—THE
PULPIT—MARAAK—STORFJORD.

Travelling in Norway is principally carried on by carriole, row boat,
and steamer. From the immense extent of seaboard the latter mode has
naturally been much practised and developed, more especially as the
Government has not only countenanced it, but encouraged it in every
possible way. Our route in this excursion involves the adoption of
this mode of conveyance, and we leave Bergen, with all its interesting
monuments, associations, costumes, and commercial interests, to wend
our way up the coast to the north. Starting from the port, with its
varieties of shipping from all parts of Europe, its Nordlander _jægts_
always prominent, its churches standing well out from the moist haze
and smoke of the city, a scene at all times picturesque, we soon settle
down for steamboat travelling. On this occasion there was a very
unusual bustle at the mouth of the port, a fresh breeze was blowing,
and a small schooner yacht was being towed out for a trial trip. From
the amount of bunting and excitement, not only on board the yacht, but
on shore and on our steamer, this was evidently a great event. With
sails all ready to be hoisted as soon as the hawser was let go, one
would imagine that chase was about to be given to a smuggler, or that
a Viking had appeared in the offing. It was, however, only for a sail,
and our little coast steamer was soon away by herself, ploughing in
loneliness through the fjord. And now for the healthy pleasant delights
of sea-coast trips.

With our luggage quietly stowed awaiting our bidding, and a calm
satisfaction that the steamer was well found, our meals punctual and
plenteous, our captain well up to his work, the steward anxious to take
care of us, and our travelling companions likely to be agreeable—the
Norwegians being kindly to strangers who are courteous to them—there
is but one drawback to the steamer work. It occurs in the fore part
of the vessel, and is occasioned thus. A _skaal_ (health) for Gamle
Norge is a very good thing and a noble sentiment, but if too often
repeated, with the usual accompaniments, it becomes offensive. The
peasants come on board at the numerous stations, and can procure every
variety of spirit which is unobtainable on shore. They therefore
make the most of their opportunity, and soon the demon of our own
land—inebriation—appears, bringing discomfort to the recipient,
disgust and misery to his surroundings, and finally a besotted and
wrecked old age; for, although strong constitutions may resist its
inroads for a time, they must inevitably succumb at last, and pay the
penalty. Either the victim is quarrelsome or maudlingly stupid: the
demon makes his mark in so many ways. The natural expression of the
features is no more to be found; the eye loses its brightness, its
sweetness is changed for heavy moistness, its telegraphic and sensitive
expression has vanished; the lips, before so full of character, are no
longer the exponents of subtle feeling; the hand trembles, the feet
shuffle, the whole frame is limp, the muscles are flaccid, and the
brain muddled to futile dreaming. If this be a curse in public, what
must it be when it invades a home! Well may the wife long to see her
husband freed from this evil spirit and restored to his former noble
nature!

But let us turn to the feast to which nature invites us. At every
moment the sea-scape changes, new peaks open to us, the clouds are
massing ready to be gilded by the setting sun, and soon we have
the heavens in a blaze of fiery glory and impressive grandeur. As we
approach the outlying islands we find strong glacial markings, less
vegetation, and the characteristics of the line of route, all up
the west coast of Norway, can be carefully and comfortably studied
by the most moderate sailors, as the islands keep the steamer track
quite smooth, and it is only when the entrance of some large fjord is
passed that any motion is felt or any rolling occurs. The villages
generally nestle close to the waterside, the church in the centre,
and the _præstegaard_ close by; but a variation occurs in one village
particularly: the church answers the double purpose of God’s service
and the fisher’s beacon, and is placed well upon the top of the hill.
Many are the excuses made by professing Christians for not going to
church, but the difficulty of access to the one in question, while
frequently causing the pilgrim to utter the cry of “Excelsior,” at the
same time elicits the mental avowal that he would be very thankful if
it were lower.

[Illustration: _The Village and Church of Alva._]

In making this passage those who are in Norway for the first time must
be struck by seeing that both sides of the vessel are sometimes within
three feet of the bare rocks, which descend precipitously into the
sea. No wonder, then, that the old woodcuts of the sixteenth century
show large rings in the face of sea rocks for the vessels to moor
to.[2] One part of the coast near Steensund is most barren: the masses
of rock, entirely rounded by ice in past ages, seem to be too smooth
for vegetation to get a footing. The spot, however, finds favour with
lobsters, which seem to thrive here, ultimately finding themselves in
England, and ending their days with a garnishing of parsley. Even for
lobsters, however, travelling is very expensive, for the difference
between their price in England and Norway is simply astonishing.

[2] _Vide_ Olaus Magnus.

On some parts of the west coast red deer are found, and now that
these animals are scarce, it seems a pity they should be in danger of
extermination. Better far would it be if the _chasseur_ had sufficient
strength of mind and self-denial to induce him to give these last
of their race such a respite, or series of closed seasons, as would
enable them to increase in number. One fine head came on board—a very
healthy, powerful horn, and royal on both sides. The beam was much
thicker than it usually is in the horns of stags killed in Scotland,
and very grand in form. The haunch weighed thirty-eight pounds English,
so that it must have been a “gude beastie.”

[Illustration: _Ousen._]

After passing the entrance of the Sogne fjord and experiencing a
little rolling, we sighted the island of Alden, a very imposing mass
of rock, supposed to resemble a lion’s head; and, fortunately for us,
there was less mist rolling around it than usual. It would have been
a sad disappointment had we only had its whereabouts suggested to us,
which is the fate of many who are anxious to see it. Our wholesome
little craft soon leaves Alden far behind, running up Dalsfjord to
the eastward; we begin to worm our way through narrow passages, with
the rocks nearer than ever to her sides; and at last we leave her to
take a boat, in order that we may row up to Ousen, a lovely spot, with
such garden roofs and such a farmhouse and buildings! The spot where
we landed is shown in the woodcut. The river was of the most beautiful
soda-water-bottle colour, the wooden buildings topped with the mountain
ash in all its gala beauty of bright clusters of berries. The beams
used in the construction of the houses were very old and remarkably
massive, and the size of the Sea House suggests the importance of this
locality as a centre for general merchandise. We arrived here about
three in the morning, and the servant at the farmhouse showed us to our
rooms, which had a weird ghostly appearance from their bareness, size,
and height. The old staircase testified that it had once been well kept
up; and then, as we looked about for some indication of date, we at
last found a good specimen of a snaphance pistol of about 1625, which
tallied well with the period we had already assigned to the house.
We had now left the sea for a time, and after a few hours’ rest the
Tentmaster-general reported everything ready for a start; and soon we
were _en route_ for Sande.

[Illustration: _The Island of Alden._]

Sande is a place of sweet waters to the traveller. After rough roads,
bad beds, sparse food, and occasional parasites, what a change! The
probability is that a stranger would pass the comfortable-looking
house, with its creepers over the porch, its well-stocked garden,
English home life, and generally inviting appearance. The geniality and
kindly welcome offered by the master of the house are most delightful,
and every one who visits it has a strong wish to rest for awhile in
such agreeable quarters. The valley is very bold and grand, and good
expeditions can be made in all directions. The Paymaster-general,
with honest pride, pointed out to us where, on a former visit, he had
killed a fine fish, and seemed to realise the fact that, having once
experienced that gratification, you can go on killing the same fish,
with all its pleasant associations, for the rest of your life. But we
soon had to leave this inviting spot for rougher quarters, being bound
due north, to be up for August 1st and reindeer; and as time, tide,
and August 1st wait for no man, we started for our next station—Nedre
Vasenden, on the Jolster Vand.

[Illustration: _Nordfjord Peasants._]

On arriving there no luxuriant garden growth welcomed us. Instead of a
south aspect, it was a north one. The atmosphere was changed, and we
missed our beloved Sande. As it was Saturday night, we looked forward
to a quiet Sunday, with church, the meeting of the peasants, and a
good chance of seeing all the costumes of the district, which is wild,
barren, and uncultivated. The Sunday morning was inviting, and we took
the opportunity of going to the lake, at a retired spot where the
mountain path came down to the water’s edge, for a quiet bathe; but no
sooner were we in the water than a troop of peasant girls came slowly
down the path. Confusion and dismay! Norwegians do not understand our
amphibious tendencies. However, No. 1, with his characteristic retiring
disposition, dived, leaving a certain disturbance of the water after
his plunge, which attracted attention. Beyond this, only the smallest
possible part of two heads might be seen. Now came the anxiety of
wondering what the spectators would do. Would they throw stones at us,
to make us run, or examine the contents of the chief’s pockets, or try
on some of our garments? No; while wishing we had the epidermis of a
Captain Webb the whole group suddenly laughed, and moved slowly off,
evidently thinking how curious the English were in their habits. We
afterwards met at the church porch.

Every traveller taking to pony travelling in Norway implicitly
believes that there is no danger of the animal ever falling; and
it is a happy and comfortable faith. The _blakken_ are rare good
animals, cream-coloured, with dark points; hog manes like hat-brushes,
with white down the centre, the black being outside; and their hind
legs rather zebra marked. From the first they are petted, and their
intelligence and stolid kindliness requite the care of the owners. They
trot well; and how they can go down a hill! As they crouch and run
close to the ground they need never be handed: no “’ands” required, as
the British groom would describe it. Still, exception proves the rule,
and we met with an instance in this _stolkjær_ trip.

We were going over the crest of a grand mountain road, below us a
large lake, and beyond a glorious range of mountains. The deep tone of
the fir forest added solemnity to the scene, and our good health and
enjoyment of such company made it a happy moment. The Paymaster-general
was leading—driving fast, as was his wont; for his driving was like
the driving of Jehu. The Tentmaster-general was next, with a huge
Norwegian sitting by his side. In a second came the transformation
scene—nothing visible to the Patriarchal eye but the soles of the
boots of the two persons in the _stolkjær_, the expanse of the huge
Norwegian foot forming a contrast to the small neat extremity of the
Tentmaster, who was shot out with great velocity, and stunned by his
unavoidable concussion with the earth. We laid him in the heather by
the side of the road, anxious for his recovery. Happily he soon came
round, but was much shaken; it was, therefore, necessary to proceed
very gently to avoid further shaking, and we purposed halting for a day
or two, until we could get the advice of a doctor. It assumes the form
of real travel when doctors are two days distant or more, and you carry
your own lint and medicine. Thankful were we to see the return of the
old smile on the Tentmaster’s face, and to hear from his own lips the
welcome bulletin, “I am better.” The pony was not hurt, while the big
Norwegian had a _skaal_ of whiskey, and, we fancied, was ready to be
thrown out again to obtain a second remedy. Soon afterwards we arrived
at Jolster Vand by Nedre Vasenden.

[Illustration: _Norwegian Plough._]

The station here is a huge—may we say dreary—wooden house. The
next morning, however, brought its joys and happy combination of
circumstances: the invalid was much better, the bright July morning
perfect; there was service at the annex kirk along the _vand_, or
lake; and we purposed going by boat with some peasants, and a most
enjoyable row it was. As we neared the church we found many boats
already arrived, and, invited by the loveliness of the morning, the
beauties of Jolster had congregated and were looking their best. Many
_stolkjærs_ were standing round the walls of the churchyard, and the
ponies were enjoying themselves, nibbling the short grass as far round
as their tether would allow them. There were some quaint costumes.
These good church-going peasantry arrive early; and, as many dwell so
far apart, and seldom meet except on these occasions or on some special
business, we cannot be surprised to find that, instead of opening the
meeting with prayer, the practice on the part of the men is to indulge
in a little worldly talk before church, while the girls, according to
custom, complete their toilettes from the contents of their _tines_,
or travelling boxes, the said contents being a mixture of old silver
brooches, silk handkerchiefs, and _fladbrod_: in some cases the butter
is carried separately in a small _tine_. One incident struck us very
forcibly—the kindly interest the girls took in the neatness and finish
of each other’s dress. Only fancy three nice-looking _piger_, or girls,
sitting one behind the other, each plaiting the hair of the girl in
front of her. What absence of mystery as to capillary arrangements!
No “Lady Audley’s Secret” (which _Punch_ said was her back hair). No;
each girl wished her friend to look her best, and carefully adjusted a
string here or a brooch elsewhere, for there were no looking-glasses
about. Then there were several other objects of interest. The black
caps of the Jolster women are very curious, with a little white showing
all round the edge. The covering up or hiding of the hair has a very
mediæval appearance, but the nice little stand-up collars give a more
modern character to the neck. The plaiting of their homespun dresses is
very close indeed.

[Illustration: _The Friendly Toilette._]

On this occasion there were two or three knots of people, suggestive of
something of unusual interest; and we found the centre of each to be a
little baby brought to be christened, surrounded by admiring relatives.
Such babies! such funny little chrysalis-looking pets, swaddled
and rolled up! the swaddling-bands being of many colours, the more
brilliant the better—red, white, green, and crimson—with the cross
frequently introduced, and generally so worked as to come uppermost in
the band. The swaddling process seems much the same as in Brittany,
where a ring is sometimes fastened at the back by which to hang the
child up while the mother goes to work. No one could have seen this
peaceful Sunday morning without being struck with the beautifully clean
appearance of every one there—the homespun (_vadmel_) looked so sound,
and so likely to wear well; the old silver ornaments so respectable
and heirloomy. Of course on week-days, when the women are seen in the
roughest of their outdoor life, it would be unreasonable to expect to
find them as neat and prim as on Sunday. What a contrast, too, did this
glorious sunshine and joyous meeting present to the bleak dark days
of winter, when perhaps a hundred and fifty pairs of snow shoes, eight
feet long, are set up round the church, waiting their owners’ bidding
to start _home_!

[Illustration: _The Lych Gate, Nordfjord._]

[Illustration: _Sanoe, looking down the Valley._]

After this cheerful interlude we went on to the next station—if
such it could be called. We intended making a meal there, and rather
looked forward to it; but nothing, not a single thing, could be had.
We therefore made a fire, and into a black pot put some portable soup,
with slices of Brand’s gravy-looking biscuits. Whilst the Tentmaster
tried to do the soup the Patriarch in vain sought a wooden spoon;
not even that was to be got; so the soup was stirred and tasted with
a birch twig. But he made a discovery: whilst spoon-hunting in a
drawer, which would only partly open, he saw the end of a mutton bone;
perseverance was rewarded, the drawer was opened; but the result worse
than a blank, for the shoulder-blade bone of mutton was bare, save the
green fluffy mould in which it was mantled. Some people may say, “Not
so bad; soup and biscuit, biscuit and soup, is a change.” Still, in
long journeys with _stolkjærs_ over rough ground, you can form no idea
how shaky and restless it becomes. Moral: always carry a spoon, and,
above all things, never start anywhere without a nosebag with plenty in
it.

This Nordfjord district is one of special interest now, as recent
discoveries have corroborated the old traditions of its close
association with the Viking period—a period bearing so powerfully
on our own national character, that the subject should be fully
investigated, and the extant remains of the Sea Kings’ real life
placed carefully before us. For the nonce it will suffice to refer to
one particular tumulus, recently discovered and opened in Nordfjord.
As Denmark rejoices in, and is much indebted to, the archæological
enthusiasm, deep research, and sound knowledge of Professor Worsaae, so
Norway is fortunate in having the devotion of M. Lorange, who not only
tries to lay these precious earthbound relics before us, but actually
rescues them for our benefit and that of posterity; not only interests
the dry antiquarian and connoisseur, but in a far larger way draws more
closely together the bonds of union and interest between nations. It
is remarkable that a Roman emperor was the means of developing the
sea powers of the Scandinavians rather than they themselves; for only
recently some interesting coins of Marcus Aurelius have been found in a
tumulus in Denmark.

The contents of the Nordfjord tumulus were as follows:—Boat with
iron rivets twenty-five mètres long; a bit; fifty-four bosses of
shields, or umbos; stirrup; a drinking bowl of immense interest, and
well enamelled; sword, with silver work; key of treasure chest, spear
head, bone comb inlaid with colour, gold ring, dice, arrows, deck
marbles, beads and amulets, bones of horse and kid, belt of bronze, and
belt-knife.

Having heard what tradition says about the funeral rites of the
great ones, the contents of this tumulus, as well as the numismatic
discoveries in Denmark, are especially interesting, as corroborative
of history. We are much indebted to pagan customs and rites for the
valuable materials brought to light in connection with this period.
With Odin for their Mars, or god of war, and Thor for their god of
air and storm, they believed that their mighty men and heroes would
pass to Walhalla, and there enjoy the future in the same way, but
more perfectly, that they enjoyed themselves here upon earth—strong
symptoms of their belief in the resurrection of the body. For this
purpose they buried with the defunct all his implements of war and
chase; the horse was killed and placed in readiness, and, should he be
pleased to row, his boat was there too. In the Nordfjord case the bowl
is especially fine. Notice the delicate work in the base of it: in the
woodcut the upper subject is the bottom of the bowl. The enamel is very
minute; the “chequer” design, one might say, very Scotch. The enamel is
only on the base of the bowl; the body is of bronze, and the upper rim
is ornamented by three heads, one of which is shown in the centre of
the illustration. This is drawn full size, and the base of the bowl one
quarter size.

The two buttons are of single wire, very rudely but cleverly arranged,
with shanks not likely to be pulled away from the body. These are of
gold.

The key of the treasure chest would suggest that many good things had
been stored therein. Still the list is so complete that we could hardly
expect more items than those recorded.

[Illustration: _Bronze Bowl, with Enamel Case, Swords of Viking Period:
Bergen Museum._]

The ivory or bone comb is a fine specimen, and the coloured work well
preserved.

The dice also are rather curious, as being a little longer than quite
square.

One of the most remarkable features, however, in the contents of this
tumulus is a set of bone marbles about one inch in diameter. The sphere
or marble is flat at the bottom, and has a small hole in it. These
marbles were used by men who spent their lives in ships, and were
played with on deck, the flat base being intended to keep them steady,
while the holes at the bottom, fitting on to small pegs in the deck or
board, prevented them from sliding as the vessel lurched. There was a
most interesting discussion on this matter at the Society of Arts. Deck
marbles were a novelty. Professor Bryce suggested that deck draughts
would be a solution of the difficulty; and after referring to the
antiquity of the game of draughts and the modes of playing, Professor
Maguierson gave a dissertation on the ancient game of “merelles,” known
in Iceland and Scandinavia as “mylla;” and even in the present day
the shepherds and boys on our South Downs cut the same pattern in the
close turf, and play the same game. We therefore come to the conclusion
that these bone treasures had been used on board the vessels of the
mighty Sea Kings of old, the little pegs, as just observed, preventing
their slipping, and also the hero from losing his temper and using
“pure Saxon.” The same precaution is in these days applied to railway
chessmen, and also those intended for use on shipboard, each figure
having its peg for safety and security. “Nothing new under the sun,”
said the wise man, and true is it.

• • • • •

Eleven o’clock at night, four thousand feet above the sea, we find
ourselves at the top of the pass, just above Udvig, looking over
Nordfjord. After a long day, and a very hard one, pleasantly tired,
we enjoy the scene before us: peace and tranquillity, with snow poles
all along to suggest what winter made it. The happy moment has arrived
to commence the descent. “Half the pleasure is in the anticipation,”
has often been remarked: we all thought this about half-way down
this precipitous descent in the twilight. The torrent path seemed
filled with boulders, the ponies slid, the bipeds stumbled, and by the
time we were half-way down we had no knees left. This is one of the
roughest ascents and descents in Norway, and is hardly practicable for
any kind of carriage: still it is one of the things to be done, and
one of the charms of the country. Lazy people lose much of the grand
scenery with which it abounds. Steady going tells best, and those who
try to spurt early in the day are much the worse for it afterwards.
How steadily an old Swiss guide starts off, and keeps at his pace, on
and on! That is the only way to last. By this time we see a flickering
light down below: we long for it, and soon arrive, but very late—about
one o’clock A.M. We knock at the door of the station, which
is really a private house, like that at Aurjhem, but selected by the
Government to facilitate the wanderings of travellers. We are therefore
the more indebted for the kind welcome we receive. Down comes the young
son Jules, who immediately recognises our Tentmaster-general. Soon we
have some refreshment; and not long afterwards Master Jules says, “Jeg
schal go seng” (“I shall go to bed”). So said all of us—and we went.

[Illustration: _The Pass: Moldestadt._]

[Illustration: _The Post arriving at Udvig._]

[Illustration: _Postman and his Carriole._]

In the morning we were up early. A bathe in the fjord was our first
thought, although the big stones are much against it, and the seaweed
spoils it: the only way is to take a header out of the boat. After
breakfast we espied a novelty in water travel: a large birch bough
was seen approaching, which we soon discerned to be the postman
availing himself of a fair wind after the usual custom here, a sail
being too dangerous even with sheet in hand. The original and simple
practice of cutting a large birch bough, and putting it in the bow of
the boat, serves the purpose better, the fresh foliage holding the
light air, and helping very materially the rower, who is frequently,
as in the present case, of the gentler sex, but very strong. The
postman sits complacently in the stern of the boat, with his bugle
just announcing his arrival, and rousing up the inhabitants of the
quiet village of Udvig. The bag is not large, but most important in
appearance—a huge leathern mass, locked, barred, and bolted. The boat
speedily comes to land, and the well-known sound and scrape are heard.
The bag is soon out, and the postman also: the post has arrived at
Udvig.

We rowed out on the fjord to look up at the pass we had come down so
early in the morning; the view was very grand, backed by the higher
ranges of the Justedal snow. We had next to visit one spot which seemed
a great favourite with the host and hostess, and therefore started off,
and soon reached a position, having followed a strong stream or burn
which came above a saw-mill, looking over which the whole fjord lay at
our feet, the mountains on the other side looming stupendously.

Returning, we visited the church and lych gate (see p. 82), the latter
narrower and higher than usual. When we regained our station a new
phase of life awaited and burst upon us. An invitation to a dance!
It was somebody’s birthday—the nineteenth—a young visitor from
Stockholm. Would we join in the festivities? We were delighted to have
the opportunity of visiting a family on such an occasion; but the
dancing element alarmed us when we thought of our rough boots and our
walk down, we being rather particular, and knowing what boots should
be. What was to be done? We shall see.

[Illustration: _The Saw-Mill: Udvig._]

[Illustration: _Faleidet: Nordfjord._]

In the meantime two boats were watched with much interest: one
contained the domine and family, the other some well-to-do friends. The
hearty welcome they received was beautiful; their sweet simplicity and
genuine affection were charming, and certainly will never be forgotten
by us, their visitors. Soon after the arrival the repast or dinner
was announced, and the real Norwegian customs were well placed before
us. After one course the master and lady of the house waited on us,
every guest getting a knife and fork; and at the end of each we went
and shook hands with the host and hostess, the children kissing their
parents.[3] After the fish and various solids we adjourned to another
room for fruit, _patisserie_, coffee, and, not an unwise thing in
Norway, a cigar. The next event was to adjourn to the garden to see a
glorious sunset over the fjord, and to finish the cigar. During this
agreeable part of the evening the youthful Jules, with his nice fair
face, came and asked if the “English gentlemen would come and play
with the girls in the garden.” The Patriarch of our party sent his two
young bachelor companions, who readily accepted the invitation with
a spontaneous “Oh jag!” Report says the amusements in the garden were
a combination of hide-and-seek, Tom Tiddler’s ground, and prisoner’s
base. Anyhow they all seemed to have enjoyed them; in fact, the
Patriarch often regretted afterwards he did not join the youthful
throng instead of remaining with the seniors. Still there was much
festivity in store, and the Patriarch took kindly to the dance, which
included schottisches, mazourkas, and valses. This brings us to the
boot question. The dance commenced. The evening began merrily. The
piano (for there was a piano, and a good one, from Christiania) was in
tune, and all were thoroughly enjoying themselves, when attention was
drawn to one dancer in particular. Sage as an owl, how silently this
youthful Achilles glided! How softly yet firmly he trod the polished
boards, for no juniper tips were scattered that evening on the floor!
Why was it? The Paymaster-general, equal to the occasion, was dancing
in goloshes! O shades of Scandinavian gods! O Thor and Odin! that this
should be the result of civilisation in Kjære Gamle Norge!

[3] This has been referred to in former books, we are well aware, but
could we omit a custom so expressive of gratitude? _Le bon Dieu donne
tout_; but do we always give thanks?

[Illustration: _The Olden River._]

Another great feature in the evening was the singing and the national
music—and how we did enjoy it! Need we say how they sang, and we tried
to sing, “The Hardanger,” by H. Kjerulf, and the chorus song of “Norsk
Sjømandssang,” by Grieg, which goes with such grand emphasis; and the
light tripping sweetness of “Ingrids Vise,” also by Kjerulf, with its
chorus of “Over Lynget, over Lynget?”[4] Another, specially bright and
cheery, touched the Patriarch very deeply; he is often heard still
humming this air “without words,” which the merry dancer described as
being all about some beautiful creature with large blue eyes and golden
hair. If she had but been with us to have danced with the goloshes,
what would she have thought?

[4] See page 14.

It was a delightful opportunity for us to see the _vie intime_ of a
nice family in Norway. The welcome was most cordial; and thankful were
we to find ourselves unexpectedly in a spot which every one tried to
make us feel to be our home. Long may Herr Hammer, Madame Hammer, and
their kindly family enjoy health and prosperity! and, might we say,
continue their kindness and attention to those who go to Udvig?—for it
seems a perfect pleasure to them to do so.

[Illustration: _Lyth Fishing._]

There was a disinclination to hurry from Udvig in spite of the
fine trip before us, for it is a lovely row up the Nordfjord. The
Tentmaster-general seemed loath to leave, he was so pleased with Jules;
he thought he had grown—had so improved; and he determined on several
good openings for him in London. The Paymaster-general had evidently
made a great impression, and no wonder, with the happy combination
of youth, a petite, petted dark moustache, and enthusiastic forehead
and goloshes, to say nothing of really good firework execution on the
Christiania piano. We were horrified afterwards to find that all this
had induced the young ladies to ask him to write all our names on a
pane of glass. In a weak moment he yielded; but why did he? How often
have complaints been made by ourselves of the creatures who carved and
wrote names! There were, perhaps, extenuating circumstances in this
case. So farewell to Udvig and its pleasant associations.

And now for a start up the Nordfjord to Faleidet. Such a good boat was
supplied by Herr Hammer! How we enjoyed it, looking forward to our
drive from Faleidet! We soon came upon a number of boats fishing for
_lyth_, a fish caught in large numbers, easily taken, readily consumed:
there were a great many boats, and they fish with a deep-sea single
line, feeling the bite over the forefinger, as in Scotland. We wanted
much to have seen some of the red sea-fish taken, which are much larger
than the mullet, but redder in tone and of splendid colour: a noble
fish to look at when caught, but poor on table.

Faleidet is a good station, beautifully clean, and well situated over
the water. Here we were much interested in specimens of copper ore, on
the richness of which our native held forth most fluently. The ore was
decidedly good, and I think in his own mind the Tentmaster had promoted
a company, and probably thought of the youthful Jules as assistant
secretary and foreign correspondent. No time was to be lost, so we
hastened to our _stolkjærs_, but hardly had we reached the top of the
hill when the Patriarch’s gimlet eye saw a long birch horn near a shed
by the roadside. This could not be resisted. “Halt!” was the word,
whilst the others went on. They soon pulled up, for the too-tooing was
noisy, if deficient in harmony; still there was a certain satisfaction
in the fact that one had elicited sound from a long birch horn, as used
by the good people of Faleidet, inferior as these horns are in force to
steam fog-horns, as now used at the Foreland, or the steamboat whistle
which skewers the tympanum of every traveller at every stopping place,
be it where it may. There is a great charm in all these old-fashioned
ways of doing things. Again the girls call to their cows, singing
to them in very sweet strains, and the cows follow them. It is no
question of a subtle tin-tack looking them up, which, like the county
of Buckingham, runs into Oxon and Herts. The whole treatment of animals
in Norway is a good example: the kindness is consistent and the care
unceasing. The early training of the children has much to do with this;
at all events the youthful impressions and the influence of the parents
have never lost one iota of good.

The Nordfjord is a great inlet of the sea which runs up an immense
distance, and greatly favoured the Viking tendencies. Many fine remains
have been discovered, and the contents of one tumulus in particular,
now carefully preserved in the museum at Bergen, have been already laid
before the reader.

Leaving the Nordfjord and passing through much that is grand, we start
from Faleidet, and when we arrive at Haugen have a glorious view of the
Horningdals Vand. Our hopes are buoyant, for it is a “fast” station;
and our appetites are good. What natural beauty around us! To be happy,
however, requires a combination that is seldom realised. In this case
one thing was wanting, and to travellers such as ourselves it was a
most important item—namely, food. The station was fair to view. On
the stone steps young children were playing; and the numerous family
were nursing each other—rollicking, chubby-faced, and unwashed: for
Norwegian children they were merry. In the road in front of the house
was standing a gaunt figure in knee-breeches and stockings; and,
with his braces hauling on to the short waist, his long hair, and
his straggling beard, he made a good type of what he really was—a
slayer of bears. Above the entrance, over the merry group of children,
were two bears’ skulls—the triumph, joy, and pride of the slayer.
Being short of provisions, we soon went on a voyage of discovery, and
investigated the interior; but what a blank it proved! The fast station
folk knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing. “A cradle” of good
carved wood, a bed in the corner of the room, and a fireplace seemed to
be all in this homestead. The only _fladbrod_ we could procure was of
that unwelcome class prepared for travelling, which means that it is
flabby and tough enough to be rolled up and folded without breaking.
When the practical reader thinks of the shaking, jolting, convulsive
jerking action of _stolkjærs_, and even carrioles, no wonder this food
is left rather doughy for its journey. Happy the man who, when he
meets with this material, can set it up on end! Dry it to the oat-cake
condition, then it is good indeed—very good. Still we made the best of
it, and came to the conclusion that one of the charms of travel is the
variety of situation; and then, after all, with pleasant companions,
anything short of bad accidents is only the kind of thing which the
true traveller must expect, and almost seeks. So we looked forward to
the next good meal we could get, but which must be very late in the day.

[Illustration: _Haugen, near Hellesylt._]

Some one suggested the advisability of smoking down our appetites. That
was declined as injudicious, and we longed to reach Hellesylt. The
second stage on, near Haugen, we saw a wonderful peak. Some idea of its
towering grandeur may be formed by setting its printed name on end. It
has no end of a name: here it is—Horningdalskrakken. What a pity one
cannot have time to “do” all these peaks, this one especially, isolated
as it is, and commanding a most interesting range, with so many fjords
at its feet, and the Hjørrendfjord and its shriven peaks bristling
below! In these days of express trains, fish torpedoes going twenty
knots an hour, telegrams, and instantaneous photographs, people will
not give sufficient time to do anything with steady enjoyment. Skurry
and scuttle are too prominent by far.

[Illustration: _The Horningdalskrakken, near Haugen._]

As we approach Hellesylt the mountains become higher, more bluff,
their formation more tortuous, and we anxiously begin to look out
for our descent to the station—town one cannot call it; in fact,
hardly a village. Arrived at the top of the pass, with the river
dashing and splashing, the zigzag of the road is like patent cucumber
scissors—twenty zigzags or more. At one’s feet lie the Storfjord, the
Geiranger district, and Søndmur. Of course there is the usual church,
most prominently posted, with a good station, to welcome those who
escape from Haugen’s natural grandeur to the stomachic comfort of
Hellesylt. What a good meal we all thought supper was that night! It
was not the mere pleasure of going in for a meal, but we had felt the
want of it, and now were thankful to enjoy thoroughly the good cheer
before us. There are very few parts of Norway which exceed the grandeur
of the neighbourhood of this place. The Storfjord is immensely grand,
but the Geiranger is a climax. The steamer from Hellesylt to Aalesund
goes down the Storfjord, affording a great variety of scenery, with
considerable comfort to passengers, as the vessels are well served; and
in this case the steamer has a captain known to all who have travelled
here, and always remembered with the most pleasing associations.
Captain Dahl has done much for this district, and has opened up the
unparalleled Geiranger fjord. Are not his good qualities recognised and
noticed throughout Norway by ladies? Having said so much, we hope to
visit Geiranger again under the captain’s kind care.

At Hellesylt we all noticed a prevalence of brass-mounted belts among
the men. Norwegian belts have invaded England and taken it by storm,
from the luxurious productions of a Thornhill, regardless of price,
to the other extreme, the Birmingham wholesale harum-scarum article,
which loses its gloss in a few hours. The Norwegian belt is a national
characteristic, adopted by both sexes, being worn on all occasions and
for various purposes. An instance occurred when two were used during a
trip to keep on a linseed poultice; but this was a modern innovation.

We were up early indeed the morning after arrival at Hellesylt. What a
morning! Hardly a breath as the steamer lay at the little pier waiting
for us. We had arranged with Captain Dahl to go up the Geiranger as
far as Maraak, so as to pass the glorious fall of the “Seven Sisters,”
and see it in all its beauty. We were very fortunate in all the
circumstances connected with this visit—weather fine, scenery grand,
cicerone full of enthusiasm and information, companions reliable,
food, after Haugen, one may say “good, plentiful and good.” The
characteristic features of this Geiranger, which has only been known
to travellers during the last few years, are the extremely precipitous
façade of rocks that enclose it, the paucity of landing places, and its
beautiful fall, the Seven Sisters. We arrived at the foot of it about
six o’clock A.M., and, as the sun was well to the eastward,
the effect was fairylike—the prismatic rays seemed to pervade
the base of the fall. The Seven Sisters come over and take their first
flight some two thousand feet above the fjord, and the streams, seven
in number, according to the pressure of melted snow above, combine and
separate, lose themselves in spray and spoondrift, and then collect
again from the dripping face of the rock, and finally the whole base
is “gauzed,” so to speak, with the dash of mist and the prismatic rays
called by sailors “blossoms”—really portions of rainbows. We wanted
to linger over the beauty of this spot—such delicacy of form, as the
streams shot forth some of the rocket jets, losing themselves for a
time, and then collecting with renewed energy for the final dash into
the fjord; but at last even Captain Dahl goes ahead, and we steam on
for Maraak, at the end of the fjord. Opposite to the falls we see a
relic of old Scandinavian paganism. Jutting from steep rocks, of two
thousand or three thousand feet, above a solitary boathouse, is shown
a prominent rock, called the “Pulpit,” and above that the gigantic
profile of a Viking; while higher still are situated some farms,
well away from modern improvements. If any one dies there during the
winter the inhabitants keep the body until the snow is sufficiently
melted to allow of its being brought down for conveyance to Hellesylt.
It is their custom also to tether their children, for the “go-cart”
conveyance of the seventeenth century, as shown in Quarles’s “Emblems,”
would soon be over the edge, urging its wild career to the depths
below. The very thought of such a position would be enough to frighten
some people; but how happy in themselves are these poor folks in their
simple belief and faith, their home love and trust! How difficult is
it to consider this kind of happiness, when the same family goes on in
the same position in life for three or four hundred years, in the same
costume, and with the same old silver ornaments! “How bad for trade!”
some would say. “What stagnation! how slow!” Yet how enviable when we
have tasted the bitters of overstrained brain-work, and the furious
competition of millions of people, all massed and arrayed for the daily
struggle of modern times! It is from this latter that men retire for
awhile to take a refresher, a change of air and circumstance becoming a
matter of necessity; and so London, after a season of gaiety and rush,
is left in favour of outlandish places, simple fare, and, in fact, to
get away from the daily jostle of life, to be ready for the next bout.

[Illustration: _Hellesylt._]

[Illustration: _The Geiranger Fjord: Seven Sisters Fall._]

[Illustration: _A Breen-stok, or Bucket for Sharpening Stone._]

After our return from Maraak, Captain Dahl continued his passage
towards Aalesund. The Geiranger features were less marked until we
arrived at an immense perpendicular surface of rock, evidently but
recently exposed to view; and its appearance is explained by the fact
that some years ago the whole facing of this mountain came bodily down
into the fjord, raising an immense wave which swept across the expanse
of water, and almost entirely destroyed the village on the opposite
side. A more recent case occurred in the Nordfjord. The Hornelen
Mountain rises majestically from the fjord, going down from Bryggen.
Out of compliment to this monarch and giant a new steamer was named
after it; and, on the first occasion of passing, the captain honoured
Hornelen with a salvo, which was promptly answered by a great mass of
rock being launched from the mountain side, throwing up a wave which
nearly annihilated the saluters, and frightened some of them so much
that they will never venture to repeat their _feu de joie_. It is
equally dangerous to disturb or cause any considerable vibration in the
atmosphere under glacial ice or snowdrift: many lives have been lost in
this way, and the fact cannot be too strenuously impressed on the minds
of all travellers.

VI.

MOLDE AND ROMSDAL.

To those going northward Molde has especial interest for many reasons:
its situation is beautiful, its climate delightful, its vegetation
luxuriant, its flora abundant, and, as a centre to radiate from, it
is most convenient. To arrive there one becomes associated _pro tem._
with the good ship _Tasso_. “Good ship” is used, in this instance, as
a term of affection among old Norwegians. In former days it was rarely
that any save real sportsmen or regular fishers were to be found on
board. Every one was known. The steward knew every one by name; the
captain looked forward to seeing his “regulars,” and could tell exactly
how much he would see of each individual passenger. Judging from the
weather, he could guess the number for each festive meal in the saloon,
and knew without a doubt who would propose to smoke a cigar on deck, or
one more pipe before turning in, and who would be ready to spin a good
yarn if there were any chance of conversation flagging. From Hull to
Trondhjem a fraternity existed, on condition that no one betrayed undue
curiosity about his fellow-traveller’s river. That condition carried
out, any one might kill his fish over and over again, and even add a
pound or two, rather than the relater should not be happy. The captain
of the _Tasso_ was decidedly a favourite, and could the weather at all
times have proved as fair as the captain himself, the _Tasso_ would
have been always crowded with passengers; for even in spite of the
stormy winds of the North Sea there has been such a thing as a telegram
for the captain, hoping he would wait for the next train, as ——
wanted to go by the _Tasso_. There is much sentiment about this dear
old vessel. Light as a cork, in a breeze she can throw you up off your
legs, and catch you somehow when you come down. She is lively, but that
is better than being driven through everything, tunnelling the long
seas. Besides, if the Saturday be very bad, and Saturday night too,
Sunday afternoon generally improves matters, and by the evening some
ladies venture up in the captain-cabin on deck for a little fresh air,
and are well looked after; for the captain himself, in spite of having
been up all night, comes out with his personal appearance unimpaired,
and buttoning his gloves, which he wears only on Sundays. He had a
very impressive way of buttoning the right glove, as if a great work
had just been completed, and the mere act would revive the passengers.
Still he was a thorough sailor and a great favourite, and everybody
regrets that he no longer commands the _Tasso_.

[Illustration: _The Landing-Place: Molde._]

[Illustration: _Molde, from above the Town._]

This vessel, which leaves Hull on Friday night, with her course
north-east, ploughs, or rather bruises, the North Sea until
Monday morning, when the first land is made, which is generally
Statland—bluff, wild, precipitous, and if not almost uninhabited,
at all events very sparsely populated. Having made this point, the
_Tasso_, altering her course, runs up the coast for Aalesund, before
reaching which the number of passengers on deck increases. Passengers
are always divided into two classes—the well and the unwell, or
“marines.” It is surprising how strongly the marines muster at this
point, and discover that they would have come up before if they had
known there was anything really worth getting up for. Not a syllable
do they utter about how they envied those humble people who were
always asking for more roast beef, and who relished bottled stout.
Neptune’s habit of rocking stops many a hearty meal, and keeps many a
visitor from Norway, levelling even the great and mighty; for even the
president of a learned society has been seen lying on the deck, rolled
up in a blanket, with the large red letters “Scandinavia” across his
vertebræ, helpless and mute, though his object in coming was to talk
Norske; but the sea god denied him the luxury until he arrived at the
land of Thor and Odin. Aalesund will be described afterwards.

[Illustration: _Sea Warehouse: Molde._]

The _Tasso_ arrives at Molde on Monday afternoon or evening, according
to the run. If it is a fine evening, what a lovely sight after the
permanent unbroken horizon of the last three days! On the left lies
Molde; on the right, mountains, snow ranges, islands, and fjord
entrances running up to Veblungsnæs, Alfernæs, and Eikesdal. Some have
described Molde as a Naples; but the two places are as different as
is Stockholm—sometimes called the Venice of the North—from Venice
itself. Let each have praise for its individual beauty and grandeur,
but no comparison can well be made.

[Illustration: _The Flower Market: Molde._]

The _Tasso_ does not come alongside; the small coasting steamers do.
Boats, therefore, come out, when one soon sees what seamen these
Norsemen are; and the women are as good as the men. The principal
figure as well as the voice most distinctly heard is that of Jacob, the
polyglot and ubiquitous porter from the hotel. Molde was once famous
for an hotel kept by Herr Buck and family, whose kindly reception and
unceasing attention were a pleasure to the visitor. In front of the
house were honeysuckles, clustering roses, geraniums—not yet called
pelargoniums at Molde—wallflowers, fuchsias, and almost every kind
of flower. With such good quarters, such attention, and such natural
beauty, how could any one be disappointed in Molde? Yet so it was;
one’s fancy was blighted by the footmark of civilisation—modern dress
had supplanted costume. The _taille de Paris_ was attempted, although
it has not, up to this time, much reduced the general solidity of the
Scandinavian waist. The heads of the people are much more transformed,
and soon become smiling victims to the first phases of the vile taste
for artificial flowers, feathers, and tawdry finery. If they only knew
the dignity of simplicity and the charm of good silver ornaments handed
down for generations, they would never so debase themselves.

[Illustration: _The Churchyard: Molde._]

Molde is almost entirely built of wooden houses painted white. In
the lower basement the storehouses run out over the water for some
distance, being built on most picturesque piles of timber, with solid
galleries, affording delightful peeps seaward. This warm spot, nestling
under the mountains, faces the south, and is naturally celebrated for
the vigour of its vegetation and the luxuriance of every variety of
floral growth, which is centred in the churchyard, where every Moldean
tries to outvie his neighbour in the culture of fair flowers on the
graves of those dear ones who have been called home. What a beautiful
thought is this to keep before one through life—to be called home, and
to look upon death as a friend, or as a schoolboy does upon his exit!
Happy indeed are those who can do so! It has a soothing influence,
which conduces to cheerfulness in old age; and what is cheerfulness in
old age but a looming of the immortality of the soul, as the outer case
begins to fade away?

This lovely spot has been selected as the best locality for an
establishment to solace the poor victims of that terrible scourge of
the North—leprosy. White as a leper, and shining as Gehazi, Elijah’s
servant—that is the aspect of Eastern leprosy. Not so in the North.
The features of the Northern leper become purple and hard, and the
feet swollen and fearfully disfigured. It is brought on by the absence
of vegetable diet and the constant use of salt fish. The hospital is
situated outside the town, on the south-west side, and is coloured
yellow.

Many routes start from Molde, and much character may be noticed
on board the steamers—small practical craft, with very efficient
captains—good seamen and remarkably obliging—a quality most
acceptable to the traveller. But this attention is only accorded to
those who adopt the axiom of the late Dr. Norman Macleod, who said the
best language to travel with was, “Yes, if you please,” and “No, I
thank you,” whether in domestic life or _en voyage_. It would conduce
greatly to home harmony if this were more generally adopted. It is a
wholesome contrast to a woodcut in _Punch_ by that keen observer of
human nature, John Leech, who portrayed a Transatlantic brother holding
a revolver at the head of the person sitting next to him, adding only
the simple words, “Pass the mustard.” To return, however, to the deck
of the steamer.

The lower class in Norway chew and expectorate; the upper class
smoke, and some carry pipes. Carry is the correct term, for the pipe
belongs to the class impedimenta. As the map of France is divided into
departments, so may be the travelling pipe of Norway. First department,
the mouthpiece; next, the elastic, to ease off the roll of steamer or
jostle of stranger; then a huge silver tassel, generally two; then a
stem and a joint; and finally the bowl of meerschaum. What an _écume de
mer_! What a responsibility to travel with such an instrument! It is
quite an apparatus—worse than a _narghile_ or _chibouque_: less coil,
but more tassel. The bowl of the pipe is generally surmounted by a
huge silver cover in the form of a crown. Our woodcut gives a specimen
of one in the possession of an officer on a tour of inspection along
the coast or fjord. As he is represented with his back to the land, it
is only just to mention that there was some object of interest in front
of him.

[Illustration: _The Coast Inspector._]

One more word for the _Tasso_. Returning from Trondhjem, she generally
calls at Molde. Should bad weather come on, the waiting for twenty-four
or forty-eight hours in constant expectation is wearying to a
degree. One hardly dare patronise the good baths of Molde, admirably
arranged as they are, so unmercifully do the jelly-fish sting; but
the advantages of sea-bathing are irresistible, so, in spite of being
stung, we indulge in a bath while waiting for the steamer, and in the
midst of it we hear the alarming whistle of the _Tasso_. Rapid exit
and hurry-skurry, in which tradition says the Tentmaster-general,
anxious to be first, was last, from having tried to put on his flannel
shirt without towelling sufficiently beforehand. Hurried as we were,
there was still a ceremony to go through, which could not be omitted
without giving offence. The bath attendant is most careful in his
attention to visitors, who generally give him twopence. On receiving
this honorarium he observes an old custom in Norway, that of shaking
hands and thanking the donor; so we all kept up the good old charter,
and received his kind wishes for our safe return to England and our
homes. Unquestionably we carried with us delightful recollections of
the kindness of the people, and especially of the _bönder_ folk—many
souvenirs to remind us of localities visited, and very deep impressions
of the charm of their simple life, undisturbed, as it seemed, by those
little envyings, strivings, emulations, and jealousies which, like
mosquitoes, sting and irritate, to the misery of their unhappy victims.

[Illustration: _Veblungsnæs: Romsdal._]

Surely the man who loves God, worships Him through nature, and traces
his majesty in creation, would enjoy the spot depicted in the woodcut,
where the village of Veblungsnæs is shown close to the edge of the
fjord, backed by the snow range. What a neighbourhood to have round
one! And what a contrast to the idea conveyed by the same word in
modern acceptation! Here the sea-water of the fjord washes the edges of
the hamlet, in many parts bluffly repelled by huge and mighty façades
of rocks; there a ravine terminates in a waterfall into the sea itself.
Valleys branch off in all directions, excursions are numerous, and many
new ones still remain unexplored. The high fjeld is easy of access
from Veblungsnæs, and real bear valleys are near, where Bruin exists
and has met with his death at the hands of our countrymen. Natives
have offered to go on the terms of “no bear, no pay.” This betokens
an amount of practical confidence which is a prominent feature in all
bargains between Scandinavians and our folk. Bruin is still a terror
in some parts, and especially to the _sæter_ people, or _piger_. For
instance, near Isterdal the following circumstance occurred to a
friend:—Scene, lonely _sæter_. English traveller approaching. _Pige_
appears at window imploring help and beseeching traveller’s assistance.
A bear has been down, and killed a cow. The _pige_ positively dare
not come out until the Englishman shoots the bear that killed the cow
that frightened the _pige_. Now comes the sad finale. The dead cow
could not be found, neither could the bear; and even had the latter
been discovered, the traveller had no rifle to shoot him with. Still
there can be no doubt of there being many yet left to be laid low by
our enthusiastic fellow-hunters in days to come. Veblungsnæs is hardly
appreciated by travellers, who are generally so bent on rushing forward
to the well-known comforts of Aak, that they are blind to the beauty
_en route_. Perhaps an innate longing to get away from villages makes
them anxious to dive at once to the more placid and less populated
parts. This place is generally reached by those who come from Molde
by steamer, in which case the entrance to the Romsdal fjord is a
grand subject, affording the most magnificent mountain and sea-scape
combined. Happier far is the traveller who goes in a small sailing
boat, with a good south-wester behind him, a tight sheet, and the
water hissing away all round her, thrown off from her bows and rushing
from her stern, as the crew lie down singing good Norske songs, some of
which are as long as Gaelic ones; and that is saying a good deal.

Veblungsnæs is close to the mouth of the Rauma, which rises in Lesje
Vand, and after forcing its way through rocks and every kind of
obstruction, finally finishes its course among peaceful sand plains.
The village can boast of many good things. First, the church, or
_kirke_, then the post-office, telegraph office, station for carrioles,
a compulsory school, a baker of white bread, _præstegaard_, and a pier,
to say nothing of the store or shop. Having made a bouquet of these
charms, let us refer to them _seriatim_.

The church is the old wooden structure from Gryten which was buried
in the sand, and stood, as shown by the spire on the right hand side
of the illustration, looking from Næss. It was moved about fifty
years ago, and at that time was painted red, having only of late
years assumed the more sombre hue which now characterizes its roof
and spire—namely, black. The interior is plain fir; the pulpit is
high up over the altar, and of a general light blue tone; while on
the right side, on the ground, is the bishop’s stall, panelled up to
the galleries, which go round the church. The candelabrum that hangs
in the centre from the ceiling is very elegant in design, and made of
pinchbeck; it is dated 1770. The silver candlesticks on the altar, one
on each side, are large and massive; these are lighted three times a
year—Christmas, Easter, and at the end of the forty days. The first
priest appointed to Gryten commenced his work in 1514.

Here we saw a funeral, which was largely attended, as the church is
on a main road. The coffin was followed by seven _stolkjærs_ and many
people, some of whom had driven on before; but there was no clergyman
to officiate.

The post-office is kept in a very unofficial way. Calling one day, we
found that the _post kontouress_ (who, by the way, is a very superior
person) was not at home, having left her official duties to assist
at four o’clock tea—_société_. The postman is picturesque, with an
enormous portmanteau, with irons, chains, and such fastenings, to
assist in the protection of which he carries a horn and a revolver (see
p. 87). He goes from this office to Dombaas, so that sometimes, from
the difference of elevation, he will sledge one part regularly, and
carriole the other. Before leaving the post-office we will thank the
_chef_ for all her kind attentions to us and many of our countrymen.

The telegraph office is admirable. English spoken, and every
information.

The carriole station is at Herr Onsum’s, who seems to be the squire
of Veblungsnæs. Here _tout est Onsum_—hotel, boats, land, and store.
Every one has a good word for the member of the Storthing, Herr Onsum,
and his musical and well-educated family.

[Illustration: _Carriole crossing a River._]

The school is, throughout Norway, for all denominations, and compulsory.

As to the baker of white bread, this personage is mentioned because
white-bread bakers are few and far between, and a valuable adjunct
to Fiva, where we stopped. Twice a week “our daughter” drove in from
Fiva to the baker at Veblungsnæs, about nine miles in and nine out.
Sometimes the white bread was not ready, and after a nine-mile carriole
drive, with a long ford across the river, it is rather trying to go
back empty-handed. Occasionally there were additions, such as _rød
fiske_, or red sea-fish, like very large mullet, hanging from the
carriole, and picturesque in colour, to say nothing of odd baskets
banging about. We must some time have a sketch of “The Return from
Market through the Ford, with the Skyd-gut Boy behind.” Our daughter’s
boy was rather an old one, Ole Fiva as he called himself—the _gamel
skyd-gut_. The occasional one was very young, and very nice indeed:
as he did not understand English, his answers resolved themselves
almost always into the “blushing grin” of good-hearted innocence. At
last “mee boy Matthias”—pronounced _Matteeus_—found an outlet for
his feelings, and brought red berries, or _tyttebær_ in his cap; and
when he found them accepted, and that his offering gave us pleasure,
he grinned and blushed more than ever. But why were we not sure of
getting our white bread when we sent so far for it, hail, rain, or
shine? For this reason. One day there was a glorious breeze out in the
fjord, the white horses were showing their crests, while the gulls and
terns were sweeping round us. What a day for a sail! Herr Onsum had
a good sea-boat, and would be sure to lend it to us if we asked. We
did. My wife, daughter, self, Ole Fiva, with three Norwegians, full of
sea-rovers’ expeditions and sagas, for a crew, were soon on board. As
the craft was lying by the landing-place her bowsprit naturally rose up
and down as the waves heaved her hull, when a voice came from the end
of it: “Ole, Ole! Spørge, Ole, spørge!” Ole took no notice, and again
came the same appeal from a figure with a white cap and jacket. It
was the baker of the white bread, hanging on with a desperate effort,
asking permission to go for a sail with us instead of getting our _vid
brod_ ready for us to take back. Judging from the uncertain movements
of the applicant, it is to be feared the supply of white bread is
equally precarious at Veblungsnæs.

[Illustration: _Næss._]

Our view of Næss is taken as looking up the Rauma River. On the left
are the Vengetinderne, the Karlstrotind, and the Romsdal Horn over the
valley, down which flows the river Rauma by Aak; the centre peak is the
Mid-dag Horn; and on the right is the Isterdal valley, with the Biskop
and Drönningen towering above. The little spire of Gryten is inserted
here to show where it stood before its sand immersion and removal to
its present resting-place. From this point one obtains a grand view and
general idea of the immense sand and grit deposit collected here from
the two valleys of the Rauma and Ister, the greater portion of which
was ground off the sides of the valleys by the great glaciers when the
glacial period was in full action, and before all the mighty ice giants
melted at the presence of the new visitor to the coasts of Norway, the
gulf stream. All down the valleys the rocks are worn and ground round
by the _débris_ in the ice as it passed down. Only some such phenomenon
as that referred to could have so raised the temperature and worked
such changes.

On the following page an old friend is shown at work by the
riverside—Ole Larsen, a shoemaker of simple habits and small
_clientèle_, but very large family, about eighteen in number. Unlike
many of our followers of St. Crispin, he begins _ab initio_, with
the skin as removed from the animal, and is now getting the hair off
previously to tanning. It can well be imagined that Ole Larsen does
not do a large business in the course of the financial year, and the
family seldom get meat, their whole nourishment being _brod og smör_,
bunkers, and cow comforts.

The Norwegian farm-building is called a _laave_, and is so constructed
that the hay-carts can drive right in under cover, and be unladen at
convenience: underneath are generally stables and a cow-house. Such a
_laave_ as the one shown on p. 116 will hold three ponies and about
twelve cows. During the summer the cows all go up to the _sæter_, and
about September return to the valleys, preparatory to their winter
session, when, poor things, they are generally shut up from October
right through the winter, till spring comes with all her brightness,
and releases these long-pent prisoners from their thraldom. It is an
amusing sight to see them first at liberty when the snow has melted
in the valley. They gallop, kick, frisk, career, and chase each
other; and the ponies join in the festivities with the cows and the
goats, and rejoice together for a time, until all finally agree that
there is nothing like good quiet steady grazing, to which they betake
themselves.

[Illustration: _Ole Larsen, our Shoemaker._]

Here seems centred all that is grand in nature, bold in outline,
interesting in geological formation, with the constant registers of
the ice passage down the valley, as it existed before the glacial
period was melted away by the influence of the gulf stream. The whole
valley suggests the idea of the crust of the earth having cracked in
cooling, the fissures forming these immense valleys. At the entrance
of the latter, as the river approaches the fjords or the sea, large
plateaux of sand have been deposited in past ages, and through these
sandhills the river forces its way, very frequently altering its
course, until finally it reaches the sea. These sand plateaux or
ridges are very distinctly shown at the entrance of the Rauma River, a
little above Veblungsnæs, and being exposed to the winds through the
two valleys—Romsdalen and Isterdalen—a change on the dry sand is
perceptibly going on at all times. This is especially to be noticed
at a spot called Gryten. In the maps it is marked as a church, and
a church there once was in the position indicated; but, as we have
already observed, it was so sanded up that it was taken to pieces and
removed to Veblungsnæs away from the sand-storms, and just bordering on
the fjord.

The tourist of the promiscuous class is sure to rejoice in this part of
Romsdal, as here is situated an old farmhouse, now adapted to modern
customs, and purveying comforts of all kinds not generally found in
Norway. A friend, visiting this happy spot some twenty years ago,
was kindly received by the proprietor, Herr Landmark, who is still
spared to conduce more than ever to the increasing wants of Norwegian
travellers. By degrees the farmhouse has developed, and is now, with
its new _annexe_, generally spoken of as the “Hotel at Aak.” Still,
how different is it from the modern idea of such things! Very much of
the leaven yet remains— the same kindly reception, and the _likkelig
reise_ to the parting guest. Many ask regretfully as they leave the
entrance of the house—in itself a picture: up four wooden steps to
a stage with two small tables and seats—where such is to be found;
others, perhaps just arrived, feast their eyes on the view over the
Rauma towards the Drönningen and Biskop, in Isterdal; while others,
again, anxiously watch for the first peep of the Romsdal Horn. Over the
door and by the side clusters generally a glorious honeysuckle, which
grows most profusely, and adds much to the picturesqueness. Inside, to
the left, is the _salle à manger_, out of which leads a small room,
which is, I believe, now generally left for any ladies stopping in
the house. Not much monotony is there, but many delightful evenings,
with a little music, and sometimes an exceedingly good rendering of
Mendelssohn, Schumann, Offenbach, or even the severe but sterling
Beethoven.

[Illustration: _The Farm at Aak._]

One evening, after a very earnest attempt on the part of our coterie to
sing some Norwegian songs by Kjerulf, it was discovered that amongst
those listening outside was the brother of the composer, Professor
Kjerulf, now of the Geological chair at Christiania. He expressed
himself as being highly gratified with the English appreciation of
his brother’s undoubted talent. All this musician’s work has great
individuality and crispness, and his airs always “go” well. Hear his
“Brudefærden.”

[Music: BRUDEFÆRDEN I HARDANGER.

SUNG AT BUVALDEN AND THORBU-SÆTER.

Words by A. MUNCH. Music by H. KJERULF.

Der aander en tin-dren-de Som-mer-luft varmt o-ver Har-danger
fjords Van-
de, hvor højt op mod Him-len i blaa-lig Duft de mæg-ti-ge Fjel-de
stan-de; det skin-ner fra Bræ, det grøn-nes fra Li, sit
Hel-lig-dags-
skrud staar E-nenkæde i; thi se——, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge hjem-
gu-der et Bru-de-føl-ge. O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la la la
O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la, thi se, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge
hjem-
gli-der et Bru-do føl—-— ge. O-ho——
—— ——]

[Illustration: _The Troltinderne by Moonlight._]

The previous woodcut shows the north side of the house and
farm-buildings. The _stabur_, or provision-house, is there, with the
bell above. This bell is rung regularly for the farm labourers to come
in, as they are always fed by the _bönder_, and the meals, though
very simple, seem frequent. It was at this good hostelry that Lady Di
Beauclerc stopped and described the French count who was in search of
good “chase” of reindeer there, and the lady whose pursuit was _le
saumon_, and who had a fly of the same colour as her costume. One
becomes imperceptibly very curiously impressed by an association of
ideas. Several people have mentioned that they felt rather surprised
that they had never seen the count with his French hunting horn, nor
the lady. There is still an idea that their ghosts linger about the
spot, waiting, we suppose, for the reindeer and the salmon to come to
them. The friend who was so kindly received here some twenty years ago
was offered a little fishing by Herr Landmark. A portion of the river
Rauma runs in front under the house, and the good sport made the happy
fisherman rabid for life on salmon: he has been to Norway almost every
year since, and taken many with him.

A few miles above Aak, leaving the sand plateau behind, we enter the
Romsdal valley proper, with the Romsdal Horn rearing its grand peak
on the left. The Troltinderne, or the Witches, is one of the most
remarkable groups of fantastically jagged rocks in Norway, ever varying
in effect, the mist wreathing and most delicately veiling or throwing
a film over them, which makes them more gigantic and weird than ever.
The outline of the peaks when clear is very serrated indeed, and with
the Northern people a fair share of superstition attaches to them.
These two elements have brought about the tradition that the series of
_aiguilles_ represent a wedding party going to the church. First, the
_spilleman_ (fiddler), then the _kanderman_ (best man) with a tankard;
the next large peak is the priest; then come two peaks, turning away as
it were one from another: these were the unhappy bride and bridegroom,
who foolishly and injudiciously quarrelled. Next come the father and
mother. But the most curious character yet remains. By the side of a
sharp point is a mass of rock, which certainly does look very much like
a figure: this is the disconsolate lover, who, seeing that the bride
and bridegroom had already quarrelled, makes a frantic rush to cut in
and carry off the lady. This must have been the precise moment when
they were all turned into stone, and so they remain, a warning to all
frequenters of the valley. That the peasants believe in spirits and
“little people” living on the fjeld, even in this year of grace, cannot
be denied, as they say they do; but why they should think that these
little people have blue heads I cannot imagine.

[Illustration: _Meal House: Fiva, Romsdal._]

Exactly opposite to the Romsdal Horn, on the other side of the valley,
is an immense _couloir_, originally an enormous landslip, leaving the
perpendicular sides of the Troltinderne to gradually crumble and fall
down, the finer stuff and _débris_ filling up the interstices between
the bigger rocks. After frost the thunder of the falling rocks and
stones into this terrific shoot will last as long as thirty seconds,
and the nightfalls create constant alarm to new-corners; whereas the
_elve-wakker_, or river-keeper, merely remarks, “The old ladies are
quarrelling,” or “The old ladies have finished _aftenmad_ and are
throwing out the bones.” Still, this brings about a new range of
thought to a person who has never observed portions of the earth’s
surface in motion. After seeing a huge rock, the size of a stucco-faced
villa, hop down the side of a mountain, there arise a certain
impressiveness and grandeur unknown before. About once a year there is
an important landslip in Norway—hardly more. Most of the loose rocks
have their regular grooves, and the peasants know how to avoid them;
still, as the vast country is so sparsely inhabited, many must occur
which do not “get into the papers.” A curious instance of the effect
of a small landslip occurred in this valley to an old man personally
known to us. A slip came down behind his house, of good timber stuff,
and fortunately stopped just short of it. He and his wife decided to
leave, and go to live at a place called Aalesund; they did so for a
twelvemonth, after which time they became home-sick, and, chancing
all further damage, returned to the old house, where they were living
very happily last year. In another part a description will be given
of an important _steen-skreed_—a scene of terrible destruction and
considerable interest.

[Illustration: _The Laave at Fiva: Romsdal._]

The centre of the valley has two or three good farms, highly productive
for Norway, and presenting a very curious appearance to a foreigner
when the corn is cut, as the sheaves are stuck upon a pole, sometimes
five, sometimes ten, with the head facing the sun, and, as the sun
works round, the heads of corn are kept turned to it, so as to get the
greatest amount of heat, which is an advantage when the peasants arrive
at the happy time for carrying their corn, as they have only to pull up
the stakes with the five or ten sheaves on them, and they are easily
carried. Whilst on the subject of corn-drying, it is a most remarkable
thing that during the fine weather of the short Norwegian summer the
wind helps materially by blowing what the natives call a _sol-gang_:
the wind goes round with the sun all day, beginning to blow from the
east in the morning, clue south at mid-day, and north-west in the
evening.

[Illustration: _Rauma River Boat._]

Having paid especial notice to the Trols, we must turn to the Horn,
which rises on the left side: 4,000 feet is the height of it, and it
goes sheer up out of the valley; in fact, one morning, as we were
sitting by the river, a carriole came hurrying by, and a voice from
it inquired, “Where’s the Horn?” The old fisherman with me stared at
the flying folk in search of information, and pointed straight up over
our heads. The summit has never been reached yet, either by the
Government engineers who surveyed the country, or by Alpine men, who
have all given up the Aiguille Dru as hopeless, or by captive balloon,
which has been proposed. A very likely party from a yacht made a bold
attempt at it, but even some of these looked upon it as a hopeless
case, from the fact that there is a lean-to on a huge shoulder on the
north-west side. Perhaps the most beautiful time of all to see this
wild valley is after the first sprinkling of snow, when the tops are
powdered, which happens when the “iron days” come, the first snow
falling about August 20th. After a little sharp frost the weather
recovers from its first shudder, but by the 29th of September all is
snow again down to the river. Patches of old snow are always lying
in the valley, even during the hottest summer, but much more in the
_couloir_; and, from the immense scale of everything here, the real
quantity is most difficult to appreciate.

[Illustration: _Romsdal Snow._]

[Illustration]

At the foot of this Romsdal Horn is the Rauma itself, the first fall
caused by the rocks thrown down when the _couloir_ was originally
formed; and between the river and the base of the Horn runs the road
through the valley to Gudbransdalen. There are a few sheep here in the
advanced farms, and these, like all animals in Norge, are wonderfully
docile. For some time we heard sounds of music at a distance, but
could never discover either the music or the musician, until one day
a boy was found playing in a barn, or _laave_, on a goat’s horn with
six holes in it, and with a reed mouthpiece. The sound is quaint. This
instrument was intended and used for the amusement of the sheep, and
the boy’s mission was to play to them on it. The sheep and goats here
always follow instead of being driven; and, like all other animals in
this country, they are remarkably tame, never exhibiting the least
signs of fear. This is another pleasant feature resulting from the
kindliness of the people and their domestic happiness. Long may both
remain to them!

• • • • •

The sight of the square-sailed craft with one mast and a bold rampant
black stem at once shuts out all intrusive thoughts of civilisation,
for these same vessels—relics of very old days—are seldom seen
anywhere save on the wild shores of Heligoland, working down to Bergen,
or still farther south round by the coast, and up to the town of
Christiania. These craft are mostly from the north of Trondhjem: their
lines are very fine indeed forward, the after part, with quarter-deck,
forming a kind of citadel for the captain. As these vessels come from
the coast opposite to the Lofoden, they are closely allied with the
fishery of that district—the great national fishing ground of Norway,
to which rushes every able-bodied fisherman from Bergen northwards
as far as the North Cape. In the month of February the fish are
in force—principally early arrivals; and ultimately such immense
quantities are gathered together that tradition has handed down to us
as a fact that there are times when a deep-sea line will hardly sink
through them. Lines and nets are both worked with the greatest system.
The take is generally tremendous, and the results lucrative. The fish
are cured as stock-fish until April, when they are split, salted, and
dried on the rocks like Scotch cod. It is a simple process to gut and
hang up these cod-fish two and two across poles; not even salt is
used—nothing but the sea breezes, sun, and wind. Many years ago the
takes were even more enormous than at present, amounting to as much as
16,000,000 fish, or 8,000 tons dried, to say nothing of the cod-liver
oil and roe; but when we consider that these fish are gradually
dispersed over Europe, even 8,000 tons would soon go during the period
of a continental Lent. About April most of the fishers return home, and
are ready for any chance of herrings, which are as great a blessing to
the Norwegians as to the Scotch and Irish.

There was a very striking instance of an old custom in one of the
outlying fjords, where the fashion of bygone centuries is still
faithfully kept up. At the entrance of the fjord is a boat, in which is
stationed the watcher, with a horn or bugle. As soon as the herrings
are descried the watcher, or rather the look-out, stands up in the bow
of the boat and sounds his horn. The notes are quickly caught by the
anxious longing ears on the beach, the boats put off, and soon the
herrings feel that they are “fish out of water,” and will ere long
be adding much to the happiness and support of all the _bönder_ and
agricultural peasantry of the neighbourhood.

[Illustration: _Making for the Fjord._]

Near our herring scene was a well-to-do but scattered hamlet, for
it could scarcely be called a village; and, having visited some of
the good people, who were much interested in the foreigners—N.B.,
it is a curious sensation when it first dawns upon the mind of an
Englishman that he is a regular foreigner in the eyes of others—we
came to the conclusion that, all in all, the Norwegian _bönder_, as
a class, are more comfortably provided with the good things of this
world than any other of similar position. Their outdoor life brings
sound health; they work hard, especially the women; and their reward
is abundance. Their farms produce all they require to eat, drink, and
even wear. In the fine weather they work for internal comforts; in
the bad winter weather they provide for external wants in the form of
carding, combing, and weaving in their houses, and making _vadmel_,
or homespun—a material in which “shoddy” is unknown, and for which
“everlasting wear” is the best name. They have their ponies, their
boats, a wholesome love of God, and veneration for true, practical
religion. Their houses are of their own building—sound, solid, and
warm. There is no money greed amongst them, until spoilt by tasting
the fruit of the tree of civilisation, and then the reaction is all
the worse. Another great blessing that remains to them is, that there
is no tendency to extravagance, no wish to launch out in competition
with their neighbour. A peaceful, contented, simple life seems to them
the _summum bonum_: this they possess, and are careful not to part
with. Until savings-banks were introduced they really had no use for
money, and when they acquired silver, instead of investing it, they
had something new made of it, in this respect strongly resembling the
old Dutch farmers, who were sometimes quite at a loss to know what
they should have made next. The latter, indeed, went so far as to have
candle-boxes, as well as other domestic utensils, of silver. Again,
Norwegian servants are in good relationship with their masters and
mistresses: much kindly feeling exists, coupled with a sense of duty
and a proper regard for relative position, which is never forgotten.

We have mentioned the “home-madeness” of everything in a Norwegian
farmer’s house; but we have yet to refer to the woodwork supply,
namely, sledges, agricultural implements, _stolkjærs_, rakes, scythe
handles, carrioles, tankards, teenas (written _tine_), butter-boxes,
and bedsteads. These last-mentioned items are the worst things
produced in the country. The beds are all too short—never are they
long enough. It seems as if the Norwegian has not quite grown out of
the idea that in sleep the body should be bent up with the knees to
the chin, and in the Isle of Skye tradition assigns to the Norsemen
certain stone graves composed of nearly square slabs. The only way in
which a tall traveller in Norway can avoid pushing his feet through
the footboard is by bending his body up. The best carrioles are built
at Drammen and Christiania, but they are advanced specimens, with
springs; and springs are considered a little foppish, as well as liable
to break, length of shaft being all the spring required. When these
vehicles have to go on to steamers or large boats—a very frequent
necessity, as the whole seaboard is constantly incised by fjords and
arms of the sea—it is usual to take off the wheels, when the body is
soon removed. Where rivers have to be crossed, and a small boat only
can be procured, the best way is to bring the latter side on to the
carriole, place a plank with one end on _terra firma_, and the other
on the gunwale of the boat, where the wheel of the carriole nearest to
the shore should ultimately go. The object of this is to run the wheel
along on this plank to ship the carriole in the boat. This done, there
is still a difficult part to be performed: the river has to be crossed,
and if once the balance is lost, all is over. The rush of the river
is very strong in parts, but even a kind of race makes no difference.
A pull on one side, then a shoot and a pull on the other, and smooth
water is reached, safety insured, and the carriole is over. Sometimes
a river may be forded, but great care should be taken, as the want of
local knowledge may in a moment cause a loss of life, or at all events
a ducking.

We were once fording a river when Old Kyle, our blind dog, was
travelling very comfortably in a dog-bag, or _hund sac_, under the
carriole. The excitement and novelty of the ford made us forget our old
pet, and the first hint we had of his discomfort was the sorry sight of
the dog vainly endeavouring to stem the current, while the only way of
recovering him was by wading back. The carriole is used for everything;
even the post-carrier is a carriole-driver, and is provided with a
huge leather bag or portmanteau, with an iron rod running through it,
and padlocked at the end. The postman carries a revolver, more as a
staff of office or official status than anything else, for no one ever
hears of such a thing as a robbery in this part of the world. The last
few years have brought about a very great facility of communication in
Norway, for which all travellers are much indebted to the energy of the
Government. One can telegraph to any part of Norway for tenpence, and
the stations are numerous—surprisingly so, when the extent of country
and sparseness of population are considered; and for English travellers
the convenience is very great, because almost all the telegraph-station
masters speak and write English well.

[Illustration: _Shipping a Carriole._]

The woodcut (see page 55), with the sea-houses close to the water and
_jægt_ lying 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 considered the 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 the _Argo_ when 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!

[Dropcap caption: _Grave-board, Mølmen Churchyard._]

The Gudbransdalen valley is characterized by an immense _vand_, 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 the
memory 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 the _pige_ what
_aftenmad_ we 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.

[Illustration: _Interior of Mølmen Church._]

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 very uncouth figure of the Saviour on the cross,
with I. 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
of _natural_ flies. “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.

[Illustration: _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
preparations for 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 or
_fos_, 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.

[Illustration: _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 a double-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 a _cul-de-sac_
corrie, and then shot down more than twenty. This was worse than
the friend who gave his river watcher a salmon rod and flies; the
_elve-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, or _stor 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 a _blakken_, or Norwegian pony, was put into No. 3 carriole,
with the proprietor up as _skyds_. 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.

VII.
THE FJELD AND REINDEER.

OPENING DAY FOR REINDEER—AALESUND—AURORA
BOREALIS—INQUIRING FRIENDS—BERRY VARIETIES—TO THE
FJELD—NECESSARIES—REINDEER-FLOWERS—TO THE TENTS—THE
DOGGIES—DANJEL AND OLE—MØLMEN—THE ARRIVAL—OUR
CONCERT—PTARMIGAN—REINDEER SPÖR—TROUT-FISHING IN THE
VAND—GOOD SPORT—THE TENTMASTER’S STORY—PASSOP AND THE
STOR BUCK—SNOW-WORK—SÆTER LIFE—MARITZ’S LONELY STATE—HER
KINDLINESS—THE SWIZZLE-STICK—THE OLD BOAT—THE EAGLE AND
NEST—REINDEER AND RED DEER HEADS—THE DIFFICULTY OF GETTING
THEM—INDFJORD—OLE ERIKSON BOE—HALVER JACOBSEN—INGEBORG AND
THE STEEN-SKREED—INGRANA’S ACCOUNT—INGEBORG’S FUNERAL—RUNIC
STONE—GRAVE-BOARDS—ISTERDAL—THE MEAL-MILL—OLD KYLE—A
SIMPLE-MINDED COW—OLE FIVA—AIGUILLES—VALDAL—THE SOURCE OF
THE ISTER—EXPEDITION TO A FROZEN LAKE.

Ever and anon we arrive at some landmark in life which stands out
prominently for the rest of our terrestrial journey. Perchance it
is one that, surrounded with pleasant associations, invites us back
to chew the cud of past happiness, and rises before us as an angel
of comfort from time to time, when shadows, storms, or squalls of
trouble cross our path, or the hurry-skurry of advanced civilisation
has ruffled our calmer nature, and we have become irritable and
overstrained, liable to spontaneous combustion of temper, and less
kindly than usual. Such a happy landmark is “after reindeer” in
Norwegian travel. Let us, then, look back to it, and enjoy it over and
over again; and may others derive equal pleasure from similar outings!

The 1st of August is the opening day for reindeer-shooting. About the
end of July the enthusiasm gradually increases, everything is supposed
to be ready, lists are gone over, fine weather hoped for, and the 1st
of August eagerly anticipated. On our way to Gudbransdalen we stopped
at Aalesund for the night; and what a night! We had hardly settled
down to our _aftenmad_, or supper, before a servant came in to tell us
of a grand sunset, which she thought the English gentlemen would like
to see. We all rushed up-stairs, clambered through attics, and finally
came out on a kind of platform; and what a sight met us here! The whole
heavens were bathed in the most astounding crimson; at our feet lay
the harbour of Aalesund, and on the horizon, out in the Atlantic, long
ultramarine-purple islands. It was sundown in its most intense arctic
grandeur, with a few golden scraps of cirri in the upper heavens. So
impressed were we that we mused in silence; adjectives had no power of
expression; and we tacitly admired with awe and reverence.

On our return to the table some Cantabs had just arrived, and finding
we were compatriots, the all-prevailing subject of the latter days of
July rose to the surface. “Were we going after reindeer?” was followed
by a sort of mitrailleuse volley of cognate inquiries. They had heard
of three Englishmen—did we know them? as they were anxious to meet
them before starting. At last the suggestion was thrown out, “Had we
not better go another time?” We thought not. Then they divulged the
name of him they sought, and the Patriarch revealed himself, quoting
the _Duke’s Motto_, “I am here.” General rejoicing, fraternity, and a
_skaal_ for good sport succeeded, and the next morning we all started
off together by steamer for our happy hunting-grounds.

On July 31st we made our head habitable quarters on the high plateau of
the Lesje Vand, and had time to enjoy the detailed study of the upper
flora and berry varieties, which are numerous in this country. Thus:—

_Tyttebær_ Red, juicy berry.
_Blaabær_ Blueberries.
_Multebær_ Juicy, hard berry of raspberry form.
_Kirsebær_ Cherry.
_Bringebær_ Raspberry.
_Björnebær_ Bearberry.
_Winborr, Ripsbær_ Currants.
_Stikkelbær_ Gooseberry.
_Silbær_ Black currant.
_Jordbær_ Strawberry.

[Illustration: _Snow Plough._]

The ponies were packed with their curious birch-twig saddles,
waterproof sheets for cork bed, deer-skins and air cushions,
provisions, a small spade to trench round the tents, cooking canteen—a
great work most cunningly carried out by the Tentmaster—lint,
chlorodyne, &c.; steel nails to screw into boots for ice-work,
_vanters_, or mufflers, long flannel night-shirts for cold, blue
spectacles for snow, a little glycerine, telescope, compass, &c. Our
beds were made with Iceland moss, waterproof sheet, cork mattress,
and skins, and we slept in thick socks, gloves, and long flannel
night-shirts with hood to keep off the flies. Hans Luther was with
us, and Trophas the faithful, the doggie with sharp nose and curled
tail. The tents had been sent up to the fjeld before us, and, after
about six hours’ walk, we spied the white dot—the tent. In making the
ascent to the upper plateau the gradual decrease of vegetation was
very noticeable, culminating in the reindeer flower, or _Ranunculus
glacialis_, which is much liked by the reindeer. Happy and buoyant with
hope the hunter who finds the flowers nibbled off! Their peculiarity
is to grow most freely where the snow has melted back. At the tents we
found Ole of Lesje, whose first news was that he had seen a herd of
about fifty reindeer, after which an important subject was mooted: a
glutton had been seen the night before near the tent. Danjel Kulingen
had been thirteen years after reindeer, and had never seen one. On
the other hand, Hans Luther had shot one, and there was a skin at
the station at Mølmen, which reminded us that at fishing inns on the
banks of the Thames larger fish are seen stuffed and glazed than the
itinerant angler generally hooks and lands.

All at once the dogs, three in number—Trophas, Barefoed, and
Storm—opened a barking chorus; but we did not seize our rifles, as
the telescopes revealed our Paymaster-general, who was returning from
his _chasse de bagage_, which he had happily recovered. The aneroids
registered 5,000 feet, and all was full of promise, save the one fact
that the rifle of our friend was below in the valley. The despair
and ferocity engendered by this unhappy discovery were soon dispelled
by good food, and plenty of it, a word of comfort and sympathy, and
last, not least, a little whiskey, after which he took a siesta in his
tent, on which we wrote “Requiescat in pace,” and left our cards as a
welcome. Being Sunday, we made it quite a day of rest, and revelled in
the flora, mosses, and lichens of our new ground, always, however, with
an eye to the glutton, which evidently had a day of rest also, as he
never appeared. In the evening, at 6.30, we had a hunters’ chorus, for
the Norwegian Sunday terminates at six o’clock.

[Music: NORGES HERLIGHED.

Words by I. N. BRUN.

Bor jeg paa det høje Fjeld, hvor en Fin skjød en Ren med sin Rifle
paa Ski-en
hvor der sprang et Kildevæld, og hvor Ryperne pladsked i Li-en.
Jeg med
Sang vil mane frem hveren Skat som er skjult udi Klip-pernes
Rif-ter, jeg er gladog rig ved dem, kjøber
Vin og klare-rer Ud-gif-ter. Klippens Top som Gra-nen bær, muntre
Sjælers
Fri-sted er, Ver-dens Tummel ned-en-for til min sky-høje Bo-lig ej
naar.]

Ole sang “Saga’s Hall.” Luther, with his sweet high tenor, was very
good, and eventually a bouquet was thrown to him. The delicate
attention seemed to be appreciated, although it was composed of straw
and red labels from the tin cans of our preserved meats, &c. Then we
had a bar or two of “God save the Queen,” and so into our tents. The
next day we made a long journey, with much snow and heavy winds. In
the afternoon we had to swim the ponies through a river—a very pretty
sight indeed—the only drawback being clouds of mosquitoes. They were
perfectly awful, and no avoiding them. We were even thankful to think
we should not have them at home for a continuance, for the remark that
we should soon get used to them afforded no comfort.

At this altitude we found the ptarmigan sitting about. The shooting
of these birds does not commence until August 15th, and they seemed
to know that we, as Englishmen, would not shoot before that day. So
we actually threw stones at them, and one old bird, when knocked off
the top of a large stone, positively came back to see what it was all
about. Soon after this we discovered _freske spör_ (new deer slots).
The dogs livened up for a time. All soon settled, however, into steady
travel again. Danjel was telescoping continually, but frequently a
supposed reindeer turned out to be only a stone in the snow, till at
last the Patriarch ventured to remark that there were “mange stor steen
in Gamle Norge, og maget god telescope jagt,” which Danjel understood
to suggest real deer instead of stones, and we should all have
preferred, as it was one of the objects of our expedition, shooting
reindeer to telescoping them. They are very wild, and quite justify the
old saying, “Mange dyr, mange øine” (many deer, many eyes). Our course
now lay from Buvalden due north, and we started in good time from
Thorbvu for the snow ranges, leaving the horses and baggage below, we
going as light as possible, with our own food for the day, and plenty
of goat cheese. At lunch Danjel explained to the Patriarch that he
should eat much goat cheese, for if he eat sufficient he should partake
of the nature of that saltatory animal, and in time jump cleverly and
boldly from rock to rock—an accomplishment in much requisition during
our wanderings.

[Illustration: _Snow Pass: Thorbvu._]

An incident of piscatorial interest occurred here. We sent a hunter,
who had never had a rod in his hand before, down to a lake, or _vand_,
to try for some trout. In an hour he came back with about twenty,
averaging nearly one pound each. Of course he was not casting, or
“flick” would have been the fate of the fly; he only trailed. Still his
success was perfect, and he was delighted with his new sport.

The male reindeer are called _bucks_, the female _ko_ and _semle ko_,
and the young _kalve_. In the daytime they roll in the snow, and if
they sleep at all, it is certainly with one eye open. Having seen
and telescoped many large stones, and taken them for deer, there was
a strong inclination to inquire more closely as to the probability
of sport, and a suppressed anxiety to hear a definite opinion as to
our chance of a shot, if nothing more. The hunter must be patient,
persevering, careful not to appear even as a moving speck on the
interminable expanse of virgin snow, and take his sport quietly, for
better or worse. Our Tentmaster had made many expeditions, had seen
many deer, and even when his chance came an impetuous—shall we say
friend?—rushed out in front of him, fired, and missed. So tradition
said. We are glad to state that this did not occur during our present
trip. His successes arrived, however, after a time, and never will he
forget the day when he killed his first reindeer. Long may he live to
kill more!

Let us here give his first experience; so pray silence for the
Tentmaster.

THE TENTMASTER’S FIRST TRIP, AND HOW HE TRIED TO GET
A REINDEER.

“In the year 1863 I ascended the glorious Norwegian fjelds for the
first time to hunt reindeer. What a charm is conveyed in these
words, ‘first time!’ The first salmon or trout caught; the first
grouse or partridge shot; the first meet at cover and burst with
the hounds; the first climb up the snow peaks of Switzerland; the
young beauty’s first London season, or first night at the opera
or ball; and last, not least, first love, all have a peculiar zest
never afterwards equalled.”

(N.B.—The Tentmaster is rather sentimental.)

[Illustration: _After Sport._]

“I experienced this feeling in August, 1863, when, journeying up the
magnificent Romsdal valley, on arriving at a station I noticed a
splendid head of reindeer horns lying outside the station-house. On
inquiry I found that a Norwegian hunter had brought them down from the
fjelds. I lost no time in searching him out, and soon arranged for
an expedition together. I had no provisions, tents, spare clothing,
or other appliances which my subsequent experience has shown to be
requisite, but began the ascent with the meagre store of some raw
coffee berries, _flatbrod_, cheese, and biscuits. The hunter (Dan I
call him) could not speak English, nor I Norske; but we got on pretty
well by pantomime. After a pleasant but toilsome three hours’ walk
through the grand scenery peculiar to the Norwegian fjelds, Dan’s
hound Passop (the reindeer hounds are held in a leash two or three
yards long) suddenly squatted down in great excitement, with his nose
steadily pointed to a huge rock about three hundred yards distant,
and gave a peculiar low whine. Dan was down immediately, and signalled
me to do the same. He was certain that reindeer were close at hand, but
a full half-hour’s telescoping failed to disclose their whereabouts.
Nothing could induce Passop to move; his sniffing nose kept steadily
in the direction of the rock; while he occasionally gave us a most
intelligent, imploring look, as much as to say, ‘Do something.’ Unable
to see any trace of deer, we dare not move. Dan thought that wherever
they were, there they would remain some time; so, with faithful Passop
on the watch, we determined to have lunch. Not a bite, however, would
Passop touch—not even _flatbrod_ thick with butter. There he squatted,
with his nose still to the rock, the model of a watchful sentinel.
Lunch finished, Dan began telescoping, and soon discovered the cause of
Passop’s agitation. The tips of antlers were visible above the rock,
and in distinct relief against the sky. They were perfectly motionless;
but we were quite sure, after many exciting inspections with the
telescope, that a large buck was resting behind the rock. As the wind
was not very favourable Dan said we must be quite still, and remain
till we saw a movement. In my innocence I wished to smoke a pipe, but
Dan forbade it. The excitement was increased by Dan saying it was a
large buck, probably an outlying sentinel, and that a herd of deer was
not far off, which proved correct. Our patience being exhausted, Dan,
much to the delight of Passop, ordered a forward crawling movement;
and, with time and patience, we got within eighty yards of the rock,
where we determined to halt and wait. The tops of the antlers were
still motionless. Poor Passop was trembling with excitement, and his
companions much the same. In this position another half-hour passed,
when suddenly Dan exclaimed, ‘Look!’ Passop became very uneasy, when
we had the pleasure of seeing a splendid _stor buck_ rise up and stand
before us broadside, with his head turned to where we were crouching.
Passop behaved splendidly, remaining perfectly still, while I shall
never forget the expression of his eyes, and his occasional side glance
at us, as much as to say, ‘Now then.’ Resting my rifle on a convenient
rock, I took aim steadily behind the shoulder, pulled the trigger, and,
to my horror, it missed fire. The buck heard the snap, and started off
at a rattling pace; Passop struggled wildly to get out of the leash;
and Dan exclaimed, ‘Gud bevar mig! Give me my riffel.’ I handed it to
him, he recapped it, and fired at about two hundred yards’ distance
without effect. Passop collapsed, and the translation of his thoughts
into English was indicated by the expression of his face, ‘I have
done my best!’ No doubt he had a clear conscience; and work being
finished, he commenced eating _flatbrod_ and butter with great zest.
The inevitable pipes were now brought out for consolation. Wonderful
weed—exquisite after a success, soothing after a defeat!

[Illustration: _Near Ovendal: after Reindeer._]

[Illustration: _An Anxious Moment._]

[Illustration: _Thorbvu: Encamping._]

“We now made our way to a stone cave to pass the night, where we
had coffee and _flatbrod_. The cave was just large enough for me to
creep in, and I passed the night on dried moss, sleeping soundly till
daybreak. The night being very fine, Dan took up his quarters outside
the cave, had coffee, and slept soundly on dried moss too. After
breakfast we started, Dan being sure we should find the herd. At one
o’clock we discerned them, fourteen in number, taking their noonday
siesta on the snow; but in vain we tried to get within shot. Next day
we saw herds of deer, but without being able to get within range on
account of the quantity of snow. On the third day I returned to the
station, much delighted with my first reindeer-hunting experiences.
Often as I have been on the fjelds since, the three days of 1863 have
not been surpassed, although

NO DEER WAS KILLED.”

[Illustration: _Easing down the Patriarch._]

• • • • •

It would be well here to say a few words respecting the tents and their
arrangement.

A regular _tente abri_ carries two very well. Of course there are
more room and comfort for a single inhabitant; still, for general
travelling, in which luggage may only too truly be described as
_impedimenta_, the tent referred to may be used. Every morning, if the
weather permits, the waterproof sheet and cork bed should be laid out
to dry, and the skins also. The trench round the tent must be well
looked to, the lines tightened, and the ponies tethered, as it is
rather disagreeable to be awakened about two A.M. by a storm
of rain and wind, and to discover your pony, with his linked fore-legs
well tangled in tent lines, doing his best to pull down the whole
concern on the heads of the occupants. Far more delightful is it to be
aroused on a bright, crisp, and fresh summer morning, when, if near a
_sæter_, the cause of it may be the jodelling of a _pige_ in charge
of the cows—Swiss as to character of song, exceedingly Norske as she
calls to them to follow. In the country districts animals follow more
frequently than they are driven. Kindliness is the rural, coercion the
town influence.

[Illustration: _The Grallock._]

Many of our readers will notice that under the initial letter at
the commencement of this chapter, the powder-flask and general
arrangement are very much like the old bandoleers still hanging in the
guard-chamber of Hampton Court Palace and others at Portsmouth. They
were most general in Charles I.’s time, and are beautifully shown in De
Gheyn’s costumes of Culverin-men and Harquebusiers. In this case the
bandoleer was made of steel, and it is faithfully rendered, with the
cord by which the whole arrangement was hung over the shoulder of the
hunter.

By this time we deserve sport. We have travelled far and worked hard
for it. Let us see the result. We had arrived at a great height, at the
snow-fields called Sneebreden, like the Folgefond in the Hardanger, We
had slid, crawled, and struggled, sometimes moving one behind the other
at an angle to reduce our surface, creeping on the crisp, dry, hard
snow, wading rivers of snow-water (very cold tubbing indeed), sloshing
at the edge of the snow, where the reindeer-flowers bloom, and going
through various other incidents of snow travelling, till at last we
arrived at a smart drop, previous to another _fond_. Here the Patriarch
had to be eased down, and his pendent position is only suggested in
the cut (p. 147). Soon Trophas began to draw upon some slots in the
snow, and it was the unanimous opinion that they were “fresh.” Trophas
pulled hard, held back by Ole, who eventually began to half trot. To
the unsentimental mind the action was that of a blind man’s dog eyeing
coppers in the distance; but Trophas was in earnest, and at last the
top of a horn burst upon us, and in a second our fate was disclosed
to us. There was nothing but the gralloch of a reindeer _kalve_ shot
yesterday—one horn, one hoof, &c.—as shown in the sketch (p. 148).
How could it be accounted for? Many suggestions were thrown out, many
improbabilities considered feasible, and at last a matter-of-fact mind
launched the frightful proposition that the glutton seen by Ole near
our tents the night before our arrival was nothing but a native hunter,
who had been stalking us, and had killed the _kalve_ of which the
remains were now at our feet. Nothing daunted, we flattered ourselves
that at all events we had now commenced in earnest, and remembered the
saw that the worst beginning has the best ending.

[Illustration: _Maritz Sæter._]

[Illustration]

Travellers in Norway are surprised, as they pass through the valleys,
to see so few cows. This is easily explained. They visit this
interesting country when these animals are away, like themselves, for a
holiday; and as every dog has his day, so every Norwegian cow has her
outing, and goes to the grass pastures in the upper plateau to enjoy
life until the white mantle of snow is ready to garb the upper ranges
and drive the cows and _piger_ down to their homesteads and winter
quarters. As already described, these _sæters_, or _châlets_, are high
up, and frequently afford the energetic nature-loving traveller and
genuine hunter cover and shelter, we may almost say comfort—_cum_
very much _grano_, though. In snow-work it becomes almost luxury to
have one of these to fly to in very bad weather. Tent life is the
most truly enjoyable thing—though there are times when a tent may be
blown down and soaked through—to say nothing of the milk supply at
hand, which is meat and drink at all times, although very filling at
the Norwegian price. This will account for our associating a _sæter_
so prominently with our snow-work. The one given in our woodcut (p.
149) was inhabited by Maritz, who was there by herself from July to
the beginning of September or end of August, according to the early or
late fall of the snow. The 20th of August generally brings the first
fall of snow in this latitude (63°). During our stay we always slept
in our tents, as we all feared the parasitical ticklings the _sæter_
would inevitably have afforded us had we given it the chance. All the
summer through the old snow lay round the antiquated wooden building,
and seldom indeed was it that Maritz had any one to speak to, as there
was no road or path of any kind. Still she was all kindness. Did she
not send a pair of cuffs to the Patriarch’s wife, and iron them, so
to speak, after her manner, with the back of a wooden spoon, as she
hummed a plaintive ditty in the minor key? Perhaps she thought the lady
would hardly like to wear them, or else that they might find their way
to some great people. Maritz, too, held to the superstitions of her
ancestors. Thus her porridge swizzle-stick—which is like the West
Indian swizzles, but larger—made from the five-shoot top of a young
fir, was always prepared with a cross cut at the end or swizzling part
of it, to keep the Evil One from turning the milk sour. This, too, she
sent with the cuffs.

A little outdoor shed, or _laave_, was our general cooking-place,
into which four of us sometimes squeezed, and, as the dogs filled up
the interstices, we were as closely packed as sardines, the whole
being seasoned with the oil of good fellowship. It is wonderful how
invigorating this life is. What a system for a sanatorium! How well
balanced should one become with such fresh air, simple food, and
exercise, and with all the energy and toughness requisite for this
work! It is inconceivable how kindly, obliging, and tender towards
others a life like this makes us. Such was the influence of our
head-quarters. Prosiness must be avoided, however; so another day on
the snow with the hopes of sport, and no buck fever if we get a chance.
Bad landmark that, if perchance it befall us. We hope it will not: if
it do we will forget it.

For our line the shortest way would be across the _vand_ where the
trout were caught, and Danjel reported the discovery of an old boat
of that class which has no iron nails about it, but all wooden pegs,
and yet not particularly inviting as to safety, as the baling-ladle of
birch wood gave the idea that whoever last used it thought it would be
wanted by the next comer. However, as the hunters were agreeable and
we could all swim, we determined to try it. So off we started, with
ominous gurglings and washings to and fro in the bottom of the boat,
fast, frequent, and furious. The ladle was heartily plied, first by one
strong arm, then by another; but still the water came. This brought to
our remembrance the Scottish Highland custom of baling the boat with
a good large shoe, and that if you only take a pair the power becomes
doubled.

[Illustration: _A Friend in Need._]

Happily we arrived safely, and soon started for a long day’s work
over unknown ground. The weather had cleared, and everything seemed
to combine in our favour. There was a hearty good spirit among our
hunters and ourselves, each fellow wishing the other good sport, and
the dogs were keen to a degree. They longed for a revenge after the
affair of the old gralloch, and flattered themselves that, if we were
not unlucky, they would get fresh blood before nightfall. We were soon
beginning to ascend steadily, and about an hour after starting, the
Patriarch, working his way under some overhanging rocks, met with a
surprise. An eagle, a large specimen, swept over his head and shadowed
him. With his rifle in its case and across his back, the noble bird
was safe, and the Patriarch delighted. Must there not be a nest? Yes,
there was. Rough sticks and the lightest of down feathers were all that
it was made of—rude, simple, and, one would think, uncomfortable for
so grand a bird. Some of the down feathers were taken as a souvenir,
and now and then brought out and floated, so light are they, in
recollection of our having found one of the noblest of birds at home.

[Illustration: _The Eagle’s Nest._]

By mid-day we were out on the open snow, with hardly any rock shelter
for stalking, should fortune favour us. The reindeer, however, were not
“at home;” so we stopped at a suitable rock for lunch. How we enjoyed
it! Old Trophas wagged his tail with a conviction that “no sport, no
food,” would never be his fate as long as there was something left in
our wallets. So we all rejoiced together, winding up with a little
whiskey and hearty wishes for good sport.

Soon after lunch the tips of some horns were just visible on the
snow-line. A large expanse of snow lay before us, with some small rocks
half-way. Could we reach them? No; so we waited for the chance of the
deer working up our way. Unfortunately they moved in the opposite
direction, and our chance was gone. Still we had seen some, and that
inspired fresh hope. Later in the afternoon we again saw a herd, and
telescoped them for a length of time. Soon after this a second herd
became visible, and it was most interesting to watch their manœuvres,
which we did until they joined and moved off—of course in the opposite
direction. An immense expanse of snow was now before us, and once we
saw four herds of reindeer, and could count about one hundred and
forty. For a long time we had hope, and agreed that if we could only
get one we should be satisfied; but even that was denied, for the four
herds gradually blended and went straight off, leaving us in the most
perfect solitude, reindeerless.

[Illustration: _Reindeer Head._[5]]

[5] This head, of forty-one points, is in the collection of Sir Charles
Mordaunt, Bart., at Walton Hall.

By this time we had a long distance to travel to get back to our tents.
Fortunately the light fades so little that it hardly signifies; still
great care is required to judge of the best footing after leaving the
snow, as the hunter leads, and can go any way, even to rolling down
places like a hedgehog, and sometimes sitting down for a slide. Indeed,
going home becomes a kind of steeple-chase over unknown ground. In such
cases woe and grief must be the fate of the novice. At the highest
elevation we passed an immense boulder, very much like the Logan Stone,
and of similar dimensions, though perhaps larger. On the top of this
was a much smaller one, but of different geological formation. This
gave rise to considerable discussion about the glacial theory, as there
was a non-believer present. What could have produced this remarkable
combination but the action of glaciers passing over the surface,
bearing huge masses of rock from distant parts, and, as the ice melted
away, depositing them? These boulders were found at an elevation of
5,000 feet or more. We also met with a most interesting instance of
pink snow, very marked indeed in colour. All these varied phases of
nature did much to repay us for our disappointment respecting the deer.
This the difficulties of the descent also made us for the time forget,
as Danjel Kulingen was tearing away as hard as he could possibly go,
sometimes letting himself down, then hanging on to the undergrowth of
heather, sliding, rolling, or jumping. We often solaced ourselves with
the idea that if we could only get him on the flat for ten miles for a
finish, we could give him a spin and run him in at high speed.

[Illustration: _Red Deer Head._]

Whilst we had been telescoping the deer our Aalesund friend was having
sport. On our return we found that he had been over to our tent to see
us, and had left word of “Sport, sport,” and a message to try for a
meet. This, unfortunately, could not be arranged, or we should have
seen joy depicted on his face when he described to us where and how he
killed his first reindeer.

The Norwegians believe that the horns of the reindeer, boiled down,
are good for consumptive people. There is no doubt that the reindeer
themselves eat, or rather gnaw them when they are shed, which occurs
in November. The males shed their horns first, the females retaining
them longer. We found several horns partially gnawed through, and, when
we consider the number of deer, there must be some reason why the shed
horns are not more frequently picked up. The same idea of horn soup
for consumptive cases occurs in Scotland, where the horns of red deer
are also found gnawed. One would imagine that the best time for this
_potage_ would be when the horn was first formed, and the “velvet” is
on, or when the horn is being renewed; and during this period it is
very warm indeed, as large arteries run inside the velvet, or horn
skin, and are engaged in depositing bone on the old stems, until the
horns are complete and the velvet fretted off in September.

The reindeer, like ptarmigan, become white during the winter, and in
their wild state present a great contrast to the sheeplike tameness of
those possessed by Laplanders. The Laps have a regular call for their
tame deer, which generally come at once; but if not, the proprietor has
generally his lasso with him, which is thrown over the animal’s loins,
and he is at once a prisoner. The good travelling pace of reindeer is
well known, being about ten miles an hour, with two hundred pounds
weight at their back. In their wild state their pace was beyond
computation when we were behind them. We could well say that we had
been “after reindeer,” and that is all. The only way to have sport in
such a country as Norway is patiently to settle down to it, without
fixing a time for returning. A river is not always right, nor the water
in condition. So is it with the reindeer hunter: a thousand things
may occur to mar his success. The very wind is sometimes wrong, and
may chop round at the moment when he hopes it will hold on steadily
for an hour or two; while, on the other hand, it may change at some
fortunate moment exactly in his favour. No; there is no royal road to
such sports as these. The charm of uncertainty must at all times attach
to real sport. It must be worked for, and directly the uncertainty
is removed its real charm is gone, and the relish for it dissipated.
The mere act of shooting and killing lasts but a second of time; it
is the surroundings which afford the real pleasure—the fresh air,
the change of scene, the care required in every detail, the sportsman
never knowing but that the very next moment some interesting incident
may transpire which would make the day, hour, and spot a landmark; the
necessity for watching every breath of air, the most delicate zephyr
being registered and measured by the painstaking hunter, as he brings
out tenderly some carefully preserved pieces of the finest floss silk,
or, better far, some of the eagle’s down feathers already alluded to.
Again, the dogs require constant attention; and, to be quite complete,
a coronet of eagles’ eyes—optical all-rounders—would be an assistance.

[Illustration]

Fishing for salmon, and the love which Englishmen have for that
grandest of all sports, have led to the opening up of Norway to the
general traveller. Our first pioneers, finding how importunate were
the inquiries of the new-comers respecting the best spots and methods
for sport, and that the inclination of some led them to try and bid
above others for the waters they had really well earned by their own
energy and perception—all this, we say, tended to make men on board
the good ship _Tasso_ rather _taciturn_. (Excuse the approach to an
unintentional pun.) This, however, is not surprising, for men are
compelled to be reticent when they know the inevitable consequences of
giving details of their sport. Nothing will secure success but earnest
work, patience, and biding your time for the happy combination which
the best rivers can only afford now and then. Why, as we have just
observed, the whole charm of sport would be dispelled if it became a
dead certainty, and a man knew he would kill so many pounds of fish one
day, and none the next. No; like the glorious uncertainty of cricket
and hunting, the uncertainty of fishing is one of its charms; the
average of good and bad is equalised, and the old French proverb comes
in, that “Patience et longueur de temps font plus que la rage.” The
noble salmon has become liable to increased and more subtle dangers
within the last few years, besides his old natural enemies. The
peasants have new means of torture. His natural foes are the bull-trout
and sea-trout, which are the vermin of every river, destroying the
spawn wholesale, and even lying in wait for the moment when the female
deposits her milt, an instance of which came under our observation.
The nets at the mouth of the river are an old institution, but they
should be well constructed and supervised; also the _tine_, or stage,
described in a former chapter, where the _bonde_ is anything but the
“sweet little cherub that sits up aloft;” still it is an old custom,
and we like old customs. So also is the “worm box” which hangs from the
peasant’s belt as he goes for some trout, or anything else that may be
tempted. The worm box is a very primitive construction, its simplicity
being well carried out in the birch twig by which it is suspended,
and the two pieces of leather through which the lid slides. It is a
picturesque relic of old days.

[Illustration: _Worm Box._]

We now approach the recent diabolical invention of the “otter,” which,
sad to relate, must have been introduced thoughtlessly by some one
who little knew what damage he was doing when, for his own selfish
gratification, he fell back upon so unlawful and unsportsmanlike
an expedient. Even to obtain food such poaching is unjustifiable.
Certainly enough could have been taken for that purpose by fair means.
It is of no use, however, dilating upon this; the deed is done, and
otters cannot be withdrawn now. If the arm of the law were stretched
forth, “les pommes volées” would become more than ever “les plus
douces.” Then, again, the kindly feeling engendered by good sport and
a certain sense of gratitude frequently leads, at the end of a visit,
to a gift of flies, perhaps even of a rod. In illustration of this let
us repeat the case of the proprietor of a river who gave to Nils, his
_elve-wakker_, a salmon rod and flies. Early in the season Nils began
to avail himself of the new fishing-gear, and soon wrote home to his
benefactor to say that the salmon were coming up the river, but that
he had broken both tops of the rod, and lost most of the flies; would
the gentleman kindly send out some more flies and tops to get the
river ready for him? We do not think this was done; it could hardly be
expected that any man would like all the salmon he killed to be landed
with more than one fly, perhaps one in his mouth, one in each fin, and
finally one in his tail. What an awful apparition for even the merest
tyro! Such liberality is simply mistaken kindness. This brings to mind
other stories concerning salmon-fishing.

It is often remarked that “truth is stranger than fiction.” When an
M.P. fishing in Scotland played and held his fish all night, and on
the following morning lost him, and a friend of his afterwards killed
a salmon with one of the M.P.’s favourite flies in his tail, that was
certainly an event, but hardly to be compared with what we are about to
relate. In the large rivers of Norway a fishing may extend four miles,
and the fishing next to that only three, so that different waters are
let to different persons. In the present instance our foreign Izaak
Walton was fishing the very top water, and, as good luck would have it,
hooked a _stor lax_, perchance a forty-pounder. He played him firmly
and steadily, but the fish after a time got the gentleman at the reel
end of the rod through the next water and the next. Hours rolled on,
yet still down they went, and by the next morning arrived at a shallow
part of the river. A Norwegian peasant came up, and, despite the
national dislike to going into the water, plunged into the river, and
walked out with the _stor lax_ in his arms—DEAD, and reported
that he must have been dead for the _last five hours_. Nevertheless he
got him, and a fine fish he was, with one fly in the right place.

[Illustration: _Fresh Fish al Fresco._]

[Illustration: _The Stige-steen, or Ladder Rock._]

The Norwegians have a great admiration and respect for a good
fisherman. One morning, speaking of the average sport of the river,
and referring to that of last year, we inquired if —— were a good
fisherman. Knut answered emphatically, “No; he is a poor man, a very
poor man.” We naturally replied, “But in England he is a very rich
man.” “Ah!” said Knut with strong emphasis, “when he was here he was no
richer than we, but the flies bite him much more.” What contentment!
no envying, although a latent satisfaction creeps out, which decidedly
evinces an undercurrent of thought.

Trout-fishing has the great charm of taking Piscator into the most
lovely and retired spots. The salmon, as a larger fish, takes us to
a grander scale of nature. The water of the cheerful little trout
stream is changed for the rushing river, and the comparatively low
bank sometimes gives place to a position like that in the annexed
illustration, which was taken from above a grand pool, the Stige-steen,
or Ladder Rock, connecting it with the side of the river.

Having said somewhat of fishing, let us now turn to the “aldermanic
view” of the salmon, and hark back to a happy day when a lady had
killed a nice fish, about fourteen pounds and a half, which was to be
cooked on the spot: it is well to observe the process and make a note
thereof. Cut the salmon in slices, and boil them for ten minutes; then
let the water in which they were cooked boil on, with the head added;
put in a little fresh butter, pepper, and salt, and serve as gravy
or sauce. With a Norwegian appetite it is perfect, and very simple.
N.B.—Fish killed at noon, served at two P.M. This is fresh
fish, and contrasts most favourably with the frozen salmon which
travels ice-bound to the metropolis of Great Britain.

Evening is the best time for fishing, and the long twilight, which
helps the enthusiast for trout and salmon fishing at eleven or twelve,
can only be realised by those who know the glories of the North. It
seems a curious thing to take, when travelling, a green blind in order
to exclude the light when wishing to go to sleep; still it is necessary
at first, although Nature is so elastic that she readily adapts herself
to circumstances, when the green blind can be given to some new-comer,
or lent as a passing boon.

[Illustration: _Casting._]

One word in reference to the illustration, “A Good Beginning.” It was
our last morning: wind, rain, mist low down—in fact, blowing hard.
No. 3 was up at five A.M., and found the Tentmaster-general
had passed a restless night, every coverlet and blanket being
knotted, twisted, and twined into the most perfect disorder. This
was attributed to the fact that it was his last night that season in
Norway, and his usually placid sleep had been disturbed with Norske
nightmare. He must have been dreaming of trolds and _nökken_, and
fancied that he was gaffing ogres or _bjergtrolds_ instead of fine
clean fish. The weather was the last straw which broke the camel’s
back—he would not go. “You go,” was his rejoinder. So the Patriarch
went; and this was the result to greet his companions when they came
down to breakfast.

[Illustration: _A Good Beginning._]

There is a great charm about the freedom of driving one’s own pony
and carriole, or _stolkjær_, for a long run, or even for a short
excursion; it conduces to the peaceful rest we are all longing for,
and saves one from reminders that at the next station the horses will
be charged for if we do not hurry on. This is rather tantalising when
one is drinking in nature, and realising the fact that each moment is
revealing fresh beauties and developing lifelong impressions—the very
time when one wants to be left to nature and himself. In the excursion
now before us we had our own ponies part of the way, and pedestrianism
for cross country. Our route was from Romsdal, the weird valley where,
on the previous evening, the trolds had been playing pranks in the
following manner:—About 8.30 a tremendously heavy roll as of thunder,
lasting forty seconds, brought us suddenly to the window. The mist was
hanging round the peaks, with cirri-strati across them; down came the
_steen-skreed_, or slip, with a mighty rush; and the cloud was driven
out by the shower of rocks and stone as they came madly down. It was
unusually grand. The sheep boy with his horn ran in, Anna rushed to the
door to see it, and as she came the dust rose up in a cloud as incense
after Nature’s work. Ole remarked that it was a fine shower, and very
impressive it certainly was; still Anna said she did not like it. In
some cases in the winter-time the peasants go on to the ice to avoid
the possibility of these erratic masses reaching them.

We were soon off to Gudbransdalen, calling as usual at Fladmark—that
lovely spot, beautiful to a degree if you have provisions. Should such
be the case, you certainly must have brought them, for the station
is not one of refreshment, as Mrs. Brassey testified by her anxiety
to regain her yacht, the _Sunbeam_, which is truly a sunbeam to her
friends. Long may it be so to her and her husband and son!

We must leave the hurly-burly of rocks through which the Rauma
dashes in this part. Rocks the size of detached villas seem to have
been “chucked” about, for this is the only term we can bestow upon
such higgledy-piggledy positions. One can only realise the idea by
imagining one’s self a minute insect in a basin of lump sugar, with a
great rushing river beneath.

[Illustration]

Arriving at Mølmen, we found it a most healthy spot, and worth staying
at for a time, as the people are so kind, and the whole surroundings
inviting. Being on a high plateau, the air is perfect, and the place
seems to be more than usually fortunate in its weather. The following
morning, there being no service at kirk, we availed ourselves of the
perfect weather for enjoyment on the hillside. Striking off from the
houses, we sauntered up through the stunted birch and the heather till
the grey rocks became more prominent, the vegetation sparse, the plants
closer to the ground, and then we lay down on the fjeld side. What a
view there was beneath us! The whole scene was a rare combination of
all the prismatic colours so characteristic of Scotland in October.
At our feet was the long Lesje Vand, beyond that the Dovre fjeld,
and we fancied we could see Sneehatten; then, away to the right,
were snow ranges to Storhættan, which is ascended from Ormem. How we
basked in the sunlight and longed for more life on the fjeld! “Why
should we not go to Eikesdal?” said Ole all at once. “That would be
fine: why not?” The idea was caught at. “How long would it take to
walk, Ole?” “Well, eighteen hours if there is no mist.” “Very well,
then; no mist, if you please, and we will do it.” This was a new joy:
eighteen hours’ walk without a house to call at, carrying one’s own
nosebag, and great doubts as to a bed on arriving—more delightful
still! This is enjoyment indeed, though not to every one, perhaps. We
therefore decided to start the next morning at three A.M., provided
there was neither mist on the mountains nor the chance of it. How we
revelled on the journey in anticipation, enhanced as our happiness was
by the beauty of the scene and the grandeur of the surroundings! All
the way down we conversed on our coming walk, interrupted only by a
visit to a farm, where we heard some of the good folk singing. It was
hay-time; the weather fine, with a refreshing breeze that gently waved
the new-cut grass as it hung from the frames, like huge towel-horses,
which are used for drying it. We were invited to enter the farmhouse,
where we found the room tidied up for Sunday, and the family singing
a hymn in their customary devotional manner. There was the usual
three-cornered cupboard; an old gun which had laid low many a good
buck, the powder-flask, primer, and ball-bag were ready for August;
the ivy was carefully trained up the windows inside; and the ale-bowls
and tankards were about the room. It was quite a Norwegian homestead.
One thing was unusual—a musical instrument called a _psalmodicum_,
which is a board painted green with red flowers, about an inch thick
and thirty inches long, with three strings raised on a bridge like a
violin. These strings are played with a bow, also of the violin class,
but different in character. We regretted very much that we could not
persuade any one to perform upon it.

[Illustration: _Wool Holder._]

On our return we found the proposed trip emanated from the fact that
a house-painter was going over to Eikesdal, and had been waiting for
clear weather to carry out his object. By the next morning a farmer
from Eikesdal proposed joining us: he knew the way. This completed
our party, and at four o’clock we started, with every assurance of
fine weather. Working up through the stunted birch-trees, we soon
looked over the heights of the Vermer Fos to Storhættan. The Svart-hø
rose behind us, and approaching the snow-line, we came upon the
reindeer-flower (_Ranunculus glacialis_), with its sharp-pointed leaves
and beautiful white blossom. Then the dreary Gravendal opened to us,
wild, bleak, weird, and barren to a degree, with Amra Jura on our
right, directly over Eikesdal, far, far away. About this time there was
a grand solar rainbow. We now got very rough rock-tramping—regular
_couloir_ climbing—and there was no vegetation, the moss being of the
“crottle” tribe, a perfectly black lichen. As we ascended the peaks
were grander. Many reindeer _spör_ were seen, but no reindeer. At the
highest part we found the snow discoloured by a very fine dark gritty
dust; and it is a remarkable fact that this discoloration was the
result of volcanic eruption in Iceland. After the eruption a gale set
in from the W.S.W., which on Easter Monday, 1875, positively carried
the clouds of scoriæ right across Norway. The line was followed even to
Sweden, and corroborated by some peasants who were out when it fell.

A volcanic eruption in Iceland is a serious matter. One of the worst
occurred in 1783. On that occasion 14,000 persons were killed. In the
eruption of 1875, the vegetation, which provided for 40,000 sheep,
2,000 cattle, and 3,000 horses, was all destroyed. The hay harvest, the
only one in Iceland, was also entirely destroyed. Scoriæ, varying from
fine pumice to pieces the size of two fists, covered its surface from
an inch and a half to eight inches deep. The eruption began about nine
A.M., and when the scoriæ fell there was total darkness. The
air was so highly charged with electricity that staff-spikes held up in
the hand seemed to be in a blaze.

We soon began to descend a little to a vast plateau. Our provisions had
been fallen back upon every few hours, and were now much reduced. The
farmer looked forward to the plateau as being likely to afford some
_multebær_, a kind of raspberry with a hard skin, but juicy. A good and
most useful man was the farmer. Favoured by the weather, he steered
well, and we soon came to an incline on the snow, where we could make
a long and safe _glissade_. It was certainly a novelty to see us all
flying down. The farmer was the best man, and happily we reached the
bottom in safety. Another hour and we lay down to rest and enjoy our
_multebær_. They were deliciously refreshing. The house-painter, or
_maler_, suggested that there was a _sæter_ somewhere at the head of
Eikesdal which we might try for. “That is just what we are making
for,” said our cheery chief, the farmer; “in about an hour we shall be
there.” On we went, our fatigue being forgotten in the grandeur of the
scenery and the difficulty of picking one’s way, for hopping from stone
to stone absorbs the attention considerably. The time soon passed,
and after we had completed our twelve hours’ walk we had arrived at
some weather-worn, storm-riven, dwarfed, gnarled, and twisted birches,
beyond which, in a _botten_, lay our _sæter_. What an invasion! The
two girls were astonished, but when they heard the voice of the farmer
all was well. Ole immediately ordered a _bunker_, as it is called
in Romsdal; in Gudbransdalen it is termed _rummer coller_. How we
enjoyed our rest after this simple food! A _bunker_, however, should
be described: it is a flat wooden tub of curds and whey, and is handed
to two people. Each person is armed with a spoon, with which it is
etiquette to draw a line across the centre for your _vis-à-vis_ to eat
up to, not beyond; but few Englishmen ever reach the line unless they
are very old hands.

[Illustration: _Reeb Holder._]

We were now at the head of the Eikesdal gorge, or valley; a roaring
torrent rushed down the centre to Utigaard; on the left were
steep precipices with a large fall; while the opposite side was
perpendicular, and threatened showers of troll stones. As we descended
we saw many huge masses of rocks which had ploughed their way down,
carrying all before them. To see one of these _lapsus naturæ_ is a very
impressive sight, and makes one hold his breath and think. Passing
through the valley, we noticed some very curious snow shoes, in form
like the square frames on which sea-lines are wound, but with broader
cross-pieces. Birch twigs on each side and over the foot fix them. On
we trudged, having bidden farewell to the farmer, thanked him for his
good services, and had a _skaal_ for Gamle Norge. Finally, we left the
house-painter at his destination, where the old lady told us all about
the dust coming down upon her; and then Ole and myself were alone to
finish the day. We had started at four A.M., and it was now
ten P.M. We at length saw the spire of a church—the kirk at
Utigaard—and we began to inquire for Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard, the
hunter. At last we found his house, but he was on the fjeld. Could we
get a bed anywhere? No, nothing. Ole persevered, and we presently found
comfort. Torstin was expected down from the fjeld that night with an
English gentleman, whose servant most kindly gave me his bed. After
awhile down they came. Enter Torstin, a grand-looking fellow, drenched.
They had killed a _semle ku_, and had left two men behind to bring it
down next day. In the morning they arrived with it, forming the wildest
reunion of hunters. The Finmark dog, quite black, looked a beauty as
he lay by the dead reindeer. “Blenk”—for such was his name—was a
good and trusty servant: neither biped nor quadruped would venture to
interfere with him when he was on duty. It was a splendid group, worthy
of the pencil of a Landseer.

After the pouring rain of the previous evening, which had continued
through the night, we all had hopes of fine weather for our trip,
and still more did we desire to see, before leaving, Utigaard in the
beauty of sunshine. But no; on arising at about five, we found dirtier
weather than ever; the mist low down; Blenk still keeping watch by the
reindeer which had been brought down; every kind of waterproof oilskin
being looked out; and a great demand for sou’-westers. At last the
_stolkjær_ was packed, and everything ready to go down to the boats.
The baggage on the _stolkjær_ was surmounted by a reindeer head, Blenk
ever in attendance, and Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard leading the pony
as our chief. Then we were off, looking something between fishermen and
smugglers.

It was with much regret we took our last look at Utigaard as we settled
down in the boats _en route_ for Syltebø. The valley was grand in
the extreme, the mist sometimes breaking up over the sky-line with a
sudden rush, as if thankful to get loose and range over the fjeld with
freedom. Hardly were we under way, and the crew settled down to the
steady-going pace which Norwegians can keep up for any length of time,
when Utigaard burst out wondering who could have been the figures he
telescoped on the snow on the previous day—the fellows who had nearly
spoilt their sport and frightened their deer at the very moment when
they thought they had the “rein” well in hand. What could people be
doing up there? why should they go? who had ever seen any one in that
part of the fjeld? At last the thought flashed across his mind that it
might have been us. Was it? Yes, most undoubtedly it was, but happily
we had unintentionally turned the deer; it was, however, the right
way, so no harm had been done. The deer had been bagged, and we now all
rejoiced together.

[Illustration: _Eikesdal._]

As the three boats rowed steadily in solemn procession down the _vand_
we approached the Vika Pass on the starboard side. At this point the
lake is most imposing, its grandeur much enhanced by the mist, which
is ever changing, ever beautiful in form and intensity. Soon some of
the favourite old Norwegian songs were started, the chorus being echoed
by the other boats. On the opposite side of the Vika Pass there had
been a great _steen-skreed_; and so immense are the surroundings that
it was impossible to realise the extent of the devastation until
we approached the base of it, as it had dashed and lumbered into the
lake; then the huge masses revealed themselves in their unmistakable
proportions, dwarfing our boats to mere insignificant specks by their
side.

[Illustration: _Volda._]

Near this spot bears have been seen, and one was tracked only lately.
This led to the subject of bear-traps and “self-shooters,” when the
Tentmaster-general enlarged on the _modus operandi_ adopted by the
postmaster at Sundal. He knew there were bears, and having fully
studied the spot, determined to lay a “self-shooter,” if possible, or
at all events a trap; and this he very ingeniously so arranged that
when the trap caught Master Bruin a red flag should go up: this he
could see with a telescope from the post-office as he sat sorting the
letters. Some people had noticed that the latter operation took much
longer than usual about this time; still no one attributed the delay to
the postmaster’s love of bear-hunting, and they little thought that he
sorted with one eye and watched for Bruin with the other. At last one
day the postmaster saw the red flag. This was too much; the letter eye
immediately joined the fun. He was off at once to the bear, shot him,
and brought him home; and during the year he managed to get four.

Hard as it rained, we were very sorry when our boat trip drew to a
close, and we felt that we should soon have to bid farewell to Torstin
and Eikesdal Lake, with its many joys, rough life, and hearty welcomes.
We had a glorious walk from the lake to Syltebø, and were glad when
we saw in the distance the white house which was to be our haven of
rest, and to welcome us as friends. Soon after our arrival our host
came in from the river with a good fish; and many a one has been taken
from that stream, in spite of the change which has come over Norwegian
rivers within the last few years. When English sportsmen began fishing
in Norway the _bönder_ attached no value to salmon. They were surprised
to see them caught with such slight rods and tackle; but, as soon as it
dawned upon them that salmon were worth so much per pound, they began
to help themselves by netting them at the mouth of the river, before
they could ascend the stream which the enthusiastic Piscator had paid
a good sum to rent. The natural consequence is that Norwegian rivers do
not afford the sport they once did.

Whilst shooting at Syltebø, one of my friends found a beautiful
specimen of amethystic crystal of considerable size. From here a
steamer runs to Molde, one of the northern sea-coast centres, and true
to its time the little screw came off the landing-place with hardly
any one on board, for the season was far advanced: most tourists and
sportsmen had returned, and we enjoyed it all the more, as it afforded
us a better opportunity of seeing the people themselves.

The variety in Norwegian travel adds greatly to one’s enjoyment. In
the present trip we started from a rich expansive valley; thence
we ascended through woods of birch and alder by a torrent’s side,
vegetation became stunted and sparse, mosses gradually disappeared,
and lichens preponderated; then came barren boulders, and, above all,
the everlasting snow. Having attained this, our journey was varied
by a descent to the wild gorge of Utigaard; the Lake of Eikesdal, a
vast body of water, with its grand fall; then again, after the boating
procession, through the valley of Syltebø, by the side of its salmon
river, to the sea; and finally we were on the deck of the bustling
little screw steamer. On stopping at the first place we were surprised
to see a large boat coming off, mushroomed with huge umbrellas, whence
issued the music of Norwegian voices, and evidently those of ladies;
but as they neared the steamer the soft strains ceased, and they
came alongside in silence. Our array of oilskins, waterproofs, and
sou’-westers announced that foreigners were on board. We, however,
considered that this treasure trove should not be a dead letter on
a rainy day, and the Patriarch broached the subject of Norwegian
music, which happily led to an encore of all the boat songs and
many others, reinforced with much gusto by the chorus of oilskins,
waterproofs, and sou’-westers. They were a happy band—all ladies and
no gentlemen—going to a party at the _præstegaard_, some few miles
down the fjord. They assured us the priest would be very pleased to
see us, and give us a hearty welcome. It was with much regret we were
compelled to decline the invitation, especially as it would have
afforded a pleasing episode in our trip, and given us an opportunity
of seeing the _vie intime_ of a Norwegian minister’s home _en fête_.
As their boat left the steamer, they sang one of our favourite songs,
and our modest chorus followed it at a gradually increasing distance
until both faded away. After this cheerful but soaking morning we
comforted ourselves with stories of the fjeld, salmon, and Norwegian
life. Happily the Tentmaster-general was in great force, and, when
called upon for a yarn, responded with “muckle hilarity,” giving us one
of his reindeer experiences. Can we do better than repeat it here?

[Illustration: _Syltebø: with Farm Implements._]

First scene, _tente abri_ on the fjeld. Snow close above; in fact,
too much snow for sport. The Tentmaster-general telescoping alone in
the camp, if one may so call two tents. Having had a very hard and
weary stalk on the previous day, he was resting whilst the Major and
Dan went up after deer. Soon after they had settled down to work, the
Finmark dog “Passop” became very uneasy, and so fretted the string by
which he was led that Dan thought he might break away, which would be
sudden destruction to everything; he therefore carried the dog in his
arms. Shortly afterwards, Dan, doubtlessly becoming slightly tired of
carrying the dog, relaxed his hold a little. At that moment Passop
caught sight of a buck, sprang from Dan’s arms, and bolted after the
deer. Dan threw up his arms in despair, and gave vent to several
Norwegian hunting quotations unfavourable to Passop’s future happiness.
One thing was certain—the dog would go till he died from sheer
exhaustion, and Dan would never recover his favourite Finmarker. Dan
soliloquised, and watched long with his telescope, and finally gave way
to grief. The next few hours were very blank and sad—deer and Passop
both gone. In the afternoon, with melancholy thoughts and sluggish
conversation, they began retracing their steps to the camp, which
was about six miles distant. As soon as they were in sight of their
fjeld home the Tentmaster-general came cheerfully to meet them, for he
had seen seven deer steadily going down to a lake, and had anxiously
awaited the return of Passop. No time, however, was to be lost. Off he
went in pursuit alone, with the Major’s rifle. Hardly had he got away
from the camp when he caught a glimpse of more deer—two this time,
both going to the edge. He lay down to watch them, for patience as well
as judgment is required in reindeer work. After some time a strange
sound, like the bark of a dog, came down; but who ever heard the bark
of a dog in the wilds of the fjeld and on the snow? Listening again, in
a few minutes, from behind a huge boulder, came a _stor buck_ straight
on, with a dog close behind. What a chance! Happily the Tentmaster was
equal to the occasion. In the twinkling of an eye the shot was fired,
the buck was hit, but carried his bullet with him, and made for the
water. The dog gaining on him a little, he dashed into the water to
swim for it; but Passop dashed in too, for by this time our hunter had
recovered from his astonishment at the strange dog, and recognised it
as Passop. The ice-water of these lakes is, of course, intensely, cold,
and the dog was obliged to come back: he, however, did not do so until
he had had a good tug at the deer, which by this time had turned on his
side and was dead. A second time Passop tried to reach him, and was
obliged to return; but the third time he got on his back, and sitting
there, held the horns in his teeth. As the dog could not bring him
ashore, what was to be done? By this time the Major had come up, and
determined to swim for him, and tow him on shore. The ice-water was too
cold for him also, and he was obliged to turn back. The deer was too
far out to lasso, even could they lead the line up from the camp. But
_nil desperandum_. Hardly had their wondering got full swing when a
tremendous squall swept down the hillside, caught the deer and Passop,
and they drifted in. The Major made another attempt, and the deer was
landed. They were soon off to the camp, where Dan, with a very sad
heart, was preparing _speise_. When the latter looked up and saw them
coming, accompanied by his beloved dog, his expression soon changed,
and Passop was caught up into his arms as quickly as he had sprung
from them in the morning, while Dan, with a radiant face and his head
a little on one side, turning round to the Tentmaster-general, said,
“Good man, Maget good man.” Passop was made much of, Dan’s happiness
restored, and the one bottle of champagne was iced in the snow, to
drink to “Rensdyr jagt paa hoie fjeld.” It was a great day happily
terminated, and long to be remembered.

For some days we had been on the tramp, and arrived at Indfjord.
Thursday, August 20th, 1875, was a sad day there. Returned from a
long tour through very wild, rough districts, where neither food nor
lodgings were to be had, we were settling down for a good night’s rest,
certainly under difficulties, at the house of a good farmer named Ole
Erikson Boe, when the gruesome news came of a disaster in the mountains
above. A tremendous rock crash, or _steen-skreed_, had taken place at
a spot called Sylbotten, some three thousand feet above, where there
were two _sæters_ occupied by two _piger_, who had charge of the cows
belonging to the good people down the valley. We started off at once.
In a more than quiet spot like this, with what a crash does such news
burst upon every one! What sympathy it brings out; what interest in the
details of the occurrence! What sadness marks each face, and how quiet
and subdued all are, though all are talking!

We pass on, with a little provision in our wallets, and soon come to
some reapers in the valley, working in the fields, with leather aprons
for their protection. We started with Halve Jacobsen, the owner of
the _sæter_, who went up, taking a pony and foal, in case the mare’s
services were required: the foal always runs by the mother. On our sad
mission we could not be otherwise than struck with the joyfulness of
this young animal, its abounding spirits, caprioles, and quirks and
capers. Before arriving at the steep part of the ascent we stopped at
a small outbuilding close to the farm, the front of the house looking
over the Indfjord, with a grand expanse before one, the morning light
shimmering down to the edge of the water far, far below, and all
seeming peace and gladness. At the back of the house, between that and
the _laave_, we found a vastly different scene—pain, grief, and heavy
hearts. What a contrast to the brightness on the fjord side—the sunny
side that was! The anxious group was in shadow, comparatively speaking,
the centre attraction being a roughly made stretcher, on which was
lying, hardly conscious, pale, agonized, and bone-broken, Ingeborg,
Erichsdatter, Griseth. Poor girl! she had been brought down some three
thousand feet by a very steep _sæter_ path—for there was hardly any
road—jogged and shaken, with one leg broken, ribs crushed, and her
face much cut and bruised by the cracking up of the _sæter_ before the
overwhelming force which carried it away. Around her were the _bönder_
folk, and one poor old woman whose grief seemed beyond consolation.
The autumn was advanced, and the winter coming quickly on, for the
first snow days had begun. She had only one cow to support her: that
was at Sjolbotten, and was killed, so her only hope of livelihood was
for the moment swept from her, as no cow could be got under £5, and
“no siller had she.” What a chance for some rich Samaritan to heal a
broken heart for the small sum of £5! But as “many a mickle makes a
muckle,” so, doubtless, would a new cow be bought by the kindly spirits
of the good Indfjord folk. Their love for each other is a lesson to
even the most civilised among us. Indeed, it is very noticeable that
small communities care for everybody, while large masses notice no
individual—only charitable institutions.

[Illustration: _Looking across Indfjord._]

But we have not yet commenced the ascent. The mare leads through the
brushwood, the cheerful foal diverging now and then in the self-conceit
of all young things, fancying they know better than their mothers. It
was a steep climb. The mare slipped; but Halve said it was all right,
she knew the way. The morning was warm, and, as soon as we arrived
at a kind of ledge looking over the valley and fjord, we halted.
What a lovely, or rather, what a grand scene it was! Still there was
no forgetting our mission—no shaking off its sadness. Our present
object, after Ingeborg’s arrival, was to go up and see after her
companion, Ingrana. Our halt was not for long. We had already taken off
our coats, and hung them on a pine-stump. To our surprise, Halve left
his there until our return, and said, when we did not, “You can leave
anything as you like in Gamle Norge.”

[Illustration: _The Halt at Griseth._]

_En route_, in three hours we had left our last brier and alder behind,
and were on the plateau of the High Fjeld, and found much _smörgrass_,
so good for cows. As _smör_ is the Norse for butter, it will explain
the name. For a long time we tramped over the _botten_, carpeted with
rich flora; but at the end we saw the _steen-skreed_, or landslip. Some
four or five _bönder_ were already there, and seemed very surprised
to see a foreigner coming up with Halve. A few words of explanation,
and all was understood: one common object in view, that of helping
each other, soon bound us together. Ingrana naturally had not been to
sleep since the disaster. It is difficult to imagine any Norske _pige_
nervous, but poor Ingrana had been shaken and frightened out of her
wits. Her description, after a little entreaty and patience on the
part of the persuader, ran thus:—Early in the morning Ingrana was
awakened by a heavy rolling sound of thunder, followed directly by a
crash. She rushed from her _sæter_, and, coming out of her door, saw
Ingeborg’s _sæter_ carried away and buried. It is difficult to realise
the feelings of this simple-minded girl, living so solitary a life for
three months. In a moment—a second of time—one was taken and the
other left. Ten cows also were buried; and, no help being at hand,
Ingrana had to go down this lonely mountain with the sad news, leaving
her companion fixed, pinned, and crushed until she could return with
assistance.

We arrived after three and a half hours’ hard ascent, when some sour
milk that had been left was given us. The Englishman elicited a smile
from Ingrana when, taking the bowl from his lips, his moustache was
white with cream. This was hopeful and a good sign.

The slip was accelerated by a very large waterspout striking the face
of the mountain, as amongst the rocks which were brought down was a
quantity of sand, and the presence and action of water were palpable,
deep pools being left in many places. The scene was appalling—a
wreck in the wildest sense of the word. Some three-quarters of a mile
of mountain side had come down, carrying all before it—_rammeding_,
as the Norse word is. Huge rocks, a few stunted trees, hardly any kind
of herbage—what a hurly-burly of desolation! Looking across and over
it, we saw the distant placid fjord and open sea. What a contrast, the
peace of one and the turbulence of the other! Still the damage was a
known quantity, every year something of the kind happening, sometimes
with loss of life, sometimes without. The accompanying sketch was taken
from the lower portion, looking upwards.

[Illustration: _Landslip at Sylbotten; Indfjord._]

After going over the greater part of this chaos we went back to the
preserved _sæter_, where we were most kindly received, our sympathy
being accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Then we
returned. We found Halve’s coat quite safe and undisturbed, and after
the usual time arrived at Ole Erikson Boe’s farm, where we had a simple
repast of good _fladbrod_ and _bunker_, there being no meat here. We
rested, and early in the morning started for Fiva. During the evening
Boe showed me an old Danske Bible, folio size, A.D. 1590, with
large brass clasps. The good folk wanted me to bring my wife to the
funeral, in case the poor girl should not survive. In the morning we
went down to the shore, as we heard the steamer for Molde was coming
in to take Ingeborg thither, should she be still alive. Life was all
but extinct when she was got on board. Ole Fiva and myself started in
a boat for Veblungsnæs, having thanked the good people of Indfjord
for their kind welcome, and they expressing their gratitude for our
interest and sympathy, and reiterating their desire to welcome my wife
at Indfjord.

The morning was lovely for boat travel; such peace that convulsions
like those we had witnessed seemed incredible. But it was no dream: the
inhabitants of Indfjord, the family of Ingeborg, Ingrana, and the poor
woman without her solitary cow, all were stern realities.

Soon after our return to Fiva we heard that Ingeborg was dead, had
been taken back from Molde, and was to be buried in the _gravested_
at Indfjord on September 2nd, 1875. Accordingly, early that morning
we started in carrioles from Fiva to Veblungsnæs, where myself, wife,
daughter, and Ole Fiva took a boat with six oars for Indfjord. A
lovely, peaceful morning it was as we left the landing-place at
Veblungsnæs. Soon the six oars began their sturdy dip as we came under
the shadow of the mountains: the dip was strong, as Norwegians only
can row for a long travelling sweep and perfect time. After settling
down with our _tine_ of provisions—for we were travelling Norskily,
and no Norske is complete without a well-filled _tine_—a sad tone
seemed pervading the boat: our mission was one of sympathy for the
bereavement of others, with an after-thought of thankfulness that
we had been spared in health, and were sound in body and bone. But
the melancholy of every one was broken by a remark from Ole that we
should soon see the Runic _steen_, which is about half a Norske mile
from Veblungsnæs. A lieutenant of engineers, who was superintending
a new bridge, had described this stone to us, and we were eager to
see it. At last we came upon it. The boatman ran alongside, and threw
water over it to develop it. In nine hundred years pluvial attrition
alone is sure to make its mark, to say nothing of our energetic friend
Neptune’s constant stormdrift and tempest. (The writer would apologize
for the term “pluvial attrition,” but there are so many long words
about just now, what with street advertisements and urban authors.) A
general view of the Runic stone is given in the opposite engraving,
while the initial ornament on page 175 was drawn from a plant plucked
on the spot. The letters are thirteen in number, and their length about
eighteen inches. Twelve feet from the sea-level, under low-water mark,
and projecting some few feet, runs a ledge of rocks, beneath which is
supposed to be secreted untold wealth.

The translation of these Runic hieroglyphics is, “The Court of
Justice,” and this inscription was evidently placed in a conspicuous
position to guide any who came to the court in old pagan days; for
Romsdal was one of the last of the pagan strongholds. Above, high up,
close to Sylbotten, was a pagan temple; but the Court of Justice was
held at Devold, Romsdal.

There was now a regular good settle down for a long pull. Up to this
time we have been in shadow, but now we round a point, and taking what
a landsman would call the “first on the left,” we go due south down to
Indfjord. The sea-water is beautifully clear, reflecting the quartz
rocks. _à merveille_, like the good old chandeliers of our grandfathers
after a spring cleaning; the rich sunlit yellow seaweed is grander
far than ormolu; and here are three herons in repose, water-ousels with
their snow-white breasts, and now and then sparkles by an old cormorant
or diver. As we go down the fjord the snow range at the end of it
blocks in everything, the morning mist waiting in the valley for exit,
if possible.

[Illustration: _Runic Stone, with Inscription, near Indfjord._]

[Illustration: _The Gravested: Ingeborg’s Funeral, Indfjord._]

By this time we near the hamlet, and high above us on the left, on a
kind of plateau, we see many figures congregated. They were in front of
Erich’s house, Griseth being the name of the farm. We soon steered in,
and then between two boathouses, at a rude pile-driven landing-place,
the well-known scrape of keel on shore was heard, and we had safely
arrived at Indfjord. Griseth had sent down to meet us and invite us
up to the house, but we return the message that we would rather not
disturb the family, but await their arrival at the _gravested_; so,
with our _tine_, we picked out a spot for lunch, and enjoyed some
cold reindeer meat, biscuit, cheese, &c. During lunch we could see
the _bönder_ folk collecting high up at Griseth, overlooking the
fjord, and at two o’clock we saw them by the telescope start down the
narrow mountain path, the coffin being lashed on to the little cart to
prevent it slipping. Soon they were lost in a dip of the wood, from
which they emerged nearer to us. As we stood at the _gravested_, or
graveplace—like our word homestead, home-place—a man came up and
shook hands with us, and then standing on the wall, commenced tolling
the bell; for there is no church, but only a bell-tower.

Soon the procession drew near. First came the coffin, black, lashed on
to the hay-cart, and drawn by a beautiful young _blakken_, or Norske
pony, whose collar was of old carved wood painted, the _bonde_ driver
walking behind the coffin, which bore three wreaths of wild flowers. At
a distance behind the coffin followed the men, and after an interval
the sorrowing women, who were succeeded by men of the family, many
sad hearts, and Ingrana. It was a modest but impressive scene. When
the pony arrived at the _gravested_, hearing the tolling bell, he
shied and jibbed, as if regretting what he had done. The coffin was
therefore carried in at once. There being no clergyman, a friend sang
a hymn. The coffin was lowered into the grave; the wreaths removed;
the ropes withdrawn. Some one said to Ingrana, “You were lucky to
escape.” “I could not have been ready,” she said; “God wanted me not,
and left me a little longer. She was ready,” meaning Ingeborg, whom
they were burying. They then sang the second hymn, “Hjemme, Hjemme,”
as the friends shovelled the earth in, and the heavy thud of the large
spadeful boomed like parts of Handel’s “Dead March” in _Saul_. After
filling in the grave the wreaths were placed on the newly raised mound,
and the ceremony closed with “Hjemme.” The weird sea birds screamed,
and all went away together. Many will recount the story of Ingeborg,
Erichsdatter, Griseth.

Before leaving the _gravested_ the grave-boards must be noted, they
being so remarkable in form, so quaint, and also so Bosphoric.
Sometimes a white butterfly is introduced, as typical of the soul.
How different from the present association with the allegory of their
transient nothingness! After the funeral we had to pay two or three
visits. All the farmers wanted us to visit them—some to tell of
sport, others to offer us _aqua vitæ_ and stamped cakes like the Dutch
_waffles_; and when we returned to Ole Erikson Boe’s he gave me an old
Norske belt as a memento of our visit, which we need hardly say is most
carefully treasured.

So passed away Ingeborg, Erichsdatter of Griseth, while Ingrana
remained waiting her bidding.

Isterdal is full of interest and character, with a wild river,
precipitous mountains on either side, snow on the high peaks above, a
rushing of waters below, hardly any track, and shut in by a façade of
rock at the end of the valley; and yet it is the way from Romsdal to
Valdal. Let us, therefore, explore it, and do so in two fyttes—a short
carriole ride to the _sæter_ with the ladies, and beyond, high, high
up, for real research without the ladies.

_Place aux dames._ We tried the short journey with two carrioles, and
for an English mile or two we did pretty well, as they will go anywhere
and over anything; but as we got into the scrubwood and underwood the
road grew worse, the wheels going sometimes over a boulder one or two
feet in height, the axle assuming an alarming angle, and the _skyd-gut_
hanging on the high side to keep the vehicle from turning over—first
one side and then the other—till the fair occupants of the machine
were shaken to a jelly, and would fain try to walk. Still we all
persevere, and soon arrive at the meal-mill, given in the accompanying
page illustration. What a retired spot for business! Who would ever
think of it as a centre to draw customers and found a business—as
a likely spot for a man beginning with the conventional half-crown
becoming the architect of his own fortune?

The water seen here is the Ister—ever thick and muddy, and always in
violent motion. What a contrast to the calm dignity of the adjacent
mountains in all their graduated phases! A little above this is a shoot
which brings down water to turn the mill. On our arrival the miller
comes out with a quiet kind of welcome, and very kindly shows us the
stones doing their share of work to bring about _fladbrod_ for the
people of the valley during their summer visit: it is for the _sæter_
people they work principally.

Leaving the mill, we pass on to the denser scrub and brushwood. We had
with us an old Skye terrier, full of noble traits of character—courage
and endurance—but being as blind as Belisarius, and running against
some of the rocks in the track, he was not only thrown on his haunches,
but his nerve was shaken—that Highland nerve which is of such rare
stuff. Let us immortalise our blind Norwegian canine traveller by a
description. If lost, an advertisement should run thus:—“Lost, a
brindled Skye terrier, answering to the name of ‘Kyle.’ Rough broken
hair, broad chest, short-legged, bow-legged, middle-aged and strong,
and carries his tail high. True to the core, with a head as large as a
deerhound’s. Teeth to match.” The Norwegians at first thought it would
be well to shoot him, but when they came to know him better he soon
enlisted them all among his many ardent admirers.

Perhaps the idea may flit across the mind of some, Why bring a blind
Scotch terrier into a work on Norway? This is why: old Kyle was taken
that day for a young bear by a simple-minded Norwegian cow. Never were
fear and fright more vividly portrayed than by the action of that
animal, and of her tail especially, on the first glimpse of the brown
brindled terrier. Hearing his name mentioned, he has just wagged his
tail, which is quite flat, like an otter’s, and when very pleased he
wags it with the flat side on to the floor to produce more sound.

By this time we are at the _sæter_, where the _piger_ have come to look
after the cows until September. Having driven on to the only flat piece
of grass, we unpack for lunch, when the produce of the aforesaid cows
comes to our comfort in an unadulterated form, and thoroughly is the
simple fare enjoyed. After lunch we visit the interior of the _sæter_,
and find spinning going on steadily, a little national tune being
hummed to the whirring wheel accompaniment. The weaving is done during
the winter months. In the summer a little spinning is done, but only by
the most industrious.

[Illustration: _Spinning in the Sæter: Isterdal._]

To see Isterdal the only way is to walk. Let us, therefore, continue
on from the _sæter_ in the direction of the Valdal. This was done
with Ole Fiva. Soon we began to ascend, for the end of the valley is
precipitous, with a fine fall, the top of which must be reached before
arriving at the plateau, _botten_, or _balloch_. On commencing the
ascent Ole pointed out in the river below a spot where a bear had been
killed; and higher up again where a bear lived, for he had seen it
there. Some idea of the situation is given by the opposite woodcut,
with the _aiguilles_ on the right. This is looking down Isterdal. The
path was effaced the day before we passed by the descent of a quantity
of rough stuff, more than sufficient to have carried us with it into
the valley beneath. The _aiguilles_ are of a similar formation to the
Troltinderne in Romsdal, and seem to be a nursery of trolds for future
ages.

[Illustration: _The Head of the Valley: Isterdal._]

The evening glows on these pinnacles are marvellously and beautifully
grand, and the transitions of hue from one to the other beyond
imagination and conception. Still we work up. Ole, ignoring the
slightly defined regular track, goes up really awful places, hauling
himself up, and astonishing his follower and companion by displaying
the most unnecessary and enviable agility. All honour to such strength
and energy! By this time we had reached the plateau from which the
murky Ister takes a header into the valley which lay at our feet. Once
on the plateau, we could get along better over the stunted flora and
bare rocks, with snow here and there, especially on the south-west
side. The track is indicated by a few pieces of rock, put here and
there in a pile, which being of the same formation as the rock we
are walking on, the similarity of colour makes them very indistinct
at times: the best way is to look out for one on the sky-line, if
possible. After a long tramp we crossed the Ister again, and found
it still more turbid, which was puzzling, as it seemed to come from
a glacier above; but of this more anon. We worked on until we could
look down Valdal, and having drunk in nature in that direction, took a
little food from our wallets, and lay down for an _al fresco_ siesta on
a handsome natural carpet of _fjelde reis_ and other vegetation.

After that, Ole began telling of expeditions, traditions, and
excursions to the Jager’s Steen, and formally wound up with the report
of a frozen lake which a hunter had seen, but which had not been
visited since. Could we find it? Was the Herr inclined to go? “Most
certainly.” So we started.

There is a wonderful sense of freedom, and yet of a closer commune with
one’s Creator, in wandering over almost untrodden ground to admire
some portion of his works that have been rarely visited by man. It is
suggestive of drawing aside the veil of the tabernacle of nature; and
happy is the man who derives comfort and soul strength in so doing!
Ole led straight up over rocks bare and betumbled; not a symptom of
vegetation; above us a glacier coming to the edge of a precipice, and
the melting ice forming a fringed fall. We lay down, looking over
the side on a bed of scarlet and crimson _fjelde reis_, a kind of
cotoneaster. Beyond this ledge we saw the glacier imperceptibly coming
on, backed in the long perspective of glacial blocks by a huge bare
mass of rock, the Biskop, and the Drönningen. This was the source of
the Ister. The water, some distance from the foot of the fall, passed
over a soft deposit, which sullied its pristine purity right down
to the sea, the “murky Ister,” thus acquiring near its origin its
characteristic turbidity.

[Illustration: _Melting Glacier over Valdal._]

Now for a try for the unknown lake. Ole keeps on, thinking he has his
bearings all right. At last, having climbed up by the side of a fall
dashing down through bare rocks, came the summit, and creeping round a
boulder, before us lies a lake intensely deep in colour, and full of
icebergs and floes of old ice. Where we stood there was snow, with
tracks of reindeer; but in places the former had melted, the _lemmings_
had been there, and the reindeer-flowers were coming up. These we eat
with _fladbrod og smör_ after a time, for we could not at once settle
down to a snack without paying a tribute of respect to the majesty of
nature before us. Beginning our meal in earnest, in the midst of it we
heard a noise like a roll of thunder, the direction of which we soon
discovered. On the left side of the lake the vast expanse of snow was
riven by a gigantic avalanche, which ploughed its way down, and, coming
to the edge of the rocks, plunged headlong into the lake, agitating all
the ice, and causing the icebergs to jostle each other; but both water
and ice soon regained their equilibrium, and nature lay before us in
solemn silence and undisturbed majesty. It can well be imagined that
having once attained such a spot—some 5,000 feet above the sea—there
was a desire to linger, though the day was fading, and we had five and
a half hours’ walk home. However, “En route!” was the word. Straight
down from bare rock to rock simply ends in no knees after a time, and
one’s legs become something between strips of asparagus and sea-kale.
There was, however, one thing in store: once on a fair road, we could
make some running. It was a lovely evening: we were late, it was true,
but, as horses go freely with their noses towards home, we both took
to the road very kindly, and went along with a will. Ole did not talk
much. It is the pace that kills, and after sixteen hours’ trudge with
our provisions, he no doubt felt that he had done enough. With health
and strength, such a day amidst grand scenery is a joy for ever.

[Illustration: _Church Axe._]

VIII.
CEREMONIES, WEDDINGS, ETC.

WEDDINGS—COSTUME—THE PROCESSION TO THE CHURCH—THE
BRIDE’S RETURN—MOTTOES—BETROTHAL AND
MARRIAGE—CONFIRMATION—FUNERALS—THEIR “ONLY
ONE”—GRAVE-BOARD INSCRIPTIONS—HOME LIFE—ANTIPATHY
TO VENTILATION—NEW CURRENCY—GEOLOGY—VARIATIONS IN
TEMPERATURE—WATERFALLS—POPULATION—WOOD-CARVING—OLD SILVER.

In all climes and in all stages of civilisation a wedding is an object
of special interest, and is likely to bring forward some traits of
national character. The bride is always the great attraction, of
course, whether plain or old—not that any bride should ever be plain,
however uncomely featured she may be, for on that day of all others,
the spirit should shine through the clay, with every hope of happiness
before her; and if there be happiness in the world, surely it must be
when the bride becomes the better-half of him she loves. Let us, then,
attend a Norske wedding.

Weddings are not now as they used to be in the “good old days,” when
knives and winding-sheets were a part of the programme—when grim
rehearsals of the “Grapplers” were frequently repeated, and two
combatants, with one belt round the two waists, grappled and struck
until one was vanquished. No; Scandinavian ferocity is subsiding;
they think more now of “bleeding” their foreign visitors, and the
weddings are sobered down; but the arch-fiend of inebriation tightens
his grip, and Norwegian weddings in the provinces are characterized by
deep libations and their wretched consequences. Now, having noticed
the worst feature of these Northern domestic gatherings, let us turn
cheerily to the brighter side of them.

[Illustration]

Naturally costume immensely assists a ceremony like this, and should
the bride not have old silver enough of her own, everybody is ready
to contribute towards the general result, and is only too glad to do
anything in his power to add to the brightness of the occasion. In
Norway the bride wears a silver crown, which varies a little in form
according to date, the most modern crowns branching out all round more
than the older ones. The silver crowns are generally made with hinges,
four or six in number, so that they may fold up into a small space for
carrying in a _tine_, or box. The oldest forms are silver-gilt; the
more recent are partially gilt, some parts being left bright silver.
The bride also wears a thick curb chain, with a medal, which is
sometimes set in filigree-work; but in the case under notice the medal
was one cast with a fine bust of Nelson. Tidemand, the Norwegian genre
painter, has portrayed many scenes of the “Bride preparing to start,”
“Dressing the Bride,” &c.

The procession to the church is generally all-important. First comes
the fiddler, next the _kander_ or tankard man, then best man, bride and
bridegroom, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, relations,
and many others—all the children of the place swarming round the
church door. We should observe that there is a stolid immobility about
some of the Norwegian _piger_ which seems to become intensified on
these occasions; but when they do melt there must be a great overflow
of spirit and reaction.

The picturesque group at the altar of the church takes one back to the
Middle Ages: the bride resplendent in costume—in some cases quaint
to a degree, especially in Sætersdalen—with the old silver brooches,
rings, and pendants of generations long gathered to their fathers;
the bridegroom also, most likely, in costume, with his best man close
by to look after the bridesmaid; in the centre, the Elizabethan ruff,
pure white as in Queen Elizabeth’s time, thrown vigorously up by the
sombre black gown, renders the priest a prominent figure; while perhaps
a ray from the sun, descending on the group, shines upon the bride
at the very moment when that ray only is wanted to complete the
pictorial effect of the grouping and its surroundings. The verger, or
clerk, with his long red pole—the functionary described in a former
chapter—is not on active service to-day to awake the sleepers; in
fact, the congregation seems rather inclined to turn the tables and
wake him up. The church floor is, as usual, strewn with juniper tips,
and after the ceremony the bride and bridegroom start home. Walk, ride,
drive, or boat—that depends on the distance and character of the road
to be traversed. They are all picturesque: the water, however, carries
the palm, and, as we have before remarked, the whole scene causes one
to revert to early days, before carriages were used, or roads were
uninviting for travel, and when locomotion was a difficulty.

[Illustration: _A Bridal Party crossing the Fjord._]

[Illustration: _The Wedding._]

What an evening it was, “the bride’s return!” As usual in Norway,
you cannot go far without crossing a fjord: this the bride had to
do. A twenty-oared sea-boat was her water carriage. What peace—what
colour—what harmony! Was it typical of her future married life? A
zephyr just filled the broad sail, the large prow rearing grandly in
front, with a huge bunch of flowers and green things innumerable on
the top; then a large flag and more flowers at the mast-head; and the
rowers every now and then bursting out into a refrain, which as one
leaves off the other takes up. And how these Norsemen do row—always
together! It is generally allowed, by men of experience in Norway,
that so long as the rower is not too “arch-fiended” to sit up, he will
always keep time with his oar. The dip of the oars in the calm is
delightfully refreshing, and the regular sweep gives an idea of power.
Fun is going on at the other end of the boat; for the bride is there
on a raised seat, with the bridegroom, supported by their friends.
The second boat is being left behind, so the _kander-man_ is holding
a large silver tankard to encourage and at the same time joke them.
Doubtless a spurt will be put on after this, and another race commenced
for the run home; or they may just stop for one more _skaal_ (the
bride’s health), and when they have once commenced, be undecided as to
going home.

[Illustration: _Drinking Horn in the Collection of C. Hampden Wigram,
Esq._]

[Illustration]

One thing is a comfort, at all events; all through the country there
is strong evidence of family affection, and these weddings are only
the beginning of a new era of happiness. In Thelemarken, as we have
already had occasion to remark, one custom is for the bridegroom
to elaborately carve the _stabur_, or family treasure-house, with
excellent designs and cunning work, which he effects with his
tolle-knife; and another is to carve good mottoes on the large beds and
over the doors of the rooms. The following are some from Thelemarken
district, that quaint land of short waists, shoulder-blades, and white
jackets—a land abounding with grand old conscientious work; huge
timbers made into solid houses; no hurry-skurry, no slurriness, no
giving as little as possible for wages received—real good timber-work;
while inside may be found carved chests, some of them family treasures
handed down for generations. Motto over bed, carved in: “This is my
bed and resting-place, where God gives me peace and rest, that I may
healthy arise and serve Him.” Over the entrance to a house: “Stand,
house, in the presence of our Lord, assured from all danger, from fire
and theft. Save it, thou, O God; bless also all who go in and all who
go out here.” The ale-bowls, too, have good mottoes: “Of me you must
drink; but swear not, nor ever drink too much.” This motto we would
recommend to the licensed victuallers of England, as good for their
“pewters.” Another drinking-bowl: “I am as a star unto you, and all
the girls drink of me willingly.” Another: “Taste of the fruit of the
corn-field, and thank God from your inmost heart.” This one again:
“Drink me forthwith, and be thankful, for I shall soon be no more.”
These, we say, are good sentiments, and worthy of note; and they must
be the outcome of deeply rooted honest hearts, anxious to benefit not
only those about them, but those who may follow.

[Illustration: _The Bride’s Return by Water._]

When the bride returns home there are great doings, with firing of
guns, and, as we have before observed, libations and dancing; the
latter doing good and giving pleasure, the former, to say the least
of them, producing the next day what is known in Scotland as the
“blacksmith’s hammer on the forehead.”

What a contrast to a Norwegian wedding, carried out with all its
details, is the modern civilisation of being married before a
“Registrar”—a process which must be sudden death to sentiment, and
destructive of all the sacred associations so closely linked with the
solemnity of marriage in Norway! Marriage takes time. The Lutheran
Church has two distinct services or ceremonies, which conduce to
the steady-going of the young people concerned, and tend to develop
prudent and careful living. There is first the betrothal, and then
the wedding. Circumstances decide the particular period between the
two events—one year generally, sometimes two or more; in any case
the betrothal is a good preparation for the responsibilities of
married life, and certainly works well. One thing is beyond denial—it
affords an opportunity to discover latent objections and bad habits,
which might not crop out all at once while the lover is offering a
concentrated essence of courtship. By the betrothal system a girl
enters upon a certain and marked position, being as it were an aspirant
to the honour and dignity of marriage; and this training has generally
a most wholesome effect. The same system is likewise carried out by the
provincial peasants, though these simple folk are sometimes a little
impatient of the second ceremony; but the law of Norway has alleviated
any difficulty which might arise from such impetuosity, and taken the
same _status_ as that of Scotland.

[Illustration: _Before the Wedding._]

The wedding festival will frequently last a week—early and late. It is
not “What a day we are having!” but “What a week we are having!” The
home love of the people is prominently shown on occasions like these;
their simple affection and general kindliness can only be the outcome
of tenderness and sympathy in their every-day life, when the mothers
are so motherly, the fathers so fatherly. No “iceberg dads” are to be
found in Norway; they are more like the stoves which every one gathers
round for comfort when the chills of life are likely to be forthcoming.
And the priest comes out strongly on these occasions, for, as we
have previously noticed, he is a part of every family; he shares the
troubles of the flocks, and enhances their joys. He is no kill-joy; on
the contrary, he enters into all that is going on, joins in the songs,
is generally convivial at table, and is not shy of tobacco; he is, in
fact, a practical, genial Christian, and consequently does good service
to the cause he represents and to his flock.

[Illustration: _The Arrival at Home._]

We now come to the last ceremonies of the Church, only remarking on
our way the very great importance attached by the Lutheran Church to
confirmation. In this the Church does well, and sows good seed at the
right time—seed which is to be the joy of riper years and the backbone
of posterity.

[Illustration: _Hitterdal Church._]

A Norwegian funeral is surrounded by an unwholesome atmosphere of
intense melancholy; hope and faith seem trampled down for the moment by
the weight of present grief. The Norwegians certainly do not look upon
the arrival of the reaper who puts in the sickle as the “order of
release” from the trammels of our lower state. Perhaps their intensity
of feeling is a certain relief from which they rebound to a lighter
burden in after-life. Their quiet, secluded life encourages this; the
very sombreness of the country develops it; and the almost oppressive
grandeur of the scenery sustains it; while the absence of birds with
joyous song certainly adds to it.

[Illustration: _Return from the Christening._]

[Illustration: _The Funeral: Bergen._]

Funerals in this country take many forms. First, in towns, for plump,
portly burghers, as well as for men of note in letters, politics, or
art, there is the old form of coffin chariot, with cock-hatted driver,
the horses clothed in all the panoply of funereal darkness, the road
sprinkled with juniper or yew twigs, the Death’s head blended with a
flame rising from the urn as decoration; the latter the only cheerful,
hopeful thought in the whole arrangement. We regret to add that, like
weddings, funerals are characterized by heavy libations. As to military
obsequies, they are much the same in all lands, and therefore we need
say nothing concerning them. And now, away from towns and cemeteries,
to the more simple method of taking farewell of passing spirits and
lifeless clay.

[Illustration: _The Stolkjær and Boat._]

During the visit to Indfjord a description was given of the funeral of
Ingeborg, a good _pige_ swept away by a landslip. How full of sympathy
the good folk were; how the finest breed of _blakken_ was brought,
with the best carved collar the district could produce, to honour her
last remains! And in another place we referred to the more common
occurrence of the coffin being placed on a _stolkjær_. During the
winter, in some of the most inaccessible farms, such as the Geiranger,
where there is no landing-place, the body is kept until spring.
This seems protracted agony; but there is the balance of nature—no
decomposition. In the less-frequented rivers a solitary boat may
sometimes be seen, containing a funeral party unattended, their sorrow
self-contained and unshared by others. The opposite woodcut illustrates
a touching incident—a _bonde_ and wife taking their “only one” to
God’s acre. This is secluded life intensified. Their little one—their
treasure and delight, their pet lamb—was called home, and they had
to take it to its resting-place. The poor mother may have borne up
bravely, but the sight of the churchyard in the distance was too much
for her, and at last she gave way and sobbed over the coffin. But when
she arrives the priest with kindly voice and deep sympathy will comfort
and cheer her. Little, however, will they talk as they row back, with
their hearts full and their home empty. None but those who have had an
only one called away can realise the blank—their “sunbeam” gone. The
grave-boards bear simple and pious inscriptions. We append a few here.

[Illustration: _Their “only one.”_]

LINES ON GRAVE-BOARDS.

TRANSLATED WORD FOR WORD FROM THE ORIGINALS.

ELL OLSDATTER HOEL.

I was old and weary of my days, and my last footsteps were heavy;
but thanks be to Jesus for his mercy, He opened my eyes so that I
saw danger was near. In much trouble I must sing. Jesus is always
present, and does not take his hand from us. At last I found the
well from which my comfort ran.

INGRID LEDINGSÖIEN.

To children and friends! is Jesus Christ’s cry: Come, see I
come; mourn therefore but with hope.

Farewell. I depart. The sorrow you now taste must in love take
place. God himself will guard you so that we shall soon
without complaint meet before his throne.

OLE GRÖDAL.

To my Father I go home; there is rest and quiet; and I know
for certain there is also a dwelling there for me prepared.
Hear my sigh, Lord, and keep my spirit in thine hand.

OLE WINNEVOLD.

Away from the world I fly full of trouble home to rest. I am
ready to travel when my sweet Jesus will.

GUNDER GRÖDAL.

Seven times ten and four years was the goal the Good God had
decided for us in our journey home; our mutual mother is
earth. There, in the silent home of the grave, ends our
last journey. Farewell then, friends, far and near. I wish
every one in particular a good end.

LÖKEN.

Through pain Life is born; below the cross sin dies. After
the cross, the crown is given; After wailing, the cry of
victory.

INDRE LÖKEN.

Now have I triumphed by the blood of the wounds of Jesus. I
have found my God, and gladly go to heaven.

The home life of Norway is very simple throughout: in summer, the
perfect enjoyment of the short but bright season; in winter, spinning,
weaving, and sledging. The absence of rudeness—the modern term “chaff”
is unknown—the “even-manneredness” of the people in all classes,
must strike a stranger. Whatever may be the class of society, there
is always the same kindly politeness. No double set of manners, as
civilisation brings about; no rudeness to inferiors, or fawning to
superiors; the equal distribution of this world’s goods, combined with
innate kindliness, prevents this. No unkindness, for they are tender
to all dumb animals, and that is an undoubted sign of sterling worth.
And yet, with all this, what jolly little things the children and young
folk are! They will make the most charming little curtsey, and then go
off, children to the core. A good innocent romp, how they enjoy it! The
young girls, too, are so natural, perfectly easy, and well behaved,
that it is refreshing to be with them. Nothing prim or starched about
them, but good hearts, with the bloom of youth. Their dances, too, how
they enjoy them; and then a song, with a chorus from the whole company,
and another dance! Capital housewives these Scandinavian maidens should
make, for even the _fröken_, or young girl of position, carries out all
the household duties of home, and enters into the real work of life
with the greatest earnestness, being mistress of every detail, and yet
the most charming of God’s work—a natural lady. N.B.—The Patriarch
did not lose his heart in Gamle Norge; that was safely at home in the
good care of one who has monopolized it ever since he was a boy.

[Illustration: _Sledging._]

Norwegian housekeeping is so totally different from anything we
have that it will be well to note it here. The wife has greater
responsibility and requires more forethought than with us. There are
no co-operative stores to which to send a long list; no one calls
for orders, or solicits the favour of custom; no inviting circulars
or enticing advertisements create an appetite for new purchases, and
make one believe that superfluous things are absolutely necessary,
and must be had. Nor does the husband go to town every day, and bring
back anything the dear wife has forgotten. Her mental powers and good
management must be equal to getting everything in before the winter
arrives, not for the family only, but for the labourers also; and all
this perhaps on slender means, sparse harvests, and bad seasons. In
this respect, therefore, if for no other, the betrothal system comes
in well, affording the young couple plenty of time for the acquisition
of a thorough knowledge of what their new position may necessitate.

There is one thing, however, Norwegians do not comprehend, and that is
the blessing of ventilation. They cannot understand it, and certainly
never practise it. Their rooms are stuffed up in every conceivable
way. As soon as the cold weather begins the internal atmosphere of the
house remains unchanged until the following summer. When you open the
door you have to cut your way in; it is as dense as cold turtle, and
less agreeable. The marvel is that colds are not more prevalent, from
the fact that the good folk wash their necks on Saturday afternoon as
a preparation for the Sunday, when they dress in their best, and look
like different creatures.

[Illustration: _The Gentle Reproof._]

We are drawing near to the end of our tether, and much as we love home,
there is not the same buoyancy about the return, however happy or
successful the trip may have been, as there is about the start; for the
latter is an important event, teeming with hope and expectancy, from
the _couleur-de-rose_ descriptions of friends who have preceded us,
and who have heartily enjoyed the recapitulation of their adventures,
narrow escapes, and temporary deprivations. But it is very different
with the end of a journey. There is something of the Ichabod in it; and
yet we know not why there should be; for if it has been one of danger,
we ought to be thankful that it is over; and if, on the contrary,
it has been productive of pleasant associations, we should still be
thankful, inasmuch as it will prove a bright spot to fall back upon
and refresh ourselves with when wearied in after-life. So we will not
be depressed at the end of our trip to Gamle Norge; we would rather
think of all the kindnesses of the people, the grand scenery of the
coast, the combinations of sea-rock façade and snow, and learn a lesson
of contentment and Christian love from the _bönder_ and their happy
families.

Having overcome this very natural feeling of regret that our holiday
is over, let us, in conclusion, notice a few leading characteristics
of the country which have been unnoted as we passed through it. Its
geology is most characteristic, while in variety of climate it stands
alone. Its wood-carving, too, has great individuality; and so has its
old silver.[6]

[6] THE NEW CURRENCY OF NORWAY.—This change from the old specie dollar
and skillings came into force on January 1st, 1877, when specie
dollars, marks or orts, and skillings became matters of history. The
new _régime_ is as follows:—

KRONE AND ØRE.

SILVER. 1 krone = 30 skillings of old Norwegian money = 1s. 1¼d. 1
krone is divided into 100 øre. Silver coins are 1 kroner. Copper coins
are 1 øre, 2 øre, 5 øre.

½ krone = 50 øre. ¼ krone = 25 øre. 10 krone = 1000 øre. GOLD COINS
(scarce; gold coins having been introduced only in 1875). 10 kroner
pieces and 20 krone. NOTES. 5 kr., 10 kr., 25 kr., 50 kr., 100 kr., 500
kr., 1000 kr. 18 kroner = one sovereign English.

Let us, then, take a general view of the geological formation. Any
one specially interested in this subject should study the “Geologisk
oversigtskart over det Sydlige Norge,” 1858 to 1865, by Theodore
Kjerulf og Tellef Dahll; but for others a general idea will suffice.

1. Gneiss predominates in the Romsdal and Sneehættan districts; also
north and south of Sogne fjord, running down to the entrance of
Hardanger.

2. Granite predominates in the south in large areas up to the Vöring
Fos, and in detached portions in Vestranden towards Trondhjem.
Christiansand is granite.

3. Sparagmit fjeldets (Norske) is found in Central Norway. This is
a comglomerate of red sandstone, and sometimes called red and grey
sparagmite.

4. Trondhjem quartz in the north, really hard schist: not found south
of the Dovre fjeld.

5. Syenite and porphyry round Christiania.

6. Labrador stone occurs west of Lindernæs, in the south, at Ekersund
on the west coast, below Stavanger, round the Galdhopiggen (the highest
point in Norway), and north-east of Fortun, in the Sogne fjord.

The whole of this surface bears record of the immense extent and effect
of the glacial period of Norway. The valleys show the glacial set as
distinctly as does the tide in large rivers, the greatest attrition
and scoriation being in the concaves going down. Huge bastions of
rock[7] have been rounded and ground down by constant attrition, and
vast terraces of sand, at the end of each valley, are the result of
this attrition accumulating for ages. It would be very interesting
to analyze and find the component parts of these immense deposits.
Certain it is there is no natural sandy soil above, and, as we have
before mentioned, when reindeer-hunting, we have found huge boulders
of thirty or forty feet at an elevation of 5,000 feet, with smaller
ones of a different formation resting on them. Now all this has been
brought about by the influence of the gulf stream: when the gulf stream
took this course the glacial period ceased in Norway. That epoch none
can tell. It will be sufficient to notice the result, which is this:
when the polar current from Spitzbergen runs down the west coast of
the Atlantic, and produces the great fogs off Newfoundland, the gulf
stream, driven up from the Gulf of Florida by the force of the great
caldron of the equator, strikes on to our west coast and the coast
of Norway, running up to the North Cape; in fact, the only timber
to be obtained there is the drift wood from the West Indies; and at
Hammerfest casks of palm oil have been washed up from Cape Lopez Point,
in Africa. In Iceland, too, as Professor Ericker Magnussen informs us,
the bridges are made of mahogany. Not that bridges are frequent in
that country; but those which they have are made from the logs washed
up there. This accounts for the variety of temperature which the two
boundaries of Norway—the gulf stream on the west, and Sweden on the
east—present. For instance, though Bergen and Christiania are in about
the same latitude, the average temperature at the former is 46° 8´ and
at the latter 41° 5´; the summer average is about the same; but in the
winter months Christiania is often 13° colder than Bergen. Hence there
may be skating at Christiania while there is none at all at Bergen,
where the average annual rainfall is 72 inches, which, by the way, is
lower than that in our English lakes.

[7] See the rocks of Steensund, on the west coast: these are
conglomerate.

MEAN TEMPERATURE.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn.
Christiania + 25° + 38° + 60° + 42°
Bergen + 36 + 45 + 58 + 48
Trondhjem + 24 + 35 + 61 + 40
North Cape + 24 + 30 + 42 + 32

The mean temperature at North Cape is 32°, the greatest cold arising
from north-east winds. Thunder-storms occur in winter, while west winds
cause dense fogs.

At the conclusion of Forbes’s “Norway” will be found a most interesting
map, with isothermal lines passing through those places which have
the same temperature in the months of January and July; and it is very
striking to notice that the July temperature of the north of Ireland
and Edinburgh is maintained through Norway as far as the Arctic Circle,
when it begins to deflect to the eastward, where the gulf stream’s
influence ceases.

[Illustration: _Stabur and Wooden Tankards._]

Again, the waterfalls are a great feature of this country. Some
one has depicted Norway thus [Symbol], and the Alps thus [Symbol].
There is much truth in this. The valleys running down to the fjords
produce immense precipices, down which rush the many waters of the
high plateaux of 3,000 or 4,000 feet; and in some parts these falls
are strengthened by the waters of the vast stretch of _sneebræden_,
or snow-fields, of which the Justedal and the Folgefond are the most
extensive.

The casual observer, looking at the map of Norway, would think it well
populated, but a few years ago its inhabitants numbered hardly more
than one-fourth those of London and its suburbs.[8] The names on the
map frequently represent mere stations, farms, _præstegaarden_, or
rectories, and villages are seldom seen. As in Scotland, the farmer
takes the name of his land. In fact, Norway and Scotland are very
closely allied to each other in many respects.

[8] Population of Norway, 1,150,000.

From the Runic downwards, the wood-carving of Norway stands alone for
distinctive characteristics, and is still carried on in every variety
by means of the simple national tolle-knife, which is ready for
everything.

The lintels and carvings of the _staburs_, or store-houses, in
Thelemarken have been already shown, but the most interesting specimens
are found in churches, where the tortuous lines are full of originality
and power of design. Serpents are ever-present and ever-varying,
the museums being rich in specimens of this ecclesiastical class of
work. Wood, and birch especially, is used for every kind of domestic
utensil, and ornamentation is very generally introduced. Some of the
old horse collars are beautiful, and are sometimes painted; tankards
are richly carved; spoons profusely so; and on some occasions the
bridegroom, if he be very expert, prepares a double spoon for the bride
and himself, wherewith to eat their porridge simultaneously. Drinking
bowls, salt-boxes, _mangel stoks_, are all carved; and this art is much
encouraged by the long winter evenings.

The old silver of Norway is so large a subject that a series of
illustrations would be necessary to do justice to the matter; but
its day is fast passing away. The peasants and fishermen have found
new outlets for their earnings, and the time has gone by when they
wondered what new thing they could have made in the precious metal;
in fact, electro-plate is now invading Gamle Norge. May the _bönder_
select the blessings of civilisation and eschew its evils! May their
home happiness and love be ever-increasing, and the kind welcome which
we have so often experienced never decrease in heartiness! For a time
farewell!

FARVEL, FARVEL!

[Illustration: _Costume of Lutheran Priest of Norway._]

PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON.

Transcriber’s Notes:

- Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
- Blank pages have been removed.
- Title page has been moved to start.
- Redundant chapter heading pages have been removed.
- Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
- Dropcaps image caption text is marked as [Dropcap caption: ...]
- Dropcapped paragraphs treated as the start of a new section.
- Illustration listing as facing page 183 changed to actual location
as frontispiece.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "'Gamle Norge': Rambles and Scrambles in Norway" ***

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