{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_52196/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_52196","id":"gutenberg_52196","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52196","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Travel Writing","Folklore -- Norway","Norway -- Description and travel"],"text":"[Illustration: FRAIL BRIDGE ON THE ROAD TO THE V\u00d6RING FOSS.]\n\n\n\n\n                              THE OXONIAN\n                                  IN\n                              THELEMARKEN;\n\n                                  OR,\n\n                NOTES OF TRAVEL IN SOUTH-WESTERN NORWAY\n                   IN THE SUMMERS OF 1856 AND 1857.\n\n                  WITH GLANCES AT THE LEGENDARY LORE\n                           OF THAT DISTRICT.\n\n                                  BY\n                  THE REV. FREDERICK METCALFE, M.A.,\n                  FELLOW OF LINCOLN COLLEGE, OXFORD,\n                               AUTHOR OF\n                       \u201cTHE OXONIAN IN NORWAY.\u201d\n\n          \u201cAuf den Bergen ist Freiheit; der Hauch der Gr\u00fcfte,\n          Steigt nicht hinauf in die sch\u00f6nen L\u00fcfte,\n          Die Welt is volkommen \u00fcberall,\n          Wo der Mensch nicht hinein k\u00f6mmt mit seiner Qual.\u201d\n\n          \u201cTu nidum servas: ego laudo ruris am\u0153ni\n          Rivos, et musco circumlita saxa, nemusque.\u201d\n\n                            IN TWO VOLUMES.\n                               VOL. II.\n\n                                LONDON:\n                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,\n                     SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,\n                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.\n                                 1858.\n\n               [_The right of Translation is reserved._]\n\n                                LONDON:\n                     SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS,\n                            CHANDOS STREET.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS TO VOL. II.\n\n\n                              CHAPTER I.\n\n    Danish custom-house officials--Home sickness--The ladies of\n    Denmark--Ethnological--Sweden and its forests--Influence\n    of climate on Peoples--The French court--Norwegian and\n    Danish pronunciation--The Swiss of the North--An instance of\n    Norwegian slowness--Ingemann, the Walter Scott of Denmark--Hans\n    Christian Andersen--Genius in rags--The level plains of\n    Zealand--Danish cattle--He who moveth his neighbour\u2019s\n    landmark--Beech groves--The tomb of the great Valdemar--The two\n    queens--The Probst of Ringstedt--Wicked King Abel--Mormonism\n    in Jutland--Roeskilde--Its cathedral--The Semiramis of the\n    North--Frederick IV.--Unfortunate Matilda                      pp. 1-17\n\n                             CHAPTER II.\n\n    Copenhagen--Children of Amak--Brisk bargaining--Specimens\n    of horn fish--Unlucky dogs--Thorwaldsen\u2019s museum--The Royal\n    Assistenz House--Going, gone--The Ethnographic Museum--An\n    inexorable professor--Lionizes a big-wig--The stone\n    period in Denmark--England\u2019s want of an ethnographical\n    collection--A light struck from the flint in the stag\u2019s\n    head--The gold period--A Scandinavian idol\u2019s cestus--How\n    dead chieftains cheated fashion--Antiquities in gold--Wooden\n    almanacks--Bridal crowns--Scandinavian antiquities peculiarly\n    interesting to Englishmen--Four thousand a year in return\n    for soft sawder--Street scenes in Copenhagen--Thorwaldsen\u2019s\n    colossal statues--Blushes for Oxford and Cambridge--A Danish\n    comedy--Where the warriors rest                               pp. 18-38\n\n                             CHAPTER III.\n\n    The celebrated Three Crowns Battery--Hamlet\u2019s grave--The Sound\n    and its dues--To Fredericksborg--Iceland ponies--Denmark\n    an equine paradise--From Copenhagen to Kiel--Tidemann, the\n    Norwegian painter--Pictures at D\u00fcsseldorf--The boiling\n    of the porridge--D\u00fcsseldorf theatricals--Memorial of\n    Dutch courage--Young heroes--An attempt to describe the\n    Dutch language--The Amsterdam canals--Half-and-half in\n    Holland--Want of elbow-room--A new Jerusalem--A sketch for\n    Juvenal--The museum of Dutch paintings--Magna Charta of Dutch\n    independence--Jan Steen\u2019s picture of the _f\u00eate_ of Saint\n    Nicholas--Dutch art in the 17th century--To Zaandam--Traces\n    of Peter the Great--Easy travelling--What the reeds seemed to\n    whisper                                                       pp. 39-55\n\n                             CHAPTER IV.\n\n    Broek--A Dutchman\u2019s idea of Paradise--A toy house for real\n    people--Cannon-ball cheeses--An artist\u2019s flirtation--John Bull\n    abroad--All the fun of the fair--A popular refreshment--Morals\n    in Amsterdam--The Zoological Gardens--Bed and Breakfast--Paul\n    Potter\u2019s bull--Rotterdam                                      pp. 56-64\n\n                              CHAPTER V.\n\n    Oxford in the long vacation--The rats make such a\n    strife--A case for Lesbia--Interview between a hermit and\n    a novice--The ruling passion--Blighted hopes--Norwegian\n    windows--Tortoise-shell soup--After dinner--Christiansand\n    again--Ferry on the Torrisdal river--Plain records of\n    English travellers--Salmonia--The bridal crown--A bridal\n    procession--Hymen, O Hymen\u00e6e!--A ripe Ogress--The head cook at\n    a Norwegian marriage--God-fearing people--To S\u00e6tersdal--Neck or\n    nothing--Lilies and lilies--The Dutch myrtle                  pp. 65-81\n\n                             CHAPTER VI.\n\n    A dreary station--Strange bed-fellows--Broadsides--Comfortable\n    proverb--Skarp England--Interesting particulars--A hospitable\n    Norwegian Foged--Foster-children--The great bear-hunter--A\n    terrible Bruin--Forty winks--The great Vennefoss--A temperance\n    lamentation--More bear talk--Grey legs--Monosyllabic\n    conversation--Trout fished from the briny deep--A warning to\n    the beaux of St. James\u2019s-street--Thieves\u2019 cave--A novelette for\n    the Adelphi                                                  pp. 82-100\n\n                             CHAPTER VII.\n\n    A wolf-trap--The heather--Game and game-preserves--An\n    optical delusion--Sumptuous entertainment--Visit to a\n    Norwegian store-room--Petticoats--Curious picture of\n    the Crucifixion--Fjord scenery--How the priest Brun was\n    lost--A S\u00e6tersdal manse--Frightfully hospitable--Eider-down\n    quilts--Costume of a Norwegian waiting-maid--The tartan in\n    Norway--An ethnological inquiry--Personal characteristics--The\n    sect of the Haugians--Nomad life in the far Norwegian\n    valleys--Trug--Memorials of the Vikings--Female Bruin in a\n    rage--How bears dispose of intruders--Mercantile marine of\n    Norway--The Bad-hus--How to cook brigands--Winter clothing  pp. 101-124\n\n                            CHAPTER VIII.\n\n    Peculiar livery--Bleke--A hint to Lord Breadalbane--Enormous\n    trout--Trap for timber logs--Exciting scene--Melancholy\n    Jacques in Norway--The new church of Sannes--A clergyman\u2019s\n    midsummer-day dream--Things in general at Froisnaes--Pleasing\n    intelligence--Luxurious magpies--A church without a\n    congregation--The valley of the shadow of death--Mouse\n    Grange--A tradition of Findal--Fable and feeling--A Highland\n    costume in Norway--Ancestral pride--Grand old names prevalent\n    in S\u00e6tersdal--Ropes made of the bark of the lime-tree--Carraway\n    shrub--Government schools of agriculture--A case for a London\n    magistrate--Trout fishing in the H\u00f6gvand--Cribbed, cabined,\n    and confined--A disappointment--The original outrigger--The\n    cat-lynx--A wealthy Norwegian farmer--Bear-talk--The\n    consequence of taking a drop too much--Story of a Thuss--Cattle\n    conscious of the presence of the hill people--Fairy music   pp. 125-148\n\n                             CHAPTER IX.\n\n    Langeid--Up the mountain--Vanity of vanity--Forest\n    perfumes--The glad thrill of adventure--An ancient\n    beacon--Rough fellows--Daring pine-trees--Quaint old\n    powder-horn--Curiosities for sale--Sketch of a group of\n    giants--Information for _Le Follet_--Rather cool--Rural\n    dainties and delights--The great miracle--An odd name--The\n    wedding garment--Ivar Aasen--The study of words--Philological\n    lucubrations--A slagsmal--Nice subject for a spasmodic\n    poet--Smoking rooms--The lady of the house--A Simon Svipu--A\n    professional story-teller--Always about Yule-tide--The\n    supernatural turns out to be very natural--What happened to an\n    old woman--Killing the whirlwind--Hearing is believing--Mr.\n    Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon--The grey horse at\n    Roysland--There can be no doubt about it--Theological argument\n    between a fairy and a clergyman--Adam\u2019s first wife, Lileth  pp. 149-178\n\n                              CHAPTER X.\n\n    Scandinavian origin of old English and Border ballads--Nursery\n    rhymes--A sensible reason for saying \u201cNo\u201d--Parish\n    books--Osmund\u2019s new boots--A St. Dunstan story--The\n    short and simple annals of a Norwegian pastor--Peasant\n    talk--Riddles--Traditional melodies--A story for William\n    Allingham\u2019s muse--The Tuss people receive notice to quit--The\n    copper horse--Heirlooms--Stories in wood-carving--Morals and\n    match-making                                                pp. 179-199\n\n                             CHAPTER XI.\n\n    Off again--Shakspeare and Scandinavian literature--A\n    fat peasant\u2019s better half--A story about Michaelmas\n    geese--Explanation of an old Norwegian almanack--A quest after\n    the Fremmad man--A glimpse of death--Gunvar\u2019s snuff-box--More\n    nursery rhymes--A riddle of a silver ring--New discoveries\n    of old parsimony--The Spirit of the Woods--Falcons at\n    home--The etiquette of tobacco-chewing--Lullabies--A frank\n    invitation--The outlaw pretty near the mark--Bjar\u00e4en--A\n    valuable hint to travellers--Domestic etcetera--Early\n    morning--Social magpies--An augury--An eagle\u2019s eyrie--Meg\n    Merrilies--Wanted an hydraulic press--A grumble at\n    paving commissioners--A disappointment--An unpropitious\n    station-master--Author keeps house in the wilderness--Practical\n    theology--Story of a fox and a bear--Bridal-stones--The\n    Vatnedal lake--Waiting for the ferry--An unmistakeable hint--A\n    dilemma--New illustration of the wooden nutmeg truth--\u201cPolly\n    put the kettle on\u201d--A friendly remark to Mr. Caxton--The real\n    fountain of youth--Insectivora--The maiden\u2019s lament         pp. 200-237\n\n                             CHAPTER XII.\n\n    Ketil--A few sheep in the wilderness--Brown Ryper--The\n    Norwegian peasants bad naturalists--More bridal-stones--The\n    effect of glacial action on rocks--\u201cCatch hold of her\n    tail\u201d--Author makes himself at home in a deserted ch\u00e2let--A\n    dangerous playfellow--Suledal lake--Character of the\n    inhabitants of S\u00e6tersdal--The landlord\u2019s daughter--Wooden\n    spoons--Mountain paths--A mournful cavalcade--Simple\n    remedies--Landscape painting--The post-road from Gugaard to\n    Bustetun--The clergyman of Roldal parish--Poor little Knut at\n    home--A set of bores--The pencil as a weapon of defence--Still,\n    still they come--A short cut, with the usual result--Author\n    falls into a cavern--The vast white Folgefond--Mountain\n    characteristics--Author arrives at Seligenstad--A milkmaid\u2019s\n    lullaby--Sweethearts--The author sees visions--The Hardanger\n    Fjord--Something like scenery                               pp. 238-259\n\n                            CHAPTER XIII.\n\n    Author visits a glacier--Meets with two compatriots--A good\n    year for bears--The judgment of snow--Effects of parsley fern\n    on horses--The advantage of having a shadow--Old friends of\n    the hill tribe--Skeggedals foss--Fairy strings--The ugliest\n    dale in Norway--A photograph of omnipotence--The great Bondehus\n    glacier--Record of the mysterious ice period--Guide stories--A\n    rock on its travels                                         pp. 260-272\n\n                             CHAPTER XIV.\n\n    Three generations--Dangers of the Folgo--Murray at\n    fault--Author takes boat for the entrance of the Bondehus\n    Valley--The king of the waterfall--More glacier paths--An\n    extensive ice-house--These glorious palaces--How is the\n    harvest?--Laxe-stie--Struggle-stone--To Vik\u00f6r--\u00d6studfoss,\n    the most picturesque waterfall in Norway--An eternal crystal\n    palace--How to earn a pot of gold--Information for the\n    _Morning Post_--A parsonage on the Hardanger--Steamers for\n    the Fjords--Why living is becoming dearer in Norway--A\n    rebuke for the travelling English--Sunday morning--Peasants\n    at church--Female head-dresses--A Norwegian church\n    service--Christening--Its adumbration in heathen Norway--A\n    sketch for Washington Irving                                pp. 273-292\n\n                             CHAPTER XV.\n\n    Up Steindalen--Thorsten Thormundson--Very near--Author\u2019s\n    guide gives him a piece of agreeable information--Crooked\n    paths--Raune bottom--A great ant-hill--Author turns rainbow\n    manufacturer--No one at home--The mill goblin helps author out\n    of a dilemma--A tiny Husman--The dangers attending confirmation\n    in Norway--The leper hospital at Bergen--A melancholy\n    walk--Different forms of leprosy--The disease found to be\n    hereditary--Terrible instances of its effects--Ethnological\n    particulars respecting--The Bergen Museum--Delicate little\n    monsters--Fairy pots--The best bookseller in Bergen--Character\n    of the Danish language--Instance of Norwegian good-nature--New\n    flames and old fiddles                                      pp. 293-315\n\n                             CHAPTER XVI.\n\n    The safest day in the year for travelling--A\n    collision--Lighthouses on the Norwegian coast--Olaf the Holy\n    and the necromancers--The cathedral at Stavanger--A Norwegian\n    M.P.--Broad sheets--The great man unbends--Jaederen\u2019s Rev--Old\n    friends at Christiansand--Too fast--The Lammer\u2019s schism--Its\n    beneficial effects--Roman Catholic Propagandism--A thievish\n    archbishop--Historical memoranda at Frederickshal--The Falls\n    of the Glommen--A Department of Woods and Forests established\n    in Norway--Conflagrations--A problem, and how it was\n    solved--Author sees a mirage--Homewards                     pp. 316-327\n\n\n\n\nTHE OXONIAN IN THELEMARKEN.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n    Danish custom-house officials--Home sickness--The ladies of\n    Denmark--Ethnological--Sweden and its forests--Influence\n    of climate on Peoples--The French court--Norwegian and\n    Danish pronunciation--The Swiss of the North--An instance of\n    Norwegian slowness--Ingemann, the Walter Scott of Denmark--Hans\n    Christian Andersen--Genius in rags--The level plains of\n    Zealand--Danish cattle--He who moveth his neighbour\u2019s\n    landmark--Beech groves--The tomb of the great Valdemar--The two\n    queens--The Probst of Ringstedt--Wicked King Abel--Mormonism\n    in Jutland--Roeskilde--Its cathedral--The Semiramis of the\n    North--Frederick IV.--Unfortunate Matilda.\n\n\nBeing desirous of proceeding to Copenhagen, I landed at Nyeborg;\ntogether with the Dane and his lady.\n\nThe steamer across to Kors\u00f6r will start at four A.M., and so, it\nbeing now midnight, we must sleep as fast as we can till then. The\npoliteness of the Danish custom-house officials surpassed everything of\nthe kind I ever encountered from that class. We put up at Schalburg\u2019s\nhotel. Mine host cozened us. I recommend no traveller to stop at his\nhouse of entertainment.\n\n\u201cMorgen-stund giv Guld i Mund,\u201d said the fair Dane to me, quoting a\nnational proverb, as I pointed out to her the distant coast of Zealand,\nwhich a few minutes before was indistinctly visible in the grey dawn,\nnow gilded with the sun.\n\nShe was quite in ecstasies at the thoughts of setting foot on her dear\nZealand, and seeing its level plains of yellow corn and beechen groves,\nafter the granite and gneiss deserts of Lapland and Finmark. Sooth to\nsay, the Danish ladies are not infected with that deadly liveliness\nwhich characterizes many of the Norwegians; while, on the other hand,\nthey are devoid of that bland facility and Frenchified superficiality\nwhich mark many of the Swedes. How is it that there is such a wide\ndistinction between the Swede and the Norskman? Contrast the frank\nbluffness of the one; strong, sterling, and earnest, without artifice\nand grace: and the supple and insinuating manner of the other. The very\npeasant-girl of Sweden steps like a duchess, and curtsies as if she\nhad been an _habitu\u00e9_ of Almack\u2019s. Pass over the Borders, as I have\ndone, from Trondjem Fjord through Jemte-land, and at the first Swedish\nchange-house almost, you are among quite a different population,\nprofuse of compliments and civilities which they evidently look upon\nas all in the day\u2019s work, and very much disposed withal to have a deal\nwith you--to sell you, for instance, one of their grey dog-skin cloaks\nfor one hundred rix dollars. One is reminded, on the one hand, of\nthe sturdy, blundering Halbert Glendinning; and on the other, of the\nlithesome, adroit Euphuist, Sir Piercie Shaft\u00f3n. And yet, if we are to\nbelieve the antiquarians and ethnologists, both people are of pretty\nmuch the same stock: coming from the countries about the Black Sea,\ntwo centuries after Christ, when these were overrun by the Romans, and\nsupervening upon the old Gothic or second migration. It may be said\nthat the Norsk character caught some parts of its colouring from the\nstern, rugged nurse in the embrace of whose mountains their lot has\nbeen cast; with the great backbone of prim\u00e6val rock (Ki\u00f6len) splitting\nNorway in two, and rendering intercourse difficult. So that now you\nwill hear a Norskman talk of Nordenfjelds (north of the mountains), and\nS\u00f6ndenfjelds (south of the mountains), as if they were two distinct\ncountries. But then, if the Swedes did live on a flatter country, and\none apparently more adapted for the production of the necessaries of\nlife, and so more favourable to the growth of civilization; yet it,\ntoo, presented obstacles almost equally insurmountable to the spread of\nrefining arts and tastes.\n\nThey also used to talk, not like the Norwegians, of their north of the\nmountain and south of the mountain, but of their north of the forest\n(nordenskovs) and south of the forest (s\u00f6ndenskovs), in allusion to\nthe impenetrable forests of Kolmorden and Tiveden, which divided the\ndistrict about the M\u00e4lar Lake from the south and south-west of Sweden.\nAnd is it much better now? True, you have the canal that has pierced\nthe country and opened it out to culture and civilization; but even at\nthe present day the climate of Sweden is less mild than that of Norway,\nand four-sevenths of the whole surface of the country are still covered\nby forests. In travelling from the Trondjem Fjord to the Gulf of\nBothnia, I found myself driving for four consecutive days through one\ndense forest, with now and then a clearing of some extent; and as for\nthe marshes, they are very extensive and treacherous. One day I saw two\ncranes not far from the road along which I was driving, and immediately\nstepped, gun in hand, off the causeway, to try and stalk them. But I\nwas nigh becoming the victim; for at the first step on what looked like\na grassy meadow, I plunged deep into a floating morass. A Swede who\nwas my companion luckily seized me before I had played out the part of\nCurtius without any corresponding results.\n\nThe nation which has to fight with a cold climate and such physical\ngeography as this, is not much better situated than the one which in\na milder climate has to wring a subsistence from rocks, and which, to\nadvance a mile direct, has to go up and down twain. Like those heroes\nand pioneers of civilization in the backwoods, they both of them have\nto clench the teeth, and knit the brow, and stiffen the sinews, if they\nwant to hold their own in the stern fight with nature. And this sort of\npermanent, self-reliant obduracy which by degrees gets into the blood,\nis by no means prone to foster those softer graces that bud forth under\nthe warmth of a southern sky and in the lap of a richer soil, where\nnone of the asperities generated by compulsion are requisite, but Dame\nNature, with the least coaxing possible, listens to and rewards her\nsuitors.\n\nWhy is it, then, that the manners of these two people are so different?\nPeople tell me it did not use to be so. The first and great reason,\nthen, appears to be the different governments of the two countries; the\nabsence of liberty and the excessive powers and number of the nobility\nin the one, and the abundance of liberty and absence of nobles in the\nother. The influence of rule upon the inhabitants of a country is, in\nthe long run, as mighty as that of breed and blood.\n\nImprobable as it may appear to some, I am inclined to lay great stress\non the influence of a French Court. Bernadotte, it is true, was the\nson of a plebeian, a notary of Pau; but he was a Frenchman, and every\nFrenchman is versatile, and gifted with external polish, at all events;\nand his Court was French, and Court influence did its work, penetrating\nto the very roots of society; so that by degrees the graces of the\ncapital became engrafted on the obsequious spirit already engendered\nby long servitude among the Swedish population. At Christiania, on the\ncontrary, there is no Court; the nobility are not, and the country\nis all but a republic. This is, I believe, a part solution of the\nproblem--a \u201cguess at truth.\u201d While on this subject, I may as well refer\nto the difference between the pronunciation of Danish and Norwegian,\nthough they are at present the same language. The vapid sweetness\nwhich your Dane affects in his articulation, is most distasteful after\nthe rough and strenuous tongue of Norway. It is a case of lollipop to\nwholesome gritty rye-bread. The Dane, especially the Copenhagener,\nrolls out his words in a most lackadaisical manner, as if he were\ntalking to a child. Mammas and papas will talk thus, we know, to their\nbabies, the language of endearment not being according to the rules\nof the Queen\u2019s English. At times I thought great big men were going to\nblubber, and were commiserating their own fate or that of the person\naddressed, when perhaps they were only asking what time the train\nstarted to Copenhagen, or whether the potato sickness had reappeared.\n\nGoing to the fore part of the steamer to get some English money turned\ninto Danish, I find two of those Swiss of the North, Dalecarlian\ngirls, on board. They are from Mora, and one is very pretty. The most\nnoticeable feature in their costume is their short petticoats and red\nstockings. That most sprightly girl, Miss Diana Redshank, will at\nonce perceive whence it is that we borrow the fashion now prevailing\nin England. As a matter of course, they were artists in hair, and\nthey immediately produced their stock-in-trade--viz., specimens of\nbracelets, necklaces, and watch-chains, very well worked and very\ncheap. They have been from home all the summer, and are now working\ntheir way back. In winter they weave cloth and attend to the household\nduties. I bought a hair bracelet for three shillings.\n\nAs an instance of Norwegian slowness, I may mention that although the\nrailway is opened from Kors\u00f6r to Copenhagen, distant three hours, the\nNorwegian steamer still continues to stop at Nyeborg, on the further\nside of the Belt, thereby necessitating this trip across, and much\nadditional delay, trouble, and expense.\n\nThe novels of Ingemann have made all these places classic ground. The\nDanes look on him as the Walter Scott of their country. He is now past\nseventy, and living in repose at the Academy of Sor\u00f6. Denmark sets a\ngood example in the reward of literary merit.\n\nWell do I remember, years ago, meeting a goggle-eyed young man, with\nlanky, dark hair, ungainly figure, and wild countenance, and nails just\nlike filberts, at a table-d\u2019h\u00f4te in Germany. All the dinner he rolled\nabout his large eyes in meditation. This was Hans Christian Andersen,\nnow enjoying a European reputation, and holding, with a good stipend,\nthe sinecure of Honorary Professor at the University of Copenhagen.\nHitherto he had been candle-snuffer at the metropolitan theatre, but\nhis hidden talents had been perceived, and he was being sent to Italy\nto improve his taste and get ideas at the public expense.\n\nIf we contrast the fate in England and in Denmark of genius in rags,\nwe may be reminded of the m\u00e4rchen, told, if I remember, by Andersen\nhimself, how that once on a time a little dirty duck was ignored by the\nsleek fat ducks around, when it meets with two swans, who recognised\nthe seemingly dirty little duck, and protected it. Whereupon the\nastonished youngster happens to see himself in a puddle, and finds that\nhe is a genuine swan.\n\nWhat a contrast between these flat plains of Zealand, with the\nwhitewashed cottages and farm-houses--the ridge of the thatched roof\npinned down with straddles of wood--and the rocky wilds of Norway, its\nlog-houses, red or yellow, with grass-covered roofs, nestling under a\nvast impending mountain. In Denmark, the highest land is only a few\nhundred feet above the sea. How immensely large, too, the cows and\nhorses look after the lilliputian breeds of Norway. There being hardly\nany fences, the poor creatures are generally tethered: yonder peasant\ngirl with the great wooden mallet is in the act of driving in the iron\ntethering-pin.\n\nNo wonder that in a country so open, superstition has had recourse\nto terrify the movers of their neighbour\u2019s landmarks. Thus the\nJack-o\u2019-Lanterns in the isle of Falster are nothing but the souls of\ndishonest land-measurers running about with flaming measuring-rods,\nand crying, \u201cHere is the right boundary, from here to here!\u201d Again,\nnear Ebeltoft, there used to live a rich peasant, seemingly a paragon\nof propriety, a regular church-goer, a most attentive sermon-hearer,\none who paid tithes of all he possessed; but somehow, nobody believed\nin him. And sure enough when he was dead and buried, his voice was\noften heard at night crying in woful accents, \u201cBoundary here, boundary\nthere!\u201d The people knew the reason why.\n\nInstead of those dark and sombre pine-forests so thoroughly in keeping\nwith the grim, Dantesque grandeur of the Norwegian landscape, or the\nghostlike white stems of the birch-trees, the only trees visible are\nthe glossy-foliaged, wide-spreading groves of beech, with now and then\nan oak.\n\nI descend at Ringstedt to see the tombs of the great Valdemar (King\nof Denmark), and his two wives, Dagmar of Bohemia, and Berengaria of\nPortugal. The train, I perceive, is partly freighted with food for the\ncapital, in the shape of sacks full of chickens (only fancy chickens\nin sacks!) and numbers of live pigs, which a man was watering with a\nwatering-can, as if they had been roses, and would wither with the heat.\n\nHaving a vivid recollection of Ingermann\u2019s best historical tale,\n_Valdemar Seier_, it was with no little interest that I entered the\nchurch, and stood beside the flag-stones in the choir which marked\nthe place of the King\u2019s sepulture. On the Regal tomb was incised,\n\u201cValdemarus Secundus Legislator Danorum.\u201d On either side were stones,\nwith the inscriptions, \u201cRegina Dagmar, prima uxor Valdemari Secundi,\u201d\nand \u201cRegina Berengaria, secunda uxor Valdemari Secundi.\u201d The real\nname of Valdemar\u2019s first wife was Margaret, but she is only known to\nthe Dane as little Dagmar, which means \u201cdawning,\u201d or \u201cmorning-red.\u201d\nHer memory is as dear to the people as that of Queen Tyra Dannebod.\nShe was as good as she was beautiful. The name of \u201cProud Bengard,\u201d on\nthe contrary, is loaded with curses, as one who brought ruin upon the\nthrone and country.\n\nAt this moment a gentleman approached me with a courteous bow; he was\ndressed in ribbed grey and black pantaloons, and a low-crowned hat.\nI found afterwards that he was a native of Bornholm, and no less a\npersonage than the Probst of Ringstedt; he was very polite and affable,\nand informed me that these graves were opened not long ago in the\npresence of his present Majesty of Denmark. Valdemar was three ells\nlong; his countenance was imperfect. Bengard\u2019s face and teeth were in\ngood preservation. Dagmar\u2019s body had apparently been disturbed before.\n\nIn the aisle near, he pointed out the monument to Eric Plugpenning, the\nson of Valdemar. He had the nickname of Plugpenning (Plough-penny), for\nsetting a tax on the plough. He was murdered on a fishing excursion by\nhis brother. The fratricide\u2019s name was not Cain but Abel. There was\nno luck afterwards about the house; the curse of Atreus and Thyestes\nrested upon it. Of course, after such an atrocity King Abel \u201cwalks,\u201d\nor more strictly speaking he \u201crides.\u201d Slain in a morass near the Eyder\nin 1252, his body was buried in the cathedral of Sleswig. But his\nspirit found no rest; by night he haunted the church and disturbed\nthe slumbers of the canons; his corpse was consequently exhumed, and\nburied in a bog near Gottorp, with a stake right through it to keep it\ndown; the peasants will still point out the place. But it was all to\nno purpose; a huntsman\u2019s horn is often heard at night in the vicinity,\nand Abel, dark of aspect, is seen scouring away on a small black horse,\nwith a leash of dogs, burning like fire.\n\nHere, then, in Denmark, we see the grand Asgaardsreia of Norway\nlocalized, and transferred from the nameless powers of the invisible\nworld to malefactors of earth; while in Germany it assumes the shape of\n\u201cThe Wild Huntsman.\u201d\n\nReturning to the inn, I amused myself till the next train arrived\nby looking at the Copenhagen paper, from which I learn that twenty\npairs were copulerede--married--last week, and that there has been\na great meeting of Mormons in the capital. Such has been the effect\nof the mission of the elders in Jutland, that that portion of Denmark\nis becoming quite depopulated from emigration to the city of the Salt\nLake. There is also a list of gold, silver, and bronze articles lately\ndiscovered in the country, and sent to the museum of Copenhagen, with\nthe amount of payments received by each. In the precious metals these\nare according to weight. One lucky finder gets 72 rix dollars.\n\nBy the next train I advance to Roeskilde, which takes its name from the\nclear perennial spring of St. Roe, which ejects many gallons a minute.\nBaths and public rooms are established in connexion with it. But it\nwas the Cathedral that drew me to Roeskilde. A brick building, in the\nplain Gothic of Denmark, it has not much interest in an architectural\npoint of view; but there are monuments here which I felt bound to see.\nOld Saxo Grammaticus, the chronicler of early Denmark, the interior of\nwhose study is so graphically described by Ingermann in the beginning\nof _Valdemar Seier_--he rests under that humble stone. Here, too, is\nburied in one of the pillars of the choir, Svend Tveskjaeg, the father\nof Canute the Great, who died at the assize at Gainsborough, in 1014.\n\nQueen Margaret (the Northern Semiramis), who wore the triple crown\nof Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, sleeps behind the altar, under a\nfull-length monument in white marble more than four centuries old. It\nwere well if the Scandinavian idea, now absorbing the minds of thinking\nmen in the North, were to find a more happy realization than in her\ncase--the union, instead of allaying the hostility with which each\nnation regarded the other, only serving to perpetuate embroilments.\nSome good kings and great repose here; also some wicked and mean.\nAmong the former, it will suffice to mention Frederick IV., whom the\nDanes look upon as their greatest monarch. A bronze statue of him\nby Thorwaldsen is to be found in one of the chapels. In the latter\ncategory we unhesitatingly place Christian VII., to whom, in an evil\nhour, was married our Caroline Matilda, sister of George III., who died\nat the early age of twenty-three.\n\n\u201cAnd what do the Danes think now of Matilda?\u201d inquired I of a person of\nintelligence.\n\n\u201cOh, they say \u2018Stakkels Matilda!\u2019\u201d (unfortunate Matilda), was the\ntouching but decisive reply. So that by the common voice of the people\nher memory is relieved from the stain cast upon it by those who were\nbound to protect her, the vile Queen-mother and the good-for-nothing\nKing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n    Copenhagen--Children of Amak--Brisk bargaining--Specimens\n    of horn fish--Unlucky dogs--Thorwaldsen\u2019s museum--The Royal\n    Assistenz House--Going, gone--The Ethnographic Museum--An\n    inexorable professor--Lionizes a big-wig--The stone\n    period in Denmark--England\u2019s want of an ethnographical\n    collection--A light struck from the flint in the stag\u2019s\n    head--The gold period--A Scandinavian idol\u2019s cestus--How\n    dead chieftains cheated fashion--Antiquities in gold--Wooden\n    almanacks--Bridal crowns--Scandinavian antiquities peculiarly\n    interesting to Englishmen--Four thousand a year in return\n    for soft sawder--Street scenes in Copenhagen--Thorwaldsen\u2019s\n    colossal statues--Blushes for Oxford and Cambridge--A Danish\n    comedy--Where the warriors rest.\n\n\nIt was late in the evening when the third train of the day whisked us\ninto Copenhagen, where I took up my abode at a quiet hotel near the\nramparts.\n\nWhat a strange place this is. Works of art, and museums superior to\nanything in Europe, and streets, for the most part very paltry, and\ninfamously paved. Traveller, be on your guard. The trottoirs of\ngranite slab, worn slippery by the perambulating hobnails of those\nchildren of Amak, are very treacherous, and if you are supplanted, you\nwill slide into a gutter nearly a foot deep, full of black sludge.\n\nThese people are a Dutch colony planted by King Christian II. in the\nneighbouring island of Amak.\n\nThe original female costume, which they still retain, consists of\nlittle black coalscuttle Quaker bonnets, very large dark-blue or white\naprons, which almost hide their sober-coloured stuff gowns with their\nred and yellow edgings. Their ruddy faces, at the bottom of the said\nscuttles, look like hot cinders got there by mistake. Altogether they\nare a most neat, dapper, and cleanly-looking set of bodies. The men\nhave also their peculiar costume. These people are the purveyors of\nvegetables for Copenhagen. Yon lady, standing in a little one-horse\nshay, full of flower-pots and bouquets, is another specimen of the\nclan, but seemingly one of the upper-crust section. Locomotive shops\nappear to be the fashion. Near the Church of our Lady are a lot of\nbutchers\u2019 carts drawn up, with meat for sale. They come from the\nenvirons of the city. Much life is concentred round the bridge near the\npalace. In the canal are several little stumpy sailing boats at anchor,\ncrammed full of pots and crockery. These are from Bornholm and Jutland.\nNear them are some vessels with awnings: these are dep\u00f4ts of cheeses\nand butter from Sleswig and Holstein.\n\nLook at yon row of women with that amphibious white head-dress\nspotted brown. In front it looks like a bonnet; behind, it terminates\nin a kerchief. You are reminded by the mixture of another mongrel,\nbut picturesque article of dress, worn by the Welsh peasant-women,\nthe pais a gwn bach. How they are gabbling to those ladies and\nhousekeeper-looking women, and sparring linguistically about something\nin the basket. Greek contending with Trojan for the dead body of\nAchilles.\n\nTheir whole stock in trade consists of specimens of \u201chornfish,\u201d an\nanimal like a sand eel, with long spiky snout, and of a silvery\nwhiteness. They are about two feet long, and twenty skillings the pair.\nThese women are from Helsing\u00f6r, which is the whereabouts of the said\nfish. They come from thence every day, if the wind serves; and if it\ndoes not, I fancy they manage to come all the same.\n\nLook at these men, too, in the street, sawing and splitting away for\ndear life, a lot of beech logs at that door. Fuel, I find, is very\ndear, from seventeen to twenty dollars the fathom.\n\nAlas! for the poor dogs, victims of that terrible fear of hydrophobia\nwhich seems to infect continental nations more than England; they\nare running about with capacious wire muzzles, projecting some\ninches beyond the smeller, which renders them, it is true, incapable\nof biting, but also of exchanging those amiable blandishments and\ncourtesies with their kind, so becoming and so natural to them, and\nforming one of the great solaces of canine existence.\n\nYonder is Thorwaldsen\u2019s museum, with its yellow ochre walls, and\nfrescoes outside representing the conveyance of his works from Italy\nhither. But that is shut up to-day, and besides, everybody has read\nan account of this museum of sculpture. An Englishman is surprised\nto learn that the sculptor\u2019s body rests, at his own request, under\nsome ivy-covered mould in the quad inside. But the ground, if not\nconsecrated episcopally, is so by the atmosphere of genius around.\n\nLet us just pop into this large building opposite. There is something\nto be seen here, perhaps, that will give us an insight into Copenhagen\nlife.\n\n\u201cWhat is this place, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis, sir, is the Royal Assistenz Huus.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat may that be?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a place where needy people can have money lent on clothes. It\nenjoys a monopoly to the exclusion of all private establishments of\nthe kind. If the goods are not redeemed within a twelvemonth, they are\nsold.\u201d\n\nA sale of this kind, I found, was now going on. Seated at a table,\nplaced upon a sort of dais, were two functionaries, dressed in\nbrown-holland coats, who performed the part of auctioneers. One drawled\nout the several bids, and another booked the name and offer of the\nhighest bidder, and very hot work it seemed to be; the one and the\nother kept mopping their foreheads, and presently a Jewish-looking\nyouth, who had been performing the part of jackal, handing up the\narticles of clothing, and exhibiting them to the buyers, brought\nthe two brown-holland gents a foaming tankard of beer, which being\nswallowed, the scribe began scribbling, and the other Robins drawling\nagain. A very nice pair of black trousers were now put up: \u201cBetter\nthan new; show them round, Ignatius.\u201d A person of clerical appearance\nseized them, and examined them thoroughly; then a peasant woman got\nhold of them; she had very dark eyes and a very red pippin-coloured\nface. A broad scarlet riband, passing under her chin, fastened her\nlace-bordered cap, while on her crown was a piece of gold cloth. One\nwould have thought that the way in which her countenance was swaddled\nwould have impeded her utterance; but she led off the bidding, and\nwas quickly followed by the motley crowd round the platform. But the\nclerical-looking customer who had been lying by, now took up the\nrunning, and had it easy. He marched off in triumph with his prize, and\nI feel no doubt that he would preach in them the next Sunday.\n\nLeaving these daws to scramble for the plumes, I passed into another\nlarge room, where I saw some nice-looking, respectable persons behind\na large counter, examining different articles brought by unfortunates\nwho were hard up. There was none of that mixture of cunning, hardness,\nand brutality about their demeanour which stamps the officials of the\nprivate establishments of the sort in England.\n\nHence we go to an old clothes establishment of another sort--I mean\nthe Ethnographic Museum. Here you find yourself, as you proceed from\nchamber to chamber, now _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ with a Greenland family in their\nquaint abode; anon you are lower down Europe among the Laplanders, and\namong other little amusements you behold the get-up of a Lap wizard and\nhis divining drum (quobdas). Hence you proceed eastward, and are now\npromenading with a Japanese beau in his handsome dress of black silk,\nnow shuddering at the hideous grimaces of a Chinese deity. All this\nhas been recently arranged with extraordinary care, and on scientific\nprinciples, by the learned Professor Thomsen.\n\n\u201cHerr Professor,\u201d exclaimed a bearded German, \u201ccan\u2019t we see the Museum\nof Northern Antiquities to-day? I have come all the way from Vienna to\nsee it, and must leave this to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cUnm\u00f6glich, mein Herr,\u201d replied the Professor. \u201cTo-morrow is the day.\nIf you saw it to-day you would not see the flowers of the collection;\nand we will not show it without the flowers. The most costly and\ninteresting specimens are locked up, and can\u2019t be opened unless all the\nattendants are present.\u201d\n\n\u201cMais, Mons. Professeur,\u201d put in a French savan.\n\n\u201cC\u2019est impossible,\u201d replied the Professor, shrugging up his shoulders.\n\n\u201cCould not we just have a little peep at it, sir?\u201d here asked some of\nmy fair countrywomen, in wheedling accents.\n\n\u201cI am very sorry, ladies, but this is not the day, you know. I shall be\nmost happy to explain all to-morrow, at four o\u2019clock,\u201d was the reply of\nthe polyglot Professor.\n\nIt would be well if the curators of museums in England would have the\nexample of Professor Thomsen before their eyes. There is no end to\nhis civility to the public, and to his labours in the departments of\nscience committed to his care. Speaking most of the European languages,\nhe may be seen, his Jove-like, grizzled head towering above the rest,\nlistening to the questions of the curious crowd, and explaining to each\nin their own tongue in which they were born the meaning of the divers\nobjects of art and science stored up in this palace. Next day, I found\nhim engaged in lionizing a big-wig; at least, so I concluded, when I\nperceived that, on either breast, he wore a silver star of the bigness\nof a dahlia flower of the first magnitude; while his coat, studded\nwith gold buttons, was further illustrated by a green velvet collar.\nSubsequently I learned, what I, indeed, guessed, that he was a Russian\ngrandee on his travels. He is the owner of one of the best antiquarian\ncollections in Europe. Professor Thomsen, not to be outdone, likewise\nexhibited four orders. While the Muscovite examined the various\ncuriosities of the stone,[1] the bronze, and the iron period, I heard\nhim talking with the air of a man whose mind was thoroughly made up\nabout the three several migrations from the Caucasus of the Celts,\nGoths, and Sclavonians.\n\nAn Englishman, when he sees this wonderful collection, cannot but be\nstruck with astonishment, on the one hand, at the industry and tact of\nProfessor Thomsen, who has been the main instrument in its formation;\nand with shame and regret, on the other, that Great Britain has no\ncollection of strictly national antiquities at all to be compared with\nit; and, what is more, it is daily being increased. The sub-curator,\nMr. C. Steinhauer, informed me, that already, this year, he had\nreceived and added to the museum one hundred and twenty different\nbatches of national antiquities, some believed to date as far back as\nbefore the Christian era. And then, the specimens are so admirably\narranged, that you may really learn something from them as to the\nstate of civilization prevailing in Scandinavia at very remote periods:\nthe collection being a connected running commentary or history, such as\nyou will meet with nowhere else. Observe this oak coffin, pronounced to\nbe not less than two thousand years old; and those pieces of woollen\ncloth of the same date. Look at that skeleton of a stag\u2019s head,\ndiscovered in the peat.\n\n\u201cThere is nothing in that,\u201d says an Hibernian, fresh from Dublin. \u201cDid\nyou ever see the great fossil elk in Trinity College Museum?\u201d\n\nAy! but there is something more interesting about this stag\u2019s head,\nnevertheless. Examine it closely. Imbedded in the bone of the jaw,\nsee, there is a flint arrow-head; the bow that sped that arrow must\nhave been pulled by a nervous arm. This \u201cstag that from the hunter\u2019s\naim had taken some hurt,\u201d perhaps retreated into a sequestered bog to\nlanguish, and sunk, by his weight, into the bituminous peat, and was\nthus embalmed by nature as a monument of a very early and rude period.\n\nPresently we get among the gold ornaments. There the Irishman is\ncompletely \u201cshut up.\u201d \u201cThe Museum of Trinity College,\u201d and \u201cMuseum of\nthe Royal Irish Academy,\u201d are beaten hollow. Nay, to leave no room for\nboasting, facsimiles of the gold head and neck ornaments in Dublin are\nactually placed here side by side with those discovered in Denmark.\nThe weight of some of the armlets and necklets is astonishing. Here is\na great gold ring, big enough for the waist; but it has no division,\nlike the armlets, to enable the wearer to expand it, and fit it to the\nbody; moreover, the inner side presents a sharp edge, such as would\ninconvenience a human wearer.\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d said Professor Thomsen, seeing our difficulty, \u201cmust have\nbeen the waistband of an idol; which, as there was no necessity for\ntaking it off, must have been soldered fast together, after it had once\nencircled the form of the image.[2]\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can be the meaning of these pigmy ornaments and arms?\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cWhy, that is very curious. You know the ancient Scandinavian chieftain\nwas buried with his sword and his trinkets. This was found to be\nexpensive, but still the tyrant fashion was inflexible on the subject;\nso, to comply with her rules, and let the chief have his properties\nwith him in the grave, miniature swords, &c., were made, and buried\nwith him; just in the same way as some of your ladies of fashion,\nthough they have killed their goose, will still keep it; in other\nwords, though their diamonds are in the hands of the Jews, still love\nto glitter about in paste.\u201d\n\n\u201cCunning people those old Vikings,\u201d thought I.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d continued our obliging informant, \u201cand look at these,\u201d pointing\nto what looked like balls of gold. \u201cThey are weights gilt all over.\nThe reason why they were gilt was the more easily to detect any\nloss of weight, which a dishonest merchant, had discovery not been\ncertain, might otherwise have contrived to inflict on them.\u201d Those\nmighty wind-instruments, six feet long, are the war-horns (Luren) of\nthe bronze period; under these coats of mail throbbed the bosoms of\nsome valorous freebooters handed down to fame by Snorro. \u201cLook here,\u201d\ncontinued he, \u201cthese pieces of thick gold and silver wire were used\nfor money in the same way as later the links of a chain were used for\nthat purpose. Here is a curious gold medal of Constantine, most likely\nused as a military decoration. The reverse has no impress on it.\u201d This\nreminded me of the buttons and other ornaments in Thelemarken, which\nare exact copies of fashions in use hundreds of years ago. Here again\nare some Bezants, coins minted at Byzantium, which were either brought\nover by the ships of the Vikings, or were carried up the Volga to\nNovgorod, a place founded by the Northmen, and so on to Scandinavia,\nby the merchants and mercenary soldiers who in early times flocked\nto the East. Gotland used to be a gathering-place for those who thus\npassed to and fro, and to this Wisby owes its former greatness. Many of\nthese articles of value were probably buried by the owner on setting\nout upon some fresh expedition from which he never returned, and their\ndiscovery has been due to the plough or the spade, while others have\nbeen unearthed from the barrows and cromlechs. Here, again, are some\nprimstavs, or old Scandinavian wooden calendars. You see they are of\ntwo sorts--one straight, like the one I picked up in Thelemarken,\nwhile another is in the shape of an elongated ellipse. If you compare\nthem, you will now find how much they differed, not only in shape, but\nalso in the signs made to betoken the different days in the calendar.\n\u201cYou have heard of our Queen Dagmar. Here is a beautiful enamelled\ncross of Byzantine workmanship which she once wore around her neck.\nYou have travelled in Norway? Wait a moment,\u201d continued the voluble\nProfessor, as he directed an attendant to open a massive escritoir.\n\u201cYou are aware, sir, that it is the custom in Norway and Sweden for\nbrides to wear a crown. I thought that, before the old custom died, I\nwould secure a memento of it. I had very great difficulty, the peasants\nwere so loth to part with them, but at last I succeeded, and behold the\nresult, sir. That crown is from Iceland, that from Sweden, and that\nfrom Norway. It is three hundred years old. That fact I have on the\nbest authority. It used to be lent out far and near for a fixed sum,\nand, computing the weddings it attended at one hundred per annum, which\nis very moderate, it must have encircled the heads of thirty thousand\nbrides on their wedding-day. Very curious, Excellence!\u201d he continued,\ngiving the Russian grandee a sly poke in the ribs.\n\nThe idea seemed to amuse the old gentleman of the stars and green\nvelvet collar wonderfully.\n\n\u201cSapperlot! Potztannsend noch ein mal!\u201d he ejaculated, with great\nanimation, while the antiquarian dust seemed to roll from his eyes,\nand they gleamed up uncommonly.\n\nIn the same case I observed more than one hundred Danish, Swedish, and\nNorwegian spoons of quaint shape, though they were nearly all of what\nwe call the Apostle type.\n\nBut we must take leave of the museum with the remark that, to see\nit thoroughly, would require a great many visits. To an Englishman,\nwhose country was so long intimately connected with Scandinavia,--and\nwhich has most likely undergone pretty nearly the same vicissitudes of\ncivilization and occupancy as Scandinavia itself--this collection must\nbe intensely interesting, especially when examined by the light thrown\nupon it by Worsaae and others.\n\nIndeed, if England wishes to know the facts of her Scandinavian period,\nit is to these people that she must look for information.\n\n\u201cTen per cent. for my money!\u201d That, alas! is too often an Englishman\u2019s\nmotto now-a-days; \u201cand I can\u2019t get that by troubling my head about King\nOlaf or Canute.\u201d\n\nWhile I write this I am reminded of an agreeable, good-looking young\nBriton whom I met here; he is a physician making four thousand a-year\nby administering doses of soft sawder. Thrown by circumstances early\non the world, he has not had the opportunity of acquiring ideas or\nknowledge out of the treadmill of his profession. He is just fresh from\nNorway, through which he has shot like a rocket, being pressed for time.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful the rivers are there,\u201d he observed; \u201cso rapid.\nBy-the-bye, though, your river at Oxford must be something like them.\nThe poet says, \u2018Isis rolling rapidly!\u2019\u201d\n\nLeaving the museum, I dined at the great restaurant\u2019s of Copenhagen,\nJomfru Henkel\u2019s, in the Ostergade; it was too crowded for comfort.\nDinner is _\u00e0 la carte_.\n\nSome convicts were mending the roadway in one of the streets; their\njackets were half black, half yellow, trousers ditto, only that where\nthe jacket was black, the inexpressibles were yellow on the same side,\nand _vice vers\u00e2_. Their legs were heavily chained. Many carriages\nwere assembled round the church of the Holy Ghost; I found it was a\nwedding. All European nations, I believe, but the English, choose the\nafternoon for the ceremony.\n\nThorwaldsen\u2019s colossal statues in white marble of our Saviour and\nhis Apostles which adorn the Frue Kirke, are too well known to need\ndescription.\n\nAt the Christianborg, or Palace of King Christian, the lions that\ncaught my attention first were the three literal ones in massive\nsilver, which always figure at the enthronization of the Danish\nmonarchs. Next to them I observed the metaphorical lions, viz., the\nsword of Gustavus Adolphus, the cup in which Peter the Great used to\ntake his matutinal dram, the portrait of the unhappy Matilda, and of\nthe wretched Christian VII.\n\nBlush Oxford and Cambridge, when you know that on the walls of this\npalace, side by side with the freedom of the City of London and the\nGoldsmiths\u2019 Company (but the London citizens are of course not very\nparticular in these matters), hang your diplomas of D.C.L., engrossed\non white satin, conferred upon this precious specimen of a husband and\nking.\n\nThat evening I went to see a comedy of Holberg\u2019s at the theatre, _Jacob\nvon Tyb\u00f6_ by name. It seemed to create immense fun, which was not to be\nwondered at, for the piece contained a rap at the German customs, and\nbraggadocio style of that people in vogue here some hundred years ago.\nThe taste for that sort of thing, as may readily be imagined, no longer\nexists here. Roars of laughter accompanied every hit at Tuskland.\nThe two Roskilds and Madame Pfister acquitted themselves well. The\ntemperature of the building was as nearly as possible that of the Black\nHole of Calcutta, as far as I was able to judge by my own feelings\ncompared with the historical account of that delectable place. A lady\nnext me told me that they had long talked of an improved building.\n\nNext day I visited the Seamen\u2019s Burial Ground, where, clustering about\nan elevated mound, are the graves of the Danish sailors who fell in\n1807. I observed an inscription in marble overgrown with ivy:--\n\n    Kranz som Fadrelandet gav,\n    Den visner ei paa falden Krieger\u2019s Grav.\n\n    The chaplet which their fatherland once gave\n    Shall never fade on fallen warrior\u2019s grave.\n\nTrue to the motto, the monuments are decked every Saturday with\nfresh flowers. Fuchsias were also growing in great numbers about.\nThe different spaces of ground are let for a hundred years; if the\nlease is not renewed then, I presume the Company will enter upon the\npremises. There were traces about, I observed, of English whittlers.\nOur countrymen seem to remember the command of the augur to Tarquinius,\n\u201ccut boldly,\u201d and the King cut through.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n    The celebrated Three Crowns Battery--Hamlet\u2019s grave--The Sound\n    and its dues--To Fredericksborg--Iceland ponies--Denmark\n    an equine paradise--From Copenhagen to Kiel--Tidemann, the\n    Norwegian painter--Pictures at D\u00fcsseldorf--The boiling\n    of the porridge--D\u00fcsseldorf theatricals--Memorial of\n    Dutch courage--Young heroes--An attempt to describe the\n    Dutch language--The Amsterdam canals--Half-and-half in\n    Holland--Want of elbow-room--A New Jerusalem--A sketch for\n    Juvenal--The museum of Dutch paintings--Magna Charta of Dutch\n    independence--Jan Steen\u2019s picture of the _f\u00eate_ of Saint\n    Nicholas--Dutch art in the 17th century--To Zaandam--Traces\n    of Peter the Great--Easy travelling--What the reeds seemed to\n    whisper.\n\n\nThe name of the steamer which took me past the celebrated Three\nCrowns Battery, and along to the pretty low shores of Zealand to\nElsineur (Helsing\u00f6r), was the _Ophelia_, fare three marks. In the\nMarielyst Gardens, which overhang the famed Castle of Kronborg, is\na Mordan\u2019s-pencil-case-shaped pillar of dirty granite, miscalled\n\u201cHamlet\u2019s grave.\u201d Yankees often resort here, and pluck leaves from the\nlime-trees overhanging the mausoleum, for the purpose of conveyance to\ntheir own country.\n\nBut this is not the only point of interest for Brother Jonathan. Look\nat the Sound yonder, refulgent in the light of the evening sun, with\nthe numberless vessels brought up for the night, having been warned by\nthe bristling cannon to stop, and pay toll. I don\u2019t wonder that those\nscheming, go-ahead people, object to the institution altogether--albeit\nthe proceeds are a vital question for Denmark. On the steamer, I fell\ninto conversation with a Danish pilot about this matter. I found that\nhe, like others of his countrymen, was very slow to acknowledge that\nships are forced to stop opposite the castle. He said that only ships\nbound to Russia do so, because the Czar insists on their having their\npapers _vis\u00e9d_ by the Danish authorities before they are permitted to\nenter his ports.[3]\n\nFinding there was no public conveyance to Fredericksborg, which I\npurposed visiting, I must fain hire a one-horse vehicle at the Post.\nIt was a sort of mail phaeton, of the most cumbrous and unwieldy\ndescription--I don\u2019t know how much dearer than in Norway--so slow,\ntoo. On the road we pass the romantic lake of Gurre, the scene of King\nValdemar\u2019s nightly hunt. Some storks remind the traveller of Holland.\nRight glad I was when we at length jogged over divers drawbridges\nspanning very green moats, and through sundry gates, and emerged upon a\nlarge square, facing the main entrance to the castle.\n\nThe private apartments, I found, were, by a recent regulation,\ninvisible, as his Majesty has taken to living a good deal here. But I\nwas shown the chapel, in which all the monarchs of Denmark are crowned,\ngorgeous with silver, ebony, and ivory; and the Riddersaal over it,\none hundred and sixty feet long, with its elaborate ceiling, and many\nportraits: and, marvellous to relate, the custodian would have nothing\nfor his trouble but thanks. In the stable were several little Iceland\nponies, which looked like a cross between the Norsk and Shetland\nraces. They were fat and sleek, and, no doubt, have an easy time of\nit; indeed, Denmark is a sort of equine paradise. What well-to-do\nfellows those four strapping brown horses were that somnambulized with\nthe diligence that conveyed us to Copenhagen. That their slumbrous\nequanimity might not be disturbed, the very traces were padded, and,\ninstead of collars, they wore broad soft chest-straps. The driver told\nme they cost three hundred and fifty dollars each. That flat road,\npassing through numerous beech-woods was four and a-half Danish miles\nlong, equal to twenty English, and took us more than four hours to\naccomplish.\n\nBidding adieu to Copenhagen, I returned by rail to Kors\u00f6r, and embarked\nin the night-boat _Skirner_, from thence to Kiel. As the name of the\nvessel, like almost every one in Scandinavia, is drawn from the old\nNorthern mythology, I shall borrow from the same source for an emblem\nof the stifling state of the atmosphere in the cabin. \u201cA regular\nMuspelheim!\u201d said I to a Dane, as I pantingly look round before turning\nin, and saw every vent closed. A fog retarded our progress, and it\nwas not till late the next afternoon that I found myself in Hamburg.\nSome few hours later I was under the roof of mine host of the \u201cThree\nCrowns,\u201d at D\u00fcsseldorf, where I purposed paying a visit to Tidemann,\nthe Norwegian painter. Unfortunately, he was not returned from his\nsummer travels, so that I could not deliver to him the greeting I had\nbrought him from his friends in the Far North. His most recent work,\nwhich I had heard much of, the \u201cWounded Bear-hunter returning Home,\nhaving bagged his prey,\u201d was also away, having been purchased by the\nKing of Sweden. At the Institute, however, I saw several sketches and\npaintings by this master.\n\nAnna Gulsvig is evidently the original of the \u201cGrandmother telling\nStories.\u201d\n\nBagge\u2019s \u201cLandscape in Valders,\u201d and Nordenberg\u2019s \u201cDalecarlian Scenes,\u201d\nbrought back for a moment the land I had quitted to my mind and vision.\n\u201cThe Mother teaching her Children,\u201d and \u201cThe Boiling of the Porridge,\u201d\nalso by Tidemann, proclaim him to be the Teniers of Norway. Though\nwhile he catches the national traits, he manages to represent them\nwithout vulgarity. But perhaps this lies in the nature of the thing.\nThe heavy-built Dutchman anchored on his square flat island of mud\ncan\u2019t possibly have any of that rugged elevation of mind, or romance of\nsentiment, that would belong to the child of the mountain and lake.\n\nThe school of D\u00fcsseldorf--if such it can be called--has turned out some\ngreat artists, _e.g._, Kaulbach and Cornelius; but the place has never\nbeen itself since it lost its magnificent collection of pictures, which\nnow grace the Pinacothek at Munich.\n\nAs I sipped a cup of coffee in the evening, I read a most grandiloquent\naccount of the prospects of the D\u00fcsseldorf Theatre for the ensuing\nwinter. The first lover was perfection, while the tragedy queen was\n\u201cun\u00fcbertrefflich\u201d (not to be surpassed). The part of tender mother\nand matron was also about to be taken by a lady of no mean theatrical\npretensions. This self-complacency of the inhabitants of the smaller\ncities is quite delightful.\n\nOn board the steamer to Emmerich was a family of French Jews, busily\nengaged, not in looking about them, but in calculating their expenses,\nthough dressed in the pink of fashion.\n\nHere I am at Amsterdam. In the Grand Place is a monument in memory of\nDutch bravery and obstinacy evinced in the fight with Belgium. This\nhas only just been erected, with great f\u00eates and rejoicings. Well, to\nbe sure! this reminds me of the Munich obelisk, in memory of those\nluckless thirty thousand Bavarians who swelled Napoleon\u2019s expedition\nto Russia, and died in the cause of his insatiable ambition. \u201cAuch sie\nstarben f\u00fcr das Vaterland\u201d is the motto.\n\nV. Ruyter and V. Speke are both monumented in the adjoining church.\nThe former, who died at Syracuse from a wound, is described in the\ninscription as \u201cImmensi tremor Oceani,\u201d and owing all to God, \u201cet\nvirtuti su\u00e6.\u201d\n\nThe warlike spirit of Young Amsterdam seems to be effectually excited\njust now. As I passed through the Exchange at a quarter to five P.M.,\nthe merchants were gone, and in their room was an obstreperous crowd\nof _gamins_, armed \u201cwith sword and pistol,\u201d like Billy Taylor\u2019s true\nlove (only they were sham), and thumping their drums, and the drums\nthumping the roof, and the roof and the drum together reverberating\nagainst the drum of my ear till I was fairly stunned. \u201cWhere are the\npolice?\u201d thought I, escaping from the hubbub with feelings akin to what\nmust have been those of Hogarth\u2019s enraged musician, or of a modern\nLondon householder, fond of quiet, with the Italian organ-grinders\nrending the air of his street. Dutch is German in the Somersetshire\ndialect; so I managed to comprehend, without much difficulty, the short\ninstructions of the passers-by as to my route to various objects of\ninterest. By-the-bye, here is the house of Admiral de Ruyter, next to\nthe Norwegian Consulate. Over the door I see there is his bust in stone.\n\nAs I pass along the canals, it puzzles me to think how the Dutchman\ncan live by, nay, revel in the proximity of these seething tanks of\nbeastliness and corruption. That notion about the pernicious effects of\ninhaling sewage effluvia must be a myth, after all, and the sanitary\ncommission a regular job. Indeed, I always thought so, after a\nconversation I once had with a fellow in London, the very picture of\nrude health, who told me he got his living by mudlarking and catching\nrats in the sewers, for which there was always a brisk demand at\nOxford and Cambridge, in term time. Look at these jolly Amsterdamers.\nI verily believe it would be the death of them if you separated them\nfrom their stinking canals, or transported them to some airy situation,\nwith a turbulent river hurrying past. Custom is second nature, and\nthat has doubtless much to do with it: but the nature of the liquids\npoured down the inner man perhaps fortifies Mynheer against the evil\neffects of the semi-solid liquid of the canals. Just after breakfast\nI went into the shop of the celebrated Wijnand Fockink, the Justerini\nand Brooks of Amsterdam, to purchase a case of liqueurs, when I heard\na squabby-shaped Dutchman ask for a glass of half-and-half. It is\nastonishing, I thought with myself, how English tastes and habits are\ngaining ground everywhere. Of course he means porter and ale mixed. The\nattendant supplied him with the article he wanted, and it was bolted at\na gulp.\n\nDutch half-and-half, reader, is a dram of raw gin and cura\u00e7oa, in equal\nportions.\n\nWhat a crowd of people, to be sure. \u201cHolland is over-peopled,\u201d said a\ntradesman to me. \u201cWhy, sir, you can have a good clerk for 20_l._ per\nannum. The land is ready to stifle with the close packing.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I, \u201cso it appears. That operation going on under the bridge\nis a fit emblem of the tightness of your population.\u201d\n\nAs I spoke, I pointed to a man, or rather several men, engaged in a\nnational occupation: packing herrings in barrels. How closely they were\nfitted, rammed and crammed, and then a top was put on the receptacle,\nand so on, _ad infinitum_.\n\nWe are now in the Jewish quarter. \u201cOur people,\u201d as the Israelites are\nwont to call themselves, formerly looked on Amsterdam as a kind of New\nJerusalem. Indeed, they are a very important and numerous part of the\npopulation. The usual amount of dirt and finery, young lustrous eyes,\nand old dingy clothes, black beards and red beards, small infants and\nbig hook noses, are jumbled about the shop-doors and in the crowded\nthoroughfares. Here are some fair peasant girls, Frieslanders, I\nshould think, or from beyond the Y, judging by their helmet-shaped\nhead-dresses of gold and silver plates, with the little fringe of lace\ndrawn across the forehead, just over the eyebrows, the very same that\nGerard Dow and Teniers have placed before us. If they were not Dutch\nwomen, and belonged to a very wide-awake race, I should tremble for\nthem, as they go staring and sauntering about in rustic simplicity,\nfor fear of that lynx-eyed Fagan with the Satyr nose and leering eye\nfastened upon them, who is clearly just the man to help to despoil them\nof their gold and silver, or something more precious still, in the way\nof his trade.\n\nAs we walk through the streets, the chimes, that ever and anon ring\nout from the old belfries, remind us that we are in the Low Countries;\nand if that were not sufficient, the showers of water on this bright\nsunny day descending from the house-sides, after being syringed against\nthem by some industrious abigail, make the fact disagreeably apparent\nto the passer-by. This will prepare me for my visit to Broek; not that\nthere is so much to be seen there--and Albert Smith has brought the\nplace bodily before us--but if one left it out, all one\u2019s friends that\nhad been there would aver, with the greatest possible emphasis and\nsolemnity, that I had omitted seeing _the_ wonder of Holland. So I\nshall _do_ it, if all be well.\n\nHere is the Trippenhuus, or Museum of Dutch paintings, situated, of\ncourse, on a canal. Van der Helst\u2019s picture of the \u201cBurgher Guard\nmet to celebrate the Treaty of M\u00fcnster\u201d--the Magna Charta of Dutch\nindependence, pronounced by Sir Joshua to be the finest of its kind\nin the world--of course claims my first attention. The three fingers\nheld up, emblematic of the Trinity, is the continental equivalent to\nthe English taking Testament in hand upon swearing an oath. But as\neverybody that has visited Amsterdam knows all about this picture, and\nthose two of Rembrandt\u2019s, the \u201cNight-watch,\u201d and that other of the\n\u201cGuild of Cloth Merchants,\u201d this mention of them will suffice.\n\nThat picture is Jan Steen\u2019s \u201cF\u00eate of St. Nicholas,\u201d a national festival\nin Holland. The saint is supposed to come down the chimney, and shower\nbonbons on the good children, while he does not forget to bring a rod\nfor the naughty child\u2019s back.\n\nDe Ruyter is also here, with his flashing eye, contracted brow, and\ndark hair. While, of course, the collection is not devoid of some of\nVandervelde\u2019s pictures of Holland\u2019s naval victories when Holland was a\ngreat nation.\n\nThere must have been great genius and great wealth in this country\nwherewith to reward it, in the seventeenth century. In this very town\nwere born Van Dyk, Van Huysum, and Du Jardin; in Leyden, G. Douw,\nMetzu, W. Mieris, Rembrandt, and J. Steen. Utrecht had its Bol and\nHondekoeter; while Haarlem, which was never more than a provincial town\nwith 48,000 inhabitants, produced a Berghem, a Hugtenberg, a Ruysdael,\na Van der Helst, and a Wouvermans.\n\nIn proof of the _sharpness_ of the Amsterdamers, I may mention that\nmost of the diamonds of Europe are cut here.\n\nNext day, I took the steamer to Zaandam, metamorphosed by us into\nSaardam, pretty much on the same principle, I suppose, that an\nEnglish beefsteak becomes in the mouths of the French a \u201cbiftek.\u201d The\ntumble-down board-house, with red tile roof, built by the semi-savage\nPeter, in 1632, will last all the longer for having been put in a\nbrick-case by one of the imperial Russian family. I always look on\nPeter\u2019s shipwright adventures, under the name of Master Baas, as a\ngreat exaggeration. He perhaps wanted to make his subjects take up the\nart, but he never had any serious thoughts of carpentering himself. He\nonly was here three days, and, as the veracious old lady who showed the\nplace told me, he built this house himself, so what time had he for the\ndockyards? When some of your great folks go to the Foundling Hospital,\nand eat the plum-pudding on Christmas-day, or visit Woolwich and taste\nthe dietary, and seem to like it very much, that is just such another\nmake-believe.\n\n\u201cNothing is too little for a great man,\u201d was the inscription on the\nmarble slab over the chimney-piece, placed there by the very hand\nof Alexander I. of Russia. In the room are two cupboards, in one of\nwhich Peter kept his victuals, while the other was his dormitory.\nIf Peter slept in that cupboard, and if he shut the door of it, all\nI have to say is, the ventilation must have been very deficient, and\nhow he ever survived it is a wonder. The whole hut is comprised in two\nrooms. In the other room are two pictures of the Czar. In the one,\npresented in \u201956 by Prince Demidoff, the Czar, while at work, axe in\nhand, is supposed to have received unwelcome intelligence from Muscovy,\nand is dictating a dispatch to his secretary. The finely chiselled\nfeatures, pale complexion, and air of refinement, here fathered on\nthis ruffian, never belonged to him. The other picture, presented by\nthe munificent and patriotic M. Van der Hoof, is infinitely more to\nthe purpose, and shows you the man as he really was, and in short, as\nhe appears in a contemporary portrait at the Rosenborg Slot. Thick,\nsensual lips--the very lips to give an unchaste kiss, or suck up\nstrong waters--contracted brow, bushy eyebrows, coarse, dark hair and\nmoustache--that is the real man. He wears broad loose breeches reaching\nto the knee, and on the table is a glass of grog to refresh him at his\nwork.\n\nTen minutes sufficed for me to take the whole thing in, and to get\nback in time for the returning steamer, otherwise I should have been\nstranded on this mud island for some hours, and there is nought else\nto see but a picture in the church of the terrible inundation; the\nship-building days of Zaandam having long since gone by, and passed to\nother places.\n\nBy this economy of time I shall be enabled to take the afternoon\ntreckshuit to Broek. A ferry-boat carries us over the Y from\nAmsterdam, a distance of two or three hundred yards, to Buiksloot, the\nstarting-place of the treckshuit, when, to my surprise, each passenger\ngives an extra gratuity to the boatman. This shows to what lengths the\nfee-system may go. And yet Englishmen persist in introducing it into\nNorway, where hitherto it has been unknown. Entering into the little\nden called cabin, I settled down and looked around me. On the table\nwere the Lares, to wit, a brass candlestick, beyond it a brass stand\nabout a foot high, with a pair of snuffers on it, and then two brasiers\ncontaining charcoal, the whole shining wonderfully bright. Opposite\nme, sitting on the puffy cushions, was a substantial-looking peasant,\nimmensely stout and broad sterned, dressed in a dark jacket and very\nwide velveteen trousers. He wore a large gold seal, about the size and\nshape of a half-pound packet of moist sugar, and a double gold brooch,\nconnected by a chain. As the boat seemed a long time in starting, I\nemerged again from this odd little shop to ascertain the cause of the\ndelay, when I found to my surprise that we were already under way. So\nnoiselessly was the operation effected, that I was not aware of it.\nDragged by a horse, on which sat a sleepy lad, singing a sleepy song,\nthe boat glided mutely along. The only sound beside the drone of the\nboy was the rustling of the reeds, which seemed to whisper, \u201cWhat an\nass you are for coming along this route. You, who have just come from\nthe land of the mountain and the flood, to paddle about among these\nfrogs.\u201d Really, the whole affair is desperately slow, and there is\nnothing in the world to see but numerous windmills, with their thatched\nroof and sides, whose labour it is to drain the large green meadows\nlying some feet below us, on which numerous herds of cows are feeding.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n    Broek--A Dutchman\u2019s idea of Paradise--A toy-house for real\n    people--Cannon-ball cheeses--An artist\u2019s flirtation--John Bull\n    abroad--All the fun of the fair--A popular refreshment--Morals\n    in Amsterdam--The Zoological Gardens--Bed and Breakfast--Paul\n    Potter\u2019s bull--Rotterdam.\n\n\nI was not sorry when the captain, who of course received a fee for\nhimself besides the fare, called out \u201cBroek!\u201d The stagnation of water,\nand sound, and life in general, on a Dutch canal, is positively\noppressive to the feelings; it would have been quite a relief to have\nhad a little shindy among the passengers and the crew, such as gave a\nvariety to the canal voyage of Horace to Brundusium.\n\nTo enliven matters, supposing we tell you a tale about Broek, which\nI of course ferreted out of a drowsy Dutch chronicle, but which the\nill-natured Smelfungus says has been already told by Washington Irvine.\nIn former times, the people of the place were sadly negligent of their\nspiritual duties, and turned a very deaf ear to the exhortations of\nthe clergyman. A new parson at last arrived, who beholding all the\npeople given to idolatry in the shape of washing, washing, washing\nall the day long, and apparently thinking of nothing else, hit upon\na new scheme for reforming them. He bid them be righteous and fear\nGod, and then they should get to Paradise, and he described what joys\nshould be theirs in that abode of bliss. This was the old tale, and the\ncongregation were on the point of subsiding into their usual sleep.\n\n\u201cThe abode of bliss,\u201d continued the preacher, \u201cand cleanliness, and\neverlasting washing.\u201d The Dutchmen opened their eyes. \u201cYes,\u201d proceeded\nthe preacher; \u201cthe joys of earth shall to the good be continued in\nheaven. You will be occupied in washing, and scrubbing, and cleaning,\nand in cleaning, and washing, and scrubbing, for ever and ever, amen.\u201d\n\nHe had hit the right chord; the parson became popular, the church\nfilled, and a great reformation was wrought in Broek.\n\nSauntering along the Grand Canal, from which, as from a backbone,\nribbed out divers lesser canals, I entered, at the bidding of an old\nlady, one of the houses of the place, with the date of 1612 over it.\nOf course its floor was swept and garnished, and the little pan of\nlighted turf was burning in the fireplace; and there was the usual\namount of china vases, and knickknacks of all descriptions scattered\nabout to make up a show. And then she showed me the bed like a\nberth, which smelt very fusty, and the door, which is never opened\nexcept at a burial or bridal. After this, I walked into a little\nwarehouse adjoining, all painted and prim, and saw eight thousand\ncannon-ball-shaped cheeses in a row, value one dollar a piece, each\nwith a red skin, like a very young infant\u2019s. This colour is obtained, I\nunderstand, by immersing them in a decoction of Bordeaux grape husks,\nwhich are imported from France for the purpose. I next went to the\nbridge over the canal, and tried to sketch the avenue of dwarf-like\ntrees and the row of toy-houses, and the old man brushing away two or\nthree leaves that had fallen on the sward. At this moment came by a\nbuxom girl in the genuine costume of the place, who exclaimed, \u201cLauk,\nhe\u2019s sketching!\u201d (in Dutch) and stood immovable before me, and so of\ncourse I proceeded incontinently to sketch her in the foreground, she\nkeeping quite still, and then coming and peeping over my shoulder, to\nsee how she looked on paper.\n\nFinding it was late, I hurried back to catch the return boat, faster,\nI should think, than anybody ever ventured before to go in Broek; at\nleast, I judged so from the looks of sleepy astonishment and almost\ndispleasure which seemed to gather on the Lotos-eater-like countenances\nof the citizens I met. As it was, I just saved the boat, and am now\nagain gliding smoothly back to Amsterdam.\n\nAs I look through the windows of the cabin, I perceive a few golden\nplover and stints basking listlessly among the reeds, undisturbed by\nour transit. This time, however, there was more bustle on board. There\nwere two foreigners who were very full of talk, and who, though they\nwere speaking to a Dutchman in French, I knew at once to be English.\nAs I finished up my sketch, I heard one of these gentlemen say, \u201cAh!\nI am an Englishman; you would not have thought it, but so it is. Few\nEnglish speak French with a correct accent, but I, maw (moi?); jabbeta\nseese ann ong France, solemong pour parlay lar lang, ay maw jay parl\nparfaitmong biong.\u201d I differed from him. It has seldom been my lot to\nhear French spoken worse. John Bull abroad is certainly a curiosity.\n\nThat evening I sallied out to see the Kirmess, or great annual fair.\nIts chief scene was round the statue of Rembrandt, in the heart of\nthe city. Hogarth\u2019s \u201cSouthwark Fair\u201d would give but a faint idea of\nthe state of things. There was the usual amount of wild beasts and\ngiants; there was a pumpkin of a woman and her own brother, as thin\nas if he were training to get up the inside of a gas-pipe, to be seen\ninside one show, and their faithful portraits outside on a canvas,\npainted after the school of Sir Peter Paul Rubens. A mechanical theatre\nfrom Bamberg was apparently doing an immense trade under the auspices\nof an unmistakable Jewish family, who appeared from time to time on\nthe platform. Close by was a picture of Sebastopol, which professed\nto have arrived from London. But the undiscerning public seemed to\ncare very little about it; it was in vain that they were summoned to\nadvance to the ticket-office by the sound of fife and drum--one could\nalmost imagine, that the person of rueful and despairing aspect who\nwas waiting for the people to ascend the parapet, had been spending\nsome weeks in the trenches before the devoted city. The crowds, that\nsurged about in serried masses, had their wants well seen to in the\nrefreshment way. One favourite esculent was brown smoked eels, weighing\nperhaps half a pound each, and placed in large heaps on neat-looking\nstalls, kept by neat-looking people. The eels were stretched out full\nlength as stiff as pokers, and I saw several respectable looking\nsight-seers solacing themselves with a fish of the sort.\n\nBut the most popular refreshment remains to be mentioned. Ranged along\nthe street, in a compact row, were a number of gaudily painted temples;\nin front of each sat the priestess. Mostly, she was young and pretty,\nbut here and there, blowsy and obese. By her side was a large bright\ncopper caldron, steaming with a white hasty-pudding-looking substance.\nIn front of her was a fire, over which was a broad square plate of\niron, studded with small holes like a bagatelle-board. The female held\nin her hand a wand, or rather a long iron spoon, which she dabbed\ninto the caldron, and then delivered a portion of the contents into\nthe little holes above-mentioned. This required great adroitness; but\ncustom appeared to have brought her to the pinnacle of her art, and\nshe hardly ever missed her mark. In a second or two, the hasty-pudding\nbecame transformed into a sort of small pancake, and was whipped out\nof its _locus in quo_ by a light-fingered acolyte of the male sex. I\nobserved that behind the priestess were sundry little alcoves, shaded\nby bright-coloured curtains; in these might be seen loving pairs,\nfeasting on the handiworks of the lady of the spoon. The repast was\nsimple, and was soon dispatched, for a constant succession of votaries\nkept entering and issuing from the alcoves. If I was correctly\ninformed, it would have been possible to have got as high as the top\nbutton of your waistcoat for the small sum of a few stivers.\n\nI was sorry to hear that this national festival--a sort of Dutch\ncarnival, which is visited by all classes--is ruinous to what is left\nof morals in Amsterdam.\n\nBefore leaving the city, I must not omit to mention the Zoological\nGardens. If you wish to find them, you must ask for the \u201cArtis;\u201d that\nis the name it is known by to every gamin and fisherman in Amsterdam.\nThe Dutch are very classical, and the inscription over the entrance is,\n\u201cNatur\u00e6 artis magistra.\u201d Half-a-dozen other public places go by Latin\nnames. Thus, the Royal Institution of Literature and Art is called\n\u201cFelix Meritis,\u201d from the first words of a legend on the front of the\nbuilding.\n\nNext day, I take leave of my room in the hotel, with its odd\nFrench-shaped beds, closed in by heavy green stuff curtains, and great\nprojecting chimney-piece. In my bill, the charge for bed tacitly\nincludes that for breakfast; these two items being, seemingly,\nconsidered by the Dutch all one thing. Cheese appears to be invariably\neaten by the natives with their morning coffee, which is kept hot by a\nlittle spirit-lamp under the coffee-pot.\n\nAfter this, I stopped at Shravenhagen (the Hague), to see Paul Potter\u2019s\nBull. On the Sunday, attended a Calvinistic place of worship, where\nI was horrified to behold the irreverent way in which the male part\nof the congregation, who looked not unlike your unpleasant political\ndissenter at a church-rate meeting, gossiped with their hats on their\nheads until the entrance of the clergyman.\n\nNext day, I found myself at Rotterdam. The steamer for London managed,\nnear Helvoetsluys, to break the floats of her paddle-wheel; the engine\ncould not be worked; and as there was a heavy sea and strong wind\nblowing on-shore, we should soon have been there, had not another\nsteamer come to our assistance, and towed us back into a place of\nsafety. After repairing damages, we proceeded on our voyage, and\neventually arrived unharmed in London.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n    Oxford in the Long Vacation--The rats make such a\n    strife--A case for Lesbia--Interview between a hermit and\n    a novice--The ruling passion--Blighted hopes--Norwegian\n    windows--Tortoise-shell soup--After dinner--Christiansand\n    again--Ferry on the Torrisdal river--Plain records of\n    English travellers--Salmonia--The bridal crown--A bridal\n    procession--Hymen, O Hymen\u00e6e!--A ripe Ogress--The head cook at\n    a Norwegian marriage--God-fearing people--To S\u00e6tersdal--Neck or\n    nothing--Lilies and lilies--The Dutch myrtle.\n\n\nI was sitting in my rooms, about the end of the month of July, 1857,\nhaving been dragged perforce, by various necessary avocations, into the\nsolitude of the Oxford Long Vacation; not a soul in this college, or,\nin short, in any college. \u201cA decided case of \u2018Last Rose of Summer,\u2019\u201d\nmused I. \u201cThose rats or mice, too, in the cupboard, what a clattering\nand squeaking they keep up, lamenting, probably, the death of one of\ntheir companions in the trap this morning; but, nevertheless, they are\nnot a bit intimidated, for it is hunger that makes them valiant.\u201d\nThe proverb, \u201cHungry as a church mouse,\u201d fits a college mouse in Long\nVacation exactly. The supplies are entirely stopped with the departure\nof the men: no remnants of cold chicken, or bread-and-butter, no\ncandles. It is not surprising, then, they have all found me out.\n\nI positively go to bed in fear and trembling, lest they should make a\nnocturnal attack.\n\n    Each hole and cranny they explore,\n      Each crook and corner of the chamber;\n    They hurry-skurry round the floor,\n      And o\u2019er the books and sermons clamber.\n\nThe fate of that worthy Bishop Hatto stares me in the face. If they did\nnot spare so exalted a personage, what will become of me? And as for\nkeeping a cat, no, that may not be. I am not a Whittington. They are a\ntreacherous race, and purr, and fawn, and play the villain--quadrupedal\nNena Sahibs. I always hated them, and still more so since an incident I\nwitnessed one year in Norway.\n\nOn the newly-mown grass before the cottage where I was staying, a lot\nof little redpoles--the sparrows of those high latitudes--were very\nbusily engaged picking up their honest livelihood, and making cheerful\nremarks to one another on the brightness of the weather and the flavour\nof the hay-seeds. Intently examining their motions through my glass, I\nhad paid no heed to a cat which seemed rolling about carelessly on the\nlawn. Suddenly, I perceived that it had imperceptibly edged nearer and\nnearer to the pretty little birds, and was gliding, snake-like, towards\nthem. I tapped at the window lustily, and screamed out in hopes of\nalarming my friends; but it was too late; they flew up, the cat sprung\nup aloft likewise, caught a poor little fellow in mid-air, and was away\nwith it and out of sight in a moment.\n\n    At vobis male sit, _catis dolorum_\n    _Plenis_, qui omnia bella devoratis!\n    Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis!\n    O factum mal\u00e9! o miselle passer!\n\nNorway! and why am I not there? It is too late this year to think of\nit. I must write to that friend, and say I can\u2019t keep my promise, and\njoin him thither. No, I must be content with a little trout-fishing\nin Wales or Scotland. At this moment a tap is heard at the door. An\ningenuous youth, undergraduate of St. Sapientia College, and resident\nin the neighbourhood, had brought a letter of introduction from a\ncommon friend, begging me, as one deep in the mysteries of Norwegian\ntravelling, to give the bearer some information respecting that\ncountry, as he thought of taking a month\u2019s trip thither.\n\nAs I pulled out Munck\u2019s map, chalked out a route for the youth, and\ngave him a little practical advice on the subject, a regular spasm came\nacross me. I\u00f6 was never plagued by that malicious gadfly, or \u201ctsetse,\u201d\nso much as I was for the rest of the day by an irresistible desire to\nbe off to the old country. The steamer was to start in three days.\nOn the third day I stood on board of her, in the highest possible\nspirits. The ingenuous youth was also there; but high hope was not\nthe expression on his countenance. Most wofully he approached me. To\nmake assurance doubly sure, and secure a good berth, he had left home\nthe day before. On arriving at the terminus, his box was not to be\nfound--the box with all his traps, and the 50_l._ in it. He had sent\ntelegrams, or telegraphemes, to the four ends of Great Britain for the\nmissing box; but it was not forthcoming. In a few hours we weighed\nanchor. The expectant visitor was left behind, and as there was no\nvessel to Norway for the next fortnight, the chances were that his trip\nthither would not take place. The above facts will serve as a warning\nto young travellers.\n\nAs daylight peered through the small porthole in the morning, I found\nthat we had no less than eight people in our cabin, and that the\nporthole was shut, although it was smooth water.\n\n\u201cWhat an atmosphere,\u201d said an Englishman, in an adjoining berth. \u201cI\nhave opened that porthole two or three times in the night; but that\nfat, drum-bellied Norwegian there, who seems as fond of hot, stifling\nair as a melon, has shut it again.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can you expect of the people of a country,\u201d replied I, \u201cwhere the\nwindows are often not made to open?\u201d\n\nA tall, gentlemanly-looking man, who stood before the looking-glass,\nand had just brushed his glossy wig into a peak like Mr. Pecksniff,\nhere turned round and said, in Norwegian-English--\n\n\u201cI do assure you, sir, that the Norwegian windows will open.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, in the towns; but frequently in the country not. I have been\nthere a good deal, and I speak from experience.\u201d\n\nI find that our friend, who is very communicative, was in London in\nthe days of the Prince Regent--yes, and he once dined with him at the\nLondon Tavern, at a dinner given in aid of foreigners in distress:\nthe ticket cost 10_l._ He remembers perfectly well how, on another\noccasion, a tortoise-shell, all alive, was carried round London in a\ncart, with a notice that it would be made into _tortoise-shell_ soup on\na certain day. He dined, and the soup was super-excellent.\n\nConsul ----, for I found that he had attained that distinction--was\nwell acquainted with all the resorts of London. Worxall pleased him\nmuch. He had even learned to box. He had also something to say about\nthe war with the Swedes, led on by Karl Johann, in which he took part.\n\nAfter dinner we divert ourselves by observing the sleeping countenance\nof the obese Norwegian who was so fond of carbonic acid gas, assume all\nsorts of colours,--livid, red, yellow,--not from repletion, though this\nmight well have been the case, but from the light of the painted glass\noverhead, which transferred its chameleon hues to his physiognomy.\n\nHere I am, once more plunging into the heart of Norway in the national\nvehicle, the carriole; up hills, down hills, across stony morasses,\nthrough sandy pine forests. We landed this afternoon at Christiansand,\nand I am now seven miles north of it, and standing by the side of the\nmagnificent Torrisdal river, waiting for the great unwieldy ferry-boat\nto come over. The stream is strong and broad, and there is only one man\nworking the craft; but, by taking advantage of a back stream on the\nother side, and one on this, he has actually accomplished the passage\nwith little trouble, and hit the landing-place to an inch.\n\nOn the other side, three or four carrioles, some of them double ones,\nare just descending the steep hill, and I have to wait till they get\ndown to the waterside, in consequence of the narrowness of the road.\nOne of the strangers, with a broad gold band round his cap, turns out\nto be the British consul. He is returning with a party of ladies and\ngentlemen from a pic-nic at the Vigelandsfoss, about three miles from\nthis, where the river makes a fine fall.\n\nThat evening we stop at the Verwalter\u2019s (Bailiff\u2019s), close by the\nfalls. I have no salmon-rod, but Mr. C----, an Englishman, who has come\nup with me to sketch the foss, and try for a salmon, obtains leave,\nas a great favour, to fish in the pools for one dollar a day, and a\ndollar to each of the boatmen. The solitary grilse that he succeeded in\ncatching during the next day cost him therefore some fifteen shillings.\nThe charges are an infallible sign that Englishmen have been here.\n\nAs in the Tweed, the take of salmon in these southern rivers has fallen\noff terribly. In Mandal river, a little to the westward, the fishing in\nthe last twenty years has become one-tenth of what it was. Here, where\n1600 fish used to be taken yearly, 200 only are caught. But at Boen, in\nthe Topdal river, which, like this, enters the sea at Christiansand,\nno decrease is observable. For the last ten years the average yield\nof the salmon fishery there has been 2733 fish per annum. In this\nstate of things, the services of Mr. Hetting, the person deputed by\nthe Norwegian Government to travel about the country and teach the\ninhabitants the method of artificially breeding salmon and other\nfish, have been had recourse to. Near this, breeding-places have been\nconstructed under his auspices.\n\nExtensive saw-mills are erected all about this place; and it is\nprobable that the dust, which is known to bother the salmon by clogging\ntheir gills, may have diminished their productiveness, or driven them\nelsewhere. The vast volume of water which here descends, is cut into\ntwo distinct falls; but a third fall, a few hundred yards above, excels\nthem in height and grandeur.\n\nWhile eating my breakfast, an old dame comes in with a large basket\nand mysterious looks. Her mission is one of great importance--viz.,\nto hire the bridal crown belonging to the mistress of the house,\nfor a wedding, which will take place at the neighbouring church this\nafternoon. She gets the article, and pays one dollar for the use of it.\nHearing that the bridal _cort\u00e8ge_ will sweep by at five o\u2019clock, P.M.,\non its way from the church, I determined to defer my journey northwards\ntill it had passed.\n\nAt that hour, the cry of \u201cThey come! they come!\u201d saluted my ears.\nPencil or pen of Teniers or Fielding, would that you were mine, so that\nI might do justice to what I saw. Down the steep hill leading to the\nhouse there came, at a slow pace, first a carriole, with that important\nfunctionary, the Ki\u00f6gemester, standing on the board behind, and, like a\nHansom cabman, holding the reins over the head of the bridesmaid, a fat\nold lady, with a voluminous pile of white upon her head, supposed to be\na cap. Next came a cart, containing two spruce young maidens, who wore\ncaps of dark check with broad strings of red satin riband, in shape\na cross between those worn by the buy-a-broom girls and the present\nfashionable bonnet, which does _not_ cover the head of English ladies.\nTheir jackets were of dark blue cloth, and skirt of the same material\nand colour, with a narrow scarlet edging, similar to that worn by\npeasant women in parts of Wales. Over the jacket was a coloured shawl,\nthe ends crossed at the waist, and pinned tight. Add to this a large\npink apron, and in their hands a white kerchief, after the manner of\nScotch girls, on their way to kirk. After these came a carriole, with\nfour little boys and girls clustered upon it.\n\nBut the climax is now reached. The next vehicle, a cart, contains the\nchief actors in the show, the bride and bridegroom, who are people\nof slender means. He is evidently somewhat the worse, or better, for\nliquor, and is dressed in the short blue seaman\u2019s jacket and trousers,\nwhich have become common in Norway wherever the old national costume\nhas disappeared. The bride--oh! all ye little loves, lave the point of\nmy pen in _couleur de rose_, that I may describe meetly this mature\nvotary of Venus. There she sat like an image of the goddess Cybele;\non her head a turret of pasteboard, covered with red cloth, with\nflamboyant mouldings of spangles, beads, and gold lace; miserable\ncounterfeit of the fine old Norwegian bridal crown of silver gilt!\nNodding over the turret was a plume of manifold feathers--ostrich,\npeacock, chicken, mixed with artificial flowers; from behind it\nstreamed a cataract of ribands of some fifteen different tints and\npatterns. Her plain yellow physiognomy was unrelieved by a single lock\nof hair.\n\n\u201cIt is not the fashion,\u201d explained a female bystander, \u201cfor the bride\nto disclose any hair. It must on this occasion be all tucked in out of\nsight.\u201d\n\nThis ripe ogress of half a century was further dressed in a red skirt\nwith gold belt, a jacket of black brocade, over which was a cuirass\nof scarlet cloth shining resplendently in front with the national\nornament, the S\u00f6lje, a circular silver-gilt brooch, three inches\nin diameter, with some twenty gilded spoon-baits (fishermen will\nunderstand me) hung on to its rim. Frippery of divers sorts hung about\nher person. On each shoulder was an epaulet or bunch of white gauze\nbows, while the other ends of her arms were adorned by ruffles and\nwhite gloves.\n\nAs this wonderful procession halted in front of the door, the gallant\nKi\u00f6gemester advanced and lifted the bride in his arms out of her\nvehicle. As she mounted the door-steps, a decanter of brandy in hand,\nall wreathed in smiles and streamers, flowers and feathers, I bowed\nwith great reverence, which evidently gratified her vanity.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what she reminds me of,\u201d said my English companion,\nwho had left his profitless fishing to see the sight, \u201ca Tyrolese cow\ncoming home garlanded from the ch\u00e2let. No doubt this procession would\nlook rather ridiculous in Hyde Park, but here, in this wild outlandish\ncountry, do you know, with the sombre pine-trees and the grey rocks,\nand wild rushing river, it does not strike me as so contemptible. She\nis tricked out in all the finery she can lay her hands on, and in that\nshe is only doing the same as her sex the world over, from the belle\nsavage of Central Africa to Queen Victoria herself.\u201d\n\nThe Ki\u00f6gemester (head cook)--not that he attends to the cooking\ndepartment, whatever he might have done in former days--is a\nvery ancient institution on this occasion. He is the soul of the\nwhole festival. Without him everything would be in disorder or at\na stand-still. Bowing to the procession, he is also bowed down by\nthe weight of his responsibility. In his single self he is supposed\nto combine, at first-rate weddings, the offices of master of the\nceremonies, chief butler, speechifier, jester, precentor, and, above\nall, of peace-maker. His activity as chief butler often calls forth a\ncorresponding degree of activity as an assuager of broils. The baton\nwhich he frequently wields is shaped like the ancient fool\u2019s bauble. If\nhe is a proficient in his art he will, like Mr. Robson, shine in the\ncomic as well as the serious department, alternating original jests\nwith solemn apophthegms. But the race is dying out. The majority are\nmere second-hand performers. The real adepts in the science give an\n_\u00e9clat_ to the whole proceedings, and are consequently much in request,\nbeing sent for from long distances.\n\nBy-the-bye, I must not omit to mention that on the left arm of the\nbride hung a red shawl, just like that on the arm of the Spanish\nbull-fighter, whose province it is to give the _coup de grace_ to the\ndevoted bull. From the manner in which she displayed it, I fancy it\nmust have been an essential item in her toilette. Hearing no pipe and\ntabor, or, more strictly speaking, no fiddle, the almost invariable\naccompaniment of these pageants, I inquired the reason.\n\n\u201cThey are gudfrygtig folk (God-fearing people); they will have nothing\nto do with such vanities,\u201d was the answer.\n\nThere seemed to me, however, to be some contradiction between this\n\u201cGod-fearing\u201d scrupulosity and the size of the bride\u2019s person. It\nstruck me, as I saw the stalwart master of the ceremonies exerting all\nhis strength to lift her into the cart again, that it was high time she\nwas married.\n\nAt this moment up drives a gentleman dressed in black, with dark\nrat-taily hair shading his sallow complexion, and a very large nose\nbridged by a huge pair of silver spectacles, the centre arch of which\nwas wrapped with black riband, that it might not press too much on the\nkeystone. This is the parson who has tied the fatal noose, and is now\nwending his way homewards to his secluded manse.\n\nBidding adieu to my companion, who purposed driving round the coast, I\nnow set off to the station, Mosby, to join the main route to S\u00e6tersdal,\none of the wildest, poorest, and most primitive valleys of Norway,\nwhich I\u2019m bent on exploring. On the road I once or twice narrowly\nescape coming into collision with the carriole of a young peasant\nwho has been at the wedding. Mad with brandy, he keeps passing and\nrepassing me at full gallop. The sagacious horse--I won\u2019t call him\nbrute, a term much more applicable to his master--makes up by his\ncircumspection for his driver\u2019s want of it. He seems to be perfectly\naware of the state of things, and, while goaded into a break-neck pace,\ndexterously avoids the dangers.\n\nOak--a rare sight to me in this country--aspen (asp), sycamore (l\u00f6n),\nhazel, juniper, bracken, fringe the sides of the road northward. Now\nand then a group of white \u201cwand-like\u201d lilies (Tjorn-blom) rises from\nsome silent tarn (in Old Norsk, Tjorn), looking very small indeed\nafter those huge fellows I have left reposing in the arms of the Isis\nat Oxford. Their moonlight-coloured chalice is well-known to be a\nfavourite haunt of the tiny water-elves, so I suppose the Scandinavian\nones are tinier than their sisters of Great Britain.\n\nNor must I omit to mention the quantities of Dutch myrtle, or sweet\ngale (pors), with which the swampy grounds abound. It possesses strong\nnarcotic qualities, and is put in some districts into the beer,\nwhile, elsewhere, a decoction of it is sprinkled about the houses to\nintimidate the fleas, who have a great horror of it. Lyng (l\u00fcng),\nsome of it white, and that of a peculiar kind, which I have never\nseen before, also clings to the sides of the high grounds, while\nstrawberries and raspberries of excellent taste are not wanting.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n    A dreary station--Strange bed-fellows--Broadsides--Comfortable\n    proverb--Skarp England--Interesting particulars--A hospitable\n    Norwegian Foged--Foster-children--The great bear-hunter--A\n    terrible Bruin--Forty winks--The great Vennefoss--A temperance\n    lamentation--More bear talk--Grey legs--Monosyllabic\n    conversation--Trout fished from the briny deep--A warning to\n    the beaux of St. James\u2019s-street--Thieves\u2019 cave--A novelette for\n    the Adelphi.\n\n\nI stop for the night at the dreary station of Homsmoen. By a singular\neconomy in household furniture, the cornice of the uncurtained\nstate-bed is made to serve as a shelf, and all the crockery, together\nwith the other household gods or goods of the establishment, are\nperched thereon, threatening to fall upon me if I made the slightest\nmovement, so that my feelings, and those of Damocles, must have been\nnot unlike; and when I did get to sleep, my slumbers were suddenly\ndisturbed by the creeping of a mouse or rat, not \u201cbehind the arras,\u201d\nfor the wooden walls were bare, but under my pillow. Gracious\ngoodness! is it my destiny then to fall a prey to these wretches?\nNotwithstanding, I soon dozed off to sleep again, muttering to myself\nsomething about \u201cCoctilibus muris,\u201d and \u201cdead for a ducat.\u201d\n\nIn the morning, when the peasant-wife brings me coffee, I tell her of\nthe muscipular disturbances of the past night. She replies, with much\n_sang froid_, \u201cO ja, de pleie at holde sig da\u201d (Oh yes, they are in the\nhabit of being there), _i.e._, in the loose bed-straw.\n\nWhile sipping my coffee, I read a printed address hung upon the\nwall, wherein \u201ca simple Norwegian, of humble estate,\u201d urges his\ncountrymen not to drink brandy. A second notice is an explanation of\ninfant baptism. This is evidently to counteract the doctrines of the\nclergyman Lammers, who, as I have mentioned elsewhere, has founded an\nantip\u00e6dobaptist sect. Indeed, I see in the papers advertisements of\nhalf-a-dozen works that have lately appeared on the subject. Another\nspecimen of this wall-literature was a collection of Norwegian\nproverbs, one of which might perhaps serve to reconcile an explorer in\nthis country to indifferent accommodation. \u201cThe poor man\u2019s house is his\npalace.\u201d Another proverb rebuked pride, in the following manner:--\u201cDust\nis still dust, although it rise to heaven.\u201d\n\nNext day we pass a solitary farmstead, which my attendant informs me is\ncalled Skarp England (_i.e._, scanty, not deep-soiled, meadow-land).\nWere it not for those Angles, the generally reputed godfathers of\nEngland, one would almost be inclined to derive the name of our country\nfrom that green, meadow (eng) like appearance which must have caught\nthe attention of the immigrant Jutes and Saxons. At least, such is the\nsurmise of Professor Radix.\n\n\u201cAnd what road is that?\u201d I asked, pointing to a very unmacadamized\nbyway through the forest.\n\n\u201cIt is called Prest-vei (the Priest\u2019s-way), because that is the road\nthe clergyman has to take to get to one of his distant churches.\u201d\n\n\u201cGee up!\u201d said I to the horse, a young one, and unused to his work,\nadding a slight flip with the whip (Sv\u00f6be), a compliment which the\ncolt returned by lashing out with his heels.\n\n\u201cHilloa, Erik! this won\u2019t do; it\u2019s quite dangerous.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh no, he has no back shoes; he won\u2019t hurt you--except,\u201d he afterwards\nadded, \u201cout of fun he should happen to strike a little higher.\u201d\n\nThe ill-omened shriek of a couple of jays which crossed the road\ndiverted my attention, and I asked their Norwegian name, which I found\nto be \u201cskov-shur\u201d (wood-magpie) in these parts.\n\nAs we skirt the western bank of the Kile Fjord, a fresh-water lake,\na dozen miles long, and abounding in fish (meget fiskerig), the man\npoints to me a spot on the further shore where the Torrisdal River,\nafter flowing through the lake, debouches by a succession of falls in\nits course to Vigeland and the sea at Christiansand.\n\nAt every station the question is, \u201cAre you going up to the copper\nworks?\u201d These are at Valle, a long way up the valley. They have\nbeen discontinued some years, but, it is said, are now likely to be\nre-opened.\n\nAt Ketilsaa I am recommended to call on the Foged of the district,\na fine, hearty sexagenarian, who gave me much valuable information\nrespecting this singular valley and its inhabitants; besides which,\nwhat I especially valued under the circumstances, he set before me\ncapital home-brewed beer, port wine, Trondjem\u2019s aquavit, not to\nmention speil aeg (poached eggs) and bear ham. Bear flesh is the best\n_travel_ of all, say the Greenlanders, so I did not spare the last. The\nsuperstitions and tales about Huldra and fairies (here called j\u00fcgere)\nare, the Foged tells me, dying out hereabout, though not higher up the\nvalley.\n\nHis foster-son,[4] a jolly-looking gentleman, sends off a messenger\nto see if his own horse is near at hand, in order that I may not be\ndetained by waiting for one at the neighbouring station, Fahret. But\nthe pony is somewhere in the forest, so that his benevolent designs\ncannot be realized. Altogether, I have never visited any house in\nNorway where intelligence, manliness, and good-nature seemed so\nthoroughly at home as at the Foged\u2019s.\n\nThe station-master, Ole Gundarson Fahret, manages to get me a relay in\none hour; in the interval we have a palaver.\n\n\u201cThere was once an Englishman here,\u201d said he, \u201cwho went out\nbear-hunting with the greatest bear-shooter of these parts, Nils Olsen\nBreist\u00f6l; but they did not happen on one. Breist\u00f6l has shot fifteen\nbears.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow does he manage to find them in the trackless forest?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy he is continually about, and he knows of a great many bears\u2019\nwinter-lairs (Bj\u00f6rn-hi); and when the bear is asleep, he goes and pokes\nhim out.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut is it not dangerous?\u201d\n\n\u201cSometimes. There was a great bear who was well known for fifty miles\nround, for he was as grey as a wolf, and lame of one leg, having\nbeen injured, it was thought, in a fight with a stallion. He killed\na number of horses; and great rewards were offered to the killer of\nhim. The people in Mandal, to the west, offered thirty dollars; he had\nbeen very destructive down there. Well, Breist\u00f6l found out where he\nlay one winter, and went up with another man. Out he comes, and tries\nto make off. They are always r\u00e6d (frightened) at first, when they are\nsurprised in their lair. But Breist\u00f6l sent a ball into him (this Norsk\nMudjekeewis, by-the-bye, makes his own rifles), and the bear stopped\nshort, and rushed at him. Just at this moment, however, he got another\nbullet from the other man, which stopped him. After waiting for a\nmoment, he turned round, and charged at the new aggressor, who dodged\nbehind a tree; meanwhile, Breist\u00f6l had loaded, and gave him another\nball; and so they kept firing and dodging; and it actually took fifteen\nballs to kill him, he was so big and strong. The last time they fired,\nthey came close to him, and shot two bullets into his head, only making\none hole; then he died. The usual reward from the Government is five\ndollars, but Breist\u00f6l got fifteen. The Mandal people, when they heard\nthe great grey bear was dead, gave him nothing. Fand (fiend)! but he\nwas immensely big (uhyr stor), so fat and fleshy.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how long does the bear sleep in winter?\u201d I inquired.\n\n\u201cHe goes in about Sanct Michael\u2019s-tid, and comes out at the beginning\nof April.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how many bears are there in one hole?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly one; unless the female has young late in the autumn. A man in\nthese parts once found an old he-bear (Manden), with a she-bear, and\nthree young cubs, all in one hole. I think there are as many bears\nas ever there were in the country. There was a lad up in the forest,\nfive years ago; a bear struck at him, but missed him, only getting\nhis cap, which stuck on the end of his claws. This seemed to frighten\nthe brute, and he made off. The little boy didn\u2019t know what a danger\nhe had escaped; he began to cry for the loss of his cap, and wanted\nto go after it. Now that did not happen by chance. V Herre Gud har\nHannd i slig (God our master has a hand in such like things). We have a\nproverb, that the bear has ten men\u2019s strength, and the wit of twelve;\nbut that\u2019s neither here nor there. Bj\u00f6rnen kan vaere meget staerk, men\nhan faa ikke Magt at draebe mennesker, Mnaar Han ikke tillade det. (The\nbear may be very strong, but he has not the power to kill men unless He\npermits it.\u201d)\n\nIn which proper sentiment I of course acquiesced, and took leave of the\nintelligent Schusskaffer.\n\nMy attendant on the next stage, Ole Michelsen Vennefoss, derived his\nlast name from the great cataract on the Otterelv, near which he lives.\nIt is now choked up with timber. But all this, he tells me, will move\nin the autumn, when the water rises; although, in the north of the\ncountry, the rivers at that time get smaller and smaller, and, in\nwinter time, with the ice that covers them, occupy but a small part of\nthe accustomed bed.\n\nA few years ago, a friend of his had a narrow escape at these falls:\nthe boat he was in turned over just above the descent, and he\ndisappeared from view; down hurried the boat, and providentially was\nnot smashed to pieces. At the bottom of the fall it caught against a\nrock, and righted again, and up bobbed the drowned man, having been\nunder the boat all the time. His friends managed to save him.\n\nOn the road we overtake a man driving, who offers me schnaps in an\nexcited manner.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said Ole, mournfully, \u201che has been to the By, and bought some\nbrantviin; they never can resist the temptation. When he gets home,\nthere will be a Selskab (party). People for miles round know where he\nhas been, and they will come and hear the news, and drink themselves\ndrunk.\u201d\n\nOle is one of the so-called Lesere, or Norwegian Methodists, disciples\nof Hauge, whose son is the clergyman of a parish near here. They may\noften be detected by their drawling way of speaking.\n\n\u201cWell, Ole,\u201d said I, \u201cdid you ever see any of these bears they talk so\nmuch about?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, that I have. I saw the old lame bear that Breist\u00f6l shot. I was\nup at the st\u00f6l (ch\u00e2let) four years ago come next week, with my two\nsisters. We were sitting outside the building, just about this time of\nthe evening, when it was getting dusk; all of a sudden, the horse came\ngalloping to us as hard as ever he could tear. I knew at once it was a\nbear; and, sure enough, close behind him, came the beast rushing out of\nthe wood. We all raised a great noise and shouting, on which the bear\nstopped, and ran away. Poor blacky had a narrow escape; he bears the\nmarks of the bear\u2019s claws on his hind quarters. I could put my four\nfingers in them.\u201d\n\nQuite so, hummed I--\n\n    The sable score of fingers four\n    Remain on that _horse_ impressed.\n\n\u201cBut what do the bears eat, when they can\u2019t get cattle?\u201d\n\n\u201cGrass, and berries, and ants (myren).\u201d\n\n\u201cBut don\u2019t the ants sting him?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no; no such thing. A friend of mine saw a bear come to one of\nthose great ant-hills you have passed in the woods. He put out his\ntongue, and laid it on the ant-hill till it was covered with ants, and\nthen slipped it back into his mouth. They can\u2019t hurt him, his tongue\nis too thick-skinned for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes the bear eat anything in winter?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, I believe. I have seen one or two that were killed then;\ntheir stomach was as empty as empty--wanted no cleaning at all. I think\nthat\u2019s the reason they are such cowards then. I have always more pluck\nwhen my stomach is full. Hav\u2019n\u2019t you?\u201d\n\nIt struck me that there are many others besides the artless Norwegian\nwho, if they chose, must confess to a similar weakness.\n\n\u201cBut the wolves (ulven) don\u2019t go to sleep in winter; what do they eat?\u201d\n\n\u201cUlven?--what\u2019s that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI mean Graa-been (grey-legs).\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! you mean Skr\u00fcb.[5] In winter they steal what they can, and, when\nhard pressed, they devour a particular sort of clay. That\u2019s well\nknown; it\u2019s plain to see from their skarn (dung.)\u201d\n\nOle further tells me that a pair of eagles build in a tall tree about a\nmile from his house. The young ones have just flown; he had not time\nto take them, although there is a reward of half-a-dollar a-head. Fancy\na native of the British Isles suffering an eagle to hatch, and fly off\nwith its brood in quiet.\n\n\u201cHvor skal de ligge inat?\u201d (where shall you lie to-night?) he inquired,\nas we proceeded.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t think I shall go further than Guldsmedoen, to-night,\u201d I\nreplied.\n\n\u201cThere is no accommodation at all at the station,\u201d he said; \u201cbut at\nSenum, close by, you can get a night\u2019s lodging.\u201d\n\nIt was dark when we arrived at Senum, which lay down a break-neck\nside-path, where the man had to lead the horse. On our tapping at the\ndoor, a female popped her head out of a window, but said nothing. After\na pause, my man says \u201cQuells,\u201d literally, whiling, or resting-time.\nThis was an abbreviation for \u201cgodt quell\u201d (good evening). \u201cQuells\u201d was\nthe monosyllabic reply of the still small voice at the porthole.\n\n\u201cTak for senast\u201d (thanks for the last), was my guide\u2019s next observation.\n\n\u201cTak for senast,\u201d the other responded from above.\n\nThe ice being now somewhat broken, the treble of \u201cthe two voices\u201d\ninquired--\n\n\u201cWhat man is that with you?\u201d\n\n\u201cA foreigner, who wants a night\u2019s lodging.\u201d\n\nBefore long, the farmer and his wife were busy upstairs preparing a\ncouch for me, with the greatest possible goodwill; nor would they\nhear of Ole returning home that night, so he, too, obtained sleeping\nquarters somewhere in the establishment.\n\nI find, what the darkness had prevented me from seeing, that this house\nis situated at the southern end of the Aarfjord, a lake of nearly forty\nmiles in length. Mine host has this evening caught a lot of fine trout\nin the lake with the nets. They are already in salt--everything is\nsalted in this country--but I order two or three fat fellows out of the\nbrine, and into some fresh water against the morning, when they prove\nexcellent. So red and fat! The people here say they are better than\nsalmon.\n\nRain being the order of the next day, I post up my journal. In the\nafternoon I resume my journey by the road on the further side of the\nlake. Until very lately a carriage road was unknown here. The Fogderi,\nor Bailewick, in which we now are, is called Robygd: a reminiscence,\nit is said, of the days not long since over, when the sole means of\nlocomotion up the valley (bygd) was to row (roe). The vehicle being a\ncommon cart, with no seat, a bag is stuffed with heather for me to sit\non; and this acts as a buffer to break the force of the bumps which the\nnew-made road and the springless cart kept giving each other, while,\nin reality, it was I that came in for the brunt of the pommelling. The\nNorwegian driver sat on the hard edge of the cart, regardless of the\nshocks, and as tough apparently as the birch-wood of which the latter\nwas composed. It won\u2019t do for a person who is at all _made-up_ to risk\na journey in S\u00e6tersdal: he would infallibly go to pieces, and the\nfalse teeth be strewed about the path after the manner of those of the\nserpent or dragon sown by Jason on the Champ de Mars. Armed men rose\nfrom the earth on that occasion, and something of the kind took place\nnow. Don\u2019t start, reader, it was only in story.\n\n\u201cLook at that hole,\u201d said my attendant, pointing to an opening half-way\nup the limestone cliff, surrounded by trees and bushes. \u201cThat is\nthe----\u201d\n\n\u201cCave of the Dragon?\u201d interrupted I, abstractedly.\n\n\u201cThe Tyve Helle (thieves\u2019 cave), which goes in one hundred feet deep.\nFor a long time they were the terror of all S\u00e6tersdal. The only way\nto the platform in front of the cave was by a ladder. One of their\nband, who pretended to be a Tulling (idiot), used to go begging at the\nfarm-houses, and spying how the ground lay.\n\n\u201cOn one occasion they carried off along with some cattle the girl who\ntended them. Poor soul! she could not escape, they kept such a sharp\nwatch on her. The captain of the band meanwhile wanted to marry her;\nshe pretended to like the idea, and the day before that fixed for\nthe wedding asked leave just to go down to the farm where she used\nto live and steal the silver Brudestads (bridal ornaments), which\nwere kept there. The thieves gave her leave;--they could dispense\nwith the parson, but not with this. But first they made her swear she\nwould not speak to a soul at the house. At midnight, Asjer, as she was\ncalled, arrived at her former home, to the astonishment of the good\nfolks. She at once proceeded to take a piece of white linen, a scrap\nof red home-spun cloth, and a pair of shears. This done, she went to\nthe chimney-corner and told the pinewood-beam, \u2018I have been stolen by\nrobbers; they live in a cave in the forest, I will cut little bits\nof red cloth on the road to it; to-morrow the captain marries me.\nTo-night, when they are all drunk and asleep, I will hang out the piece\nof white cloth.\u2019 Without exchanging a word with the inmates, she then\nset off back. The master of the house and a few friends collected, and\nfollowed her track. At night-fall they saw the flag waved from the\nmouth of the cave. In they rushed upon the thieves, who, unable to\nescape, threw themselves over the precipice. The captain, suspecting\nher to be the author of the surprise, seized her by the apron as he\ndashed over the ledge, determined that she should die with him. But\nthe leader of the bonders, a ready-witted fellow, cut her apron-strings\nwith his knife, just in the nick of time, so that she was saved; and\nthe robber, in his fall, took nothing with him but her apron.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n    A wolf trap--The heather--Game and game-preserves--An\n    optical delusion--Sumptuous entertainment--Visit to a\n    Norwegian store-room--Petticoats--Curious picture of\n    the Crucifixion--Fjord scenery--How the priest Brun was\n    lost--A S\u00e6tersdal manse--Frightfully hospitable--Eider-down\n    quilts--Costume of a Norwegian waiting-maid--The tartan in\n    Norway--An ethnological inquiry--Personal characteristics--The\n    sect of the Haugians--Nomad life in the far Norwegian\n    valleys--Trug--Memorials of the Vikings--Female Bruin in a\n    rage--How bears dispose of intruders--Mercantile marine of\n    Norway--The Bad-hus--How to cook brigands--Winter clothing.\n\n\nClose by Langerack we pass a wolf-trap (baas), formed on the principle\nof our box-trap, for catching rats, only that the material is thick\npine-boles fastened side by side. More than one wolf and lynx have been\ncaged here.\n\nThe heather still continues plentiful; I particularly note this, as in\nthe more northerly parts of the country, _e.g._, about Jerkin, this\nbeautiful vestiture of the rocks and moors is seldom seen, except in\nvery little bits. What a pity that none of our British grouse proper\n(_Tetrao Scoticus_) return the visit of the Norwegian ptarmigan to\nScotland, and found a colony in these parts; they would escape at\nall events those systematic traffickers in ornithological blood, by\nwhom these unfortunates are bought and sold as per advertisement.\nBlackcock and capercailzie, as usual, are to be found in the lower\nwoods, and ptarmigan higher up. About here there are no trees of large\nsize remaining; the best have long since been cut down and floated\nto the sea. It would do a nurseryman\u2019s heart good to see the groups\nof hardy little firs, self-sown, sprouting up in every crevice with\nan exuberance of health and strength, and asserting their right to a\nhearing among the soughing branches of their taller neighbours, who\nrise patronizingly above them. The seed falling upon stony ground\ndoes not fail to come up, notwithstanding, and bring forth fruit a\nhundred-fold and more.\n\nThe valley here, which has been opening ever since I left Vennefoss,\ncontinues to improve in looks; it is now almost filled by the Fjord,\nand appears to come to an end some distance higher up, by the\nintervention of a block of mountains; but if there be any truth in\nthe map, this is an optical delusion, the valley running up direct\nnorthward, nearly one hundred and fifty miles from Christiansand, and\nreaching a height at Bykle of nearly two thousand feet above the sea.\n\nAt the clean and comfortable station of Langerack I light upon a\ntreasure in the shape of a dozen or two of hens\u2019 eggs; very small\nindeed, it is true, as they were not quite so big as a bantam\u2019s. Six\nof these I immediately take, and an old lady, with exceedingly short\npetticoats, commences frying them, while I grind the coffee which she\nhas just roasted.\n\nAfter a goodly entertainment, for part of which I was indebted to my\nown wallet, I go with her to the Stabur, or store-room, where, with\nevident pride and pleasure, she shows me all her valuables; conspicuous\namong these was a full set of bridal costume, minus the crown, which\nwas let out. The bridal belt was of yellow leather, and covered with\nsilver-gilt ornaments, all of the same pattern, to each of which is\nsuspended a small bracteate of the same metal, which jingles with every\nstep of the bride. What particularly attracted my attention were the\nthree woollen petticoats worn by the bride one over the other. The\nfirst is of a dingy white colour, and is, in fact, the same as the\nevery-day dress of the females. The second is of blue cloth, with red\nand green stripes round the bottom. The third, which is worn outermost,\nis of scarlet, with gold and green edging. Of course if these were all\nof the same length the under-ones would not be visible; and thus the\nobject of wearing such a heap of clothes--love of display--would be\ndefeated; so, while the undermost is long, the next is less so, and\nthe next shorter still. Each one is very heavy, so the weight of the\nthree together must be great indeed. The whole reminds one of harlequin\nat a country fair. But, while he comes on unwieldily and shabbily\ndressed, and as he takes off one coat and waistcoat after another grows\nsmarter and smarter, and at last fines down into a gay harlequin, the\nNorwegian bride, by a contrary process, grows smarter and smarter with\neach article of clothing that she assumes.\n\nThe most remarkable thing about these bridal petticoats is the skirt\nbehind, which is divided by plaits like the flutings of a Doric column;\nwhile these, towards the bottom or base bulge out into two or three\nrounded folds, which stick out considerably from the person. Hear this,\nye Miss Weazels, who condemn crinoline as a new-fangled institution,\nwhereas in fact the idea is evidently taken from the prim\u00e6val customs\nof S\u00e6tersdal. The support of this dead weight of clothing are not,\nas might be expected, the hips, for the whole system of integuments\ncomes right up over the bosom, and is upheld by a couple of very short\nbraces or shoulder-straps. A jacket under these circumstances is almost\nsuperfluous. It is of blue cloth with gold edging, and only reaches\ndown to the arm-holes.\n\nThese vestments are no doubt of very ancient cut. In the district of\nLom another sort of dress was once the fashion. The coat was of white\nwadmel, with dark coloured embroidery, and silver buttons as big as\na dollar. The collar stood up. The waistcoat was scarlet, and also\nembroidered. White knee-breeches of wash-leather, garters of coloured\nthread, and shoes adorned with large silver buckles, set off the lower\nman. This dress went out at the beginning of the century. In Romerike,\nand elsewhere, there was on the back of the coat a quaint piece of\nembroidery pointing up like the spire of a church, and green, red, or\nblue, according to the parish of the wearer. At the public masquerades\nin Christiania, these dresses may still be seen.\n\nBut I had forgotten the old lady in the contemplation of the wardrobe.\nShe appears to think she shall make me understand her jargon better\nby shouting in my ears--a common mistake--and while she does so, she\nskips about the chamber with all the agility of the old she-goat before\nthe door. The proverb says, \u201cNeed makes the old wife run,\u201d but she ran\nwithout any apparent cause. Finally, in her enthusiasm, she goes the\nlength of putting one of these petticoats on--don\u2019t be alarmed, fair\nreader--_over_ her own, to show me how it looks. Besides the above\nstate apparel, mutton and pork-hams, with other comestibles, find a\nsecure place in the store-room.\n\nIn the sitting-room of the house is a remarkable picture of our Saviour\non the cross, with various quaint devices round it. It is known to\nbe more than three hundred years old, and no doubt dates from the\nRoman Catholic times. Like most of the peasants, who are exceedingly\ntenacious of these \u201cOld-sager\u201d (old-world articles), the master of the\nhouse won\u2019t part with the picture for any consideration.\n\nAs a boat is procurable, I determine to vary the mode of travelling by\ngoing by water to the station ----, and the more so as this will enable\nme to try for a trout while I am resting my shaken limbs. There being\nno wind to ruffle the water, I only took one or two trout. A man on the\nlake, who was trailing a rough-looking fly, was not a little astonished\nat my artificial minnow. The Fjord is very fine. Pretty bays, nestling\nunder the bare lofty mountains, and here and there a beach of yellow\nsand, fringing a grassy slope, while behind these, Scotch fir, birch,\nand aspen throw their shadows over the water.\n\n\u201cYou see that odde (point),\u201d says my old waterman; \u201cthat is Lobdal\npoint. It was just there that Priest Brun had the misfortune to be\nlost, twenty years ago come Yule. He had been preaching down below, at\none of his four churches, and was sleighing home again on the ice. The\nGlocker (precentor) was driving behind him, when he saw him suddenly\ndisappear, horse and all. It was a weak place in the ice, and, there\nbeing snee-dicke (snow-thickness) at the time, the priest had not seen\nany symptoms of danger. Poor man, I knew him well; he was a very good\nperson. He never received Christian burial, for his body was never\nfound.\u201d Such are the incidents that checquer the life of a Norwegian\nparson.\n\nIt was so nearly dark when we arrived at ----, that we had a difficulty\nin finding the landing-place, to which, however, we were guided by\nsomething that looked like a house in the gloaming.\n\n\u201cAnd where am I to lodge?\u201d asked I of the boatman. \u201cIs the station far\noff?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, a good distance. You had best lie at Priest ----\u2019s, there.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat does not matter the least. He is forfaerdelig gjestfri\n(frightfully hospitable) og meget snil (and very good).\u201d\n\nSo I make bold to grope my way to the house, and, finding the door,\ntap at it. It is opened by a short, good-humoured looking person, the\nclergyman himself, who quiets the big dog that I had kept at bay with\nmy fishing-rod, asks me who I am, and bids me come in and be welcome,\nas if he had known me all the days of my life. Few minutes elapse\nbefore I am eating cold meat and drinking ale; during the repast\nchatting with my host on all sorts of matters. Supper ended, he shows\nme to the best chamber, or stranger\u2019s room, where I am soon reposing\nluxuriously under an eider-down coverlet. This I kicked off in my\nslumbers, it being evidently too hot for an Englishman in summer time,\neven in Norway. What delightful things these eider-downs must be in the\ncold of a northern winter.\n\nA young female servant, Helvig by name, brings my boots in the morning.\nShe was clad in the working-day dress of the country maidens. To begin\nwith the beginning, or her head. It is covered with a coloured cotton\ncouvrechef. Her masculine chemise is fastened at the throat by two\nenormous studs of silver filigree, bullet shaped, and is, below this,\nfurther confined by a silver brooch (Norwegic\u00e8 \u201cring\u201d), shaped like a\nheart. Her petticoat, which covers very little of her black worsted\nstockings, makes up for its shortcomings in that direction, by reaching\nright up above her bosom. It is of a dingy white wool, and is edged\nwith three broad stripes of black. On Sunday her petticoat is black,\nwith red or blue edging.\n\nShe brings me her tartan of red wool with white stripes for my\ninspection. It is called \u201ckjell,\u201d a word which occurs in the old ballad\nof \u201cThe Gay Goss Hawk.\u201d\n\n    Then up and got her seven sisters,\n    And sewed to her a kell.\n\nThere it means pall, but the Norwegian word is also used of any\ncoverlet. The maidens wear it just like a Parisian lady would her\nshawl, _i.e._, below the shoulders, and tight over the elbows. The\nmarried women, however, carry it like the Scotch plaid, over one\nshoulder and under the other arm, with their baby in the kolpos, or\nsinus, in front.\n\nThis article of dress, which is sometimes white, striped with red--the\nstripes being most frequent at the ends--and also the above manner of\nwearing it, are thought to corroborate the tradition that these people\nare a Scotch colony. The language, too, contains many words not known\nelsewhere in Norway, but used in England. Instead of \u201cskee,\u201d they say\n\u201cspon,\u201d which is nothing but the Icelandic \u201csp\u00f3nn,\u201d and our \u201cspoon.\u201d\nIn the words kniv (knife), and knap (button), the k is silent before\nn; whereas, elsewhere in Norway, it is pronounced. L, too, is silent\nbefore d, as with us; \u201cskulde\u201d (should) being pronounced \u201cskud,\u201d or\n\u201cshud.\u201d The common word for a river in Norway is \u201celv;\u201d here it is\n\u201caas,\u201d pronounced \u201cose,\u201d which is nothing but the frequent \u201cooze\u201d of\nEngland, meaning, in fact, \u201ca stream generally.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat sort of people are the peasants about here?\u201d I asked of the\npriest.\n\n\u201cThey have many peculiarities. Formerly, they were looked upon by\nthe rest of Norway as a kind of Abderites, stupid fellows; but they\nare not so much stupid, far from it, as quaint and comical. Indeed,\ntheir dress makes them look odd and simple. You must know that ten\nyears ago the only road up the valley was by water, and about the only\ntravellers the priest and a merchant or two. These Westland people\nare very different from the Eastlanders; for, whereas the latter are\nmore \u2018alvorlig\u2019 (serious), and \u2018modig\u2019 (plucky), these are more \u2018blid\u2019\n(gentle), more \u2018dorsk\u2019 and \u2018doven\u2019 (lazy and indolent), and fond of\nsleeping three times a day. Formerly they were inveterate fatalists, so\nmuch so that for a long time they would not hear of going to a doctor,\nif they were ill, or an accident happened. They used also to believe in\nTrolls (fairies), but that is fast exploding hereabouts. Yet they are\nstill impressed with a belief in \u2018gieng\u00e2ngere\u2019 (wraiths), and that the\npowers of evil are supernaturally at work around us. This makes them so\nfearful of going out after dark. Of late years a great change has been\nwrought among many of them, since the sect of the Lesere, or Haugians,\nbegan to prevail. They have forsworn Snorro Sturleson\u2019s Chronicle and\nthe historical Sagas of the country, which the Norwegian bonder used\nto be fond of reading, and in their cottages you will find nothing but\nthe Bible and books of devotion. To read anything else they consider\nsinful, as being liable to turn away their minds from spiritual\nobjects.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do you think that, practically, they are better Christians?\u201d\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly some of them are God-fearing persons, while others only\nadopt this tone from motives of self-interest.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow comes it that there are so few people about?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! I must tell you. There is one remarkable custom in the\nvalley--indeed, it is not impossible that it derives its name,\nS\u00e6tersdal (Valley of S\u00e6ters), from it.[6] During the summer the s\u00e6ter\nis not inhabited by a single girl with her cows, as elsewhere in\nNorway, but by the whole of the farmer\u2019s family. At such times I have\nno parishioners. They are all off. For the last three Sundays I have\nhad no service. Each farmer possesses two or three of these s\u00e6ters or\nst\u00f6ls, and when they have cut the grass, and the cattle has eaten up\nthe alpine shrubs at one spot, they move to another. It is a regular\nnomadic life as long as it lasts, which is the best part of the summer.\n\n\u201cIn the winter, the hay made in the summer is brought down from the\nmountain on sledges. The snow being very deep, the ponies would\nsink in but for a contrivance called \u2018trug,\u2019 which is peculiar to\nthese parts of Norway. Here is one,\u201d said he, as Helvig, with great\nalacrity, brought in the apparatus in question. It was a strong hoop\nof birch-wood, about a foot in diameter. From its sides ran four iron\nchains, of two or three links each, to a ring in the centre. Attached\nto the hoop was some wicker-work. Into this basket the pony\u2019s foot is\ninserted, and the wicker secured to the fetlock, while the shoe rests\non the iron ring and chains. Armed with this anti-sinking machine, the\nhorse keeps on the surface, and can travel with tolerable expedition.\nMen wear a similar contrivance, but smaller.\n\n\u201cAre there any bauta-stones, or such-like reminiscences of olden times\nin this part of the valley?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery few. From its secluded position it never was of any great\nhistorical note. It is near the sea that the Vikings were most at home,\nand left behind them memorials. Here is an old cross-bow and an axe,\nsuch as the bonders used to carry.\u201d\n\nThese axes were called \u201chand-axes,\u201d from the fact that, when not\notherwise used, the wearer took the iron in his hand, and used the\nweapon as a walking-stick. Sometimes they were even taken to church\n(see _Oxonian in Norway_, 2nd edition, p. 336). This one had the date\n1651 inscribed upon it, and, together with the handle, was adorned with\nfiguring. In the passage I also saw a halbert and a spear, and a round\nspoon, on which was inscribed the date 1614, and the legend, \u201cMit haab\ntil Gud\u201d (My hope in God).\n\n\u201cHave you a good breed of cattle here?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot particularly. We get all ours from Fyrrisdal, four Norsk miles to\nthe east of this. The best \u2018qvaeg-r\u0103c\u0115\u2019 in all Norway is to be found\nthere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see all your horses are stallions. They must be very troublesome. I\ndrove two or three marked with severe bites.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may be; but the bonders here, most of whom have only one horse,\nfind them answer their purpose best. The stallion is never off his\nfeed, even after the hardest work, and will eat anything. Besides\nwhich, he is much more enduring, and can manage to drive off a wolf,\nprovided he is not hobbled.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre there many bears about this summer?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed. A man called Herjus, of Hyllestad, which you will pass,\nhas been some weeks in our doctor\u2019s hands from wounds received from\na bear. He and another were in the forest, when they fell in with a\nyoung bear, which immediately climbed up a tree. The other man went to\ncut a stick, while Herjus threw stones at the cub. Suddenly he hears\na terrific growl, and at the same moment receives a tremendous blow\non the head. It was the female bear, who, like all female bears in a\npassion, had walked up to him, biped fashion, and, with a \u2018take that\nfor meddling with my bairn,\u2019 felled him to the ground. Over him,\u201d\ncontinued the parson, \u201cfell the bear, so blinded with rage, that she\nstruck two or three blows beyond him. His companion had made a clean\npair of heels of it. The bear next seized the unfortunate wight in\nher arms, and dragged him to a precipice for the purpose of hurling\nhim over. Herjus at once feigned to be dead, that he might not become\nso. The bear perceiving this, and thinking it no use to give herself\nany more trouble about a dead man, left him. Fearful lest she should\nreturn, he scrambled down the steep, and got over a stream below. It\nis said that the bears, like witches, don\u2019t like to cross a running\nstream; that was the reason of his movement. It was lucky he did so,\nfor no sooner was he over than the bear came back to see that all was\nright, and perceived that she had been hoaxed, but did not attempt to\nfollow.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do the bears really drag people over precipices?\u201d[7]\n\n\u201cIt is said so. Near Stavanger a poor fellow was attacked by a bear,\nwho skinned his face from scalp to chin, and then dragged him through\nthe trees to a precipice. At this horrible instant the poor wretch\nclutched a tree, and hung to it with such desperation, that the bear,\nwho heard help coming, left him, and retreated. The king has given him\na pension of thirty-five dollars a-year.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the wolves?\u201d asked I.\n\n\u201cThere are plenty of them. I caught one not long ago with strychnine.\nThe doctor, who has lately left, caught a great many one winter.\nBrun, my predecessor, who was drowned, took seven wolves in one night\nwith poison, close by the parsonage. They are also taken in the baas\n(_i.e._, such a trap as I described above). Some winters there are very\nfew, while at other times they abound. A fjeld-frass (glutton) was\nnot long ago taken in a trap. We have also lynxes of two sorts--the\nkatte-gaupe (cat-lynx), which is yellow, with dark spots; and the\nskr\u00fcbb-gaupe (wolf-lynx), which is wolf-coloured.\u201d\n\nThe church, like all modern Norwegian churches, is neat, but nothing\nmore. Its very ancient predecessor, which was pulled down a short time\nago, abounded, like most of those built in Roman Catholic times, with\nbeautiful wood-carving. Near the church is a fine sycamore, two hundred\nyears old, and three picturesque weeping birches. Oaks, I find, ceased\nat Guldsmedoen.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said the priest, in the course of conversation, \u201cthis is a\nmarvellous country, when you consider its peculiar nature--more barren\nrock by far than anything else. And yet our opkomst (progress) is\nwonderful since we became a free nation. With a population of less than\na million and a half, we have a mercantile marine second only to that\nof England. We have as much freedom as is consistent with safety; the\ntaxes are light, and the overplus, after paying the expenses of the\nGovernment, is devoted to internal improvements. None of it goes to\nSweden, as it did formerly to Denmark; it is all spent on the country.\nYes, sir, everything thrives better in a free country; the air is\nhealthier, the very trees grow better.\u201d\n\nSentiments like these, which are breathed by every Norskman, of course\nfound a cordial response from an Englishman. I only hope that Norway\nwill be suffered to go on progressing uninterruptedly.\n\nNever having seen the interior of what is called the Bad-hus\n(bath-house), I go with my host to see this regular appendage to all\ncountry-houses. The traveller in Norway has no doubt often seen at some\ndistance from the main house a log-hut, round the door of which the\nlogs are blackened by smoke. This is the bad-hus. The millstones in\nthis country are so indifferent, that it is found necessary to bake the\ncorn previous to grinding it. It is thus performed. In the centre of\nthe log-house, which is nearly air-proof, is a huge stone oven heaped\nover with large stones. Near the roof within are shelves on which the\ngrain is placed; a wood fire is then lit in the oven, the door of the\nbut is closed, and the temperature inside soon becomes nearly equal to\nthat of the oven itself, and the corn speedily dries.\n\nIt is said that this name, \u201cbad-hus,\u201d is derived from a custom which\nformerly prevailed among the people of using this receptacle in\nwinter time as a kind of hot-air bath. The peasant, also, put it to\nanother use. Not being the cleanliest people in the world, their\nbed-clothes become at times densely inhabited. When the colony becomes\noverstocked, the clothes are brought hither, and a short spell of the\ninfernal temperature proves too much for the small animals, as they\nare not blessed with the heat-enduring capabilities of the cricket or\nsalamander. In fact, the clothes become literally too hot to hold them,\nand they share the fate of Higginbottom.\n\nThis reminds me of an old tale concerning one Staale, of Aasheim, not\nvery far from here. This man had murdered his brother about two hundred\nand fifty years ago. His life was spared on condition that he would\nrid the country of seven outlaws who harried the country and defied\nevery attempt to take them. Staale, who was a daredevil villain, having\ndiscovered their retreat, went thither in rags, and showing them that\nhe was a bird of similar plumage, proposed forgathering with them. The\nrobbers were charmed at the idea of such an accession to their number.\nMeanwhile, Staale complained that his rags were full of parasites, and\nat his request a huge kettle was hung over the fire for the purpose of\nboiling the creatures out. As soon as the water boiled Staale dashed\nthe fluid into the faces of the robbers who lay asleep on the floor,\nnot expecting so warm a reception. Thus reduced, for the moment at\nleast, to a condition like that of that precious brigand, Polyphemus,\nthey fell an easy prey to Staale, who dashed their brains out with a\ncrow-bar. He was, however, near being overmastered by an old woman who\nministered to the wants of the robbers, like the delicate Leonarda in\n_Gil Blas_, and had escaped the baptism that had been administered to\nthe rest. After a hard struggle, however, he overcame the virago, and\nthus obtained his life and freedom, which had been forfeited for his\nmisdeeds.\n\nIn the bad-hus were also suspended the winter cloak of his Reverence,\ncomposed of six beautiful wolf-skins; the sledge-apron, made of a\nhuge black bear-skin, with the fur leggings and gloves, also used to\nkeep out the cold in driving. These articles are generally hung up in\nanother part of the premises, the ammoniacal vapours of which are much\ndisliked and avoided by moths and other fur-destroyers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n    Peculiar livery--Bleke--A hint to Lord Breadalbane--Enormous\n    trout--Trap for timber logs--Exciting scene--Melancholy\n    Jacques in Norway--The new church of Sannes--A clergyman\u2019s\n    Midsummer-day dream--Things in general at Froisnaes--Pleasing\n    intelligence--Luxurious magpies--A church without a\n    congregation--The valley of the shadow of death--Mouse\n    Grange--A tradition of Findal--Fable and feeling--A Highland\n    costume in Norway--Ancestral pride--Grand old names prevalent\n    in S\u00e6tersdal--Ropes made of the bark of the lime-tree--Carraway\n    shrub--Government schools of agriculture--A case for a London\n    magistrate--Trout fishing in the H\u00f6gvand--Cribbed, cabined,\n    and confined--A disappointment--The original outrigger--The\n    cat-lynx--A wealthy Norwegian farmer--Bear-talk--The\n    consequence of taking a drop too much--Story of a Thuss--Cattle\n    conscious of the presence of the hill people--Fairy music.\n\n\nTaking leave with many thanks of my worthy host and the young lady who\nis presiding in the absence of his wife, both of whom had shown me no\nsmall kindness, I start by boat up the lake. The priest has no less\nthan fourteen Huusmaend (see _Oxonian in Norway_, p. 8), and one of\nthem, Knut, undertakes to row me up to Froisnaes. His dress is that of\nthe country. Trousers up to the neck-hole of grey wadmel, striped at\nthe sides with a streak of black, and fastened with four buttons at the\nankles--the button-holes worked with green worsted ending in red.\n\nAs usual, I killed two birds with one stone--advancing northward,\nand catching trout at the same time. I had flies as well as a minnow\ntrailing behind, and took fish with both, the biggest about a pound\nweight.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s not a trout; that\u2019s a Bleke,\u201d exclaimed Knut, as I hauled in a\nfish of about the same weight, but which pulled with a strength beyond\nhis size. They are much fatter and of finer flavour than the trout.\nBy subsequent experience I found Knut to be right. Such a fish at the\n_Trois Fr\u00e8res_ would fetch its weight in silver. The flesh was paler\nthan that of the trout. Externally, it was of a beautiful dark green\non the back, while the sides were whitish, but shaded with a light\ngreen. The spots were more purple than those of the trout, while the\nhead and extremity of the body before the tail tapered beautifully. It\nsomewhat resembled a herring in shape: Knut compared it to a mackerel.\nThey never, he said, exceed a pound in weight, but are stronger than a\ntrout of equal size. Here, then, was a species of fish totally unknown\nto Great Britain. Indeed, there are many fish in Scandinavia which it\nwould be worth while to try and naturalize among us. The cross, for\ninstance, between a Jack and a Perch to be found in the Swedish lakes,\nand better than either; why does not Lord Breadalbane, the second\nintroducer of capercailzie into Scotland, or some other patriot, apply\nhis mind and resources to this subject?\n\nThe trout in this lake run to an enormous size. They have been seen\ntwo or three ells long. These large fish are seldom visible, generally\nfrequenting the deeps. In all these waters the saying is, \u201cwe catch\nmost fish in the autumn\u201d (til H\u00f6sten, Scotic\u00e8, ha\u2019st): _i.e._, when the\nfish approach the shallows to spawn.\n\nThe waters of the lake, which were in some places from one to two miles\nbroad, and studded with wooded islands, now contract, and separate\ninto two narrow channels. Advantage is taken of the situation to set\nup a log-trap below--_i.e._, a circle of logs fastened end to end with\nbirchen ropes rove through eye-holes. In this pound are caught the\ntimbers that have been floated down from above. Hundreds of prisoners\nare thus caged without any further fastening; but escape is impossible,\nunless they leap over the barrier, or dive beneath it, both which are\nforbidden by the laws of gravity. If they were not thus formed into\ngangs they would get playing the truant, and lounging in the various\nbays, or become fixed fast on shore. When the circle is full, advantage\nis taken of the north wind which prevails, and off the whole convoy is\nstarted down south without any human attendants.\n\nBefore long we reach a very striking spot. The lake, which had again\nwidened, now narrows suddenly, and the vast body of limpid water rushes\nwith tremendous rapidity through a deep groove, about thirty feet\nwide, cut by Nature through smooth sloping rocks. Ever and anon a log,\nwhich has been floating lazily from above, and has, all on a sudden,\nfound itself in this hurly-burly, comes shooting through in a state of\nthe utmost agitation, occasionally charging, like a battering-ram, at\na projecting angle of the wall; while others, with no less impetuous\neagerness, race through the passage a dozen abreast; the outsiders,\nhowever, get caught in the eternal backstream below, and go bumping,\nshoving, and jostling each other for hours before they can again escape\nfrom the magic eddy.\n\nThe stream being too strong to admit of our getting the parson\u2019s\nboat up this defile--let alone the perfect certainty of a smash if\nwe attempt to run the gauntlet through this band of Malays running\namuck--the boatman starts off with some of my luggage on his shoulders\nto engage a boat at the ferryman\u2019s, lying through the pine grove.\n\nWhile he is gone, I amuse myself with watching the logs; and had I been\ngifted with the moralizing powers of the melancholy Jacques, I might\neasily have set down in the journal some apt comparisons about the\npeople of this world racing each other in the battle of life, pushing,\nscrambling, dashing other people out of their road. \u201cIf a man gets in\nyour way, stamp on him,\u201d says one of Thackeray\u2019s people; and some of\nthem suddenly brought up all of a heap in the dark inexorable round of\none of life\u2019s backstreams. The Storthing has, I hear, at length decided\nthat there shall be a bridge thrown across this gully; the only wonder\nis that it has not been done long ago, as it might be built at a very\ntrifling expense, and the foundations are all ready to hand.\n\nAbove the lone hut of the ferryman, who is a famous wood-carver, lies\nthe new church of Sannes, rising on some flat meadow land. What a\ncontrast that pure white image of it, reflected athwart the waters,\npresents to the huge, dreary, threatening shadows projected by yonder\ndark, weather-stained masses of everlasting mountains. And yet, when\nthe rocks and mountains shall fall in universal ruin from their lofty\nestate, that humble spire,--although, perhaps, originally suggested by\nthe towering Igdrasil of Scandinavian Pagan mythology,--shall rise\nstill higher and higher, and pierce the clouds, and the small, and\nseemingly perishable fane, expand into the vast imperishable temple of\nthe God above.\n\nFrom its various associations, such a sight as that is very pleasing\nto the traveller in a lone country like this, where Nature\u2019s brow is\nalmost always contracted, frowning in gloomy, uncompromising grandeur.\nNo larks carolling blithely up aloft; but instead, the scream of some\nbird of prey, the grating croak of the raven, the demon screech of the\nlom, or the hoarse murmur of the angry waterfall.\n\nAt Froisnaes I spend the night, intending next day to cross the lake,\nand walk over the mountains opposite to another lake, called the\nH\u00f6gvand, the trout of which are renowned throughout the valley. After\nundergoing the usual artillery of questions and staring, I fall to\ndiscussing my frugal meal of trout and potatoes, while the good woman\nfills the bedstead with fresh straw. In this she is assisted by one of\nher sons, whose trousers rise up to his gullet, and are actually kept\nup by the silver studs of his shirt collar. These, with a brooch, are\nthe lad\u2019s own handiwork, he having learned the art of the silversmith\nfrom a travelling descendant of Tubal Cain. He is very anxious to buy\na gold coin from me, and brings half an old gold piece, and asks the\nvalue of it. By poising it in the balance against half a sovereign, I\nam enabled to guide him respecting its true worth.\n\n\u201cNow then,\u201d said the landlady, \u201cthe bed is quite clear of fleas, though\nI won\u2019t say there are not some on the floor.\u201d\n\nHaving no cream, she brings me her only egg, which, after a sound\ndrubbing, I force to do duty as cream to my coffee. She laments that\nshe has no more eggs. All the family has been away at the St\u00f6l, and\nhave only just returned, and the thieving magpies took the opportunity,\nin lieu, I suppose of the good luck which they bring to the household,\nto suck the eggs as fast as the hen laid them. Guardian angels of this\ndescription come expensive.\n\nThe gude-man of the house, whose hair is cut as short as Oliver\nTwist\u2019s--probably for similar reasons--with the exception of a scalping\nlock on his forehead, now comes up the steep, unbanistered stair to\nhave a chat. The trout, he says, bite best a week after St. Johann\u2019s\ntid (June 21), that being, no doubt, the time when the first flies\nappear.\n\nAmong other things, he tells me that about four miles to the west of\nthis, in a mountain valley called Skomedal, there are the remains of\nan ancient church, at a spot named Morst\u00f6l, _i.e._, the chal\u00eat on the\nmoors. Underneath it is a sort of crypt. The graves, too, are plain to\nsee. According to the country side tradition, which is no doubt true\n(for there never was such a country as this for preserving traditions,\nas well as customs, unimpaired), all the church-goers were exterminated\nby the black death in the middle of the fourteenth century. The people\nhave not dared, says the man, to build any fixed habitation there\nsince, and the place is only used as a summer pasture. More courage has\nbeen shown elsewhere, as the following story will show; but perhaps the\nreal reason is, that in this valley it would not pay to build a gaard,\nthe site being very elevated and cold.\n\nWhere the great Gaard (Garth) of Mustad now stands, there used, once\non a time, to be a farmstead called Framstad, the finest property in\nall Vardal. But when \u201cthe great manqueller\u201d visited these parts, all\nthe inhabitants of the valley, those of Framstad among the number,\nwere swept away, and a century later it was only known in tradition\nthat the westernmost part of the valley had ever been inhabited. One\nday a hunter lost himself in the interminable forest which covered\nthe district. In vain he looked for any symptom of human dwellings.\nAfter wandering about for a length of time in a state of hopeless\nbewilderment, he suddenly descried what looked like a house through the\ntrees, which were of immense age. All around was so dreary and deserted\nthat it was not without a secret shudder he ventured into the building.\nA strange sight met his eyes as he entered. On the hearth was a kettle,\nhalf consumed by rust, and some pieces of charcoal. On one of the\nheavy benches which surrounded the fireplace lay a distaff, and some\nballs of rotten thread, with other traces of female industry. Against\nthe wall hung a cross-bow, and some other weapons; but everything was\ncovered with the dust of centuries. Surely there must be some more\nvestiges of the former occupants, thought he, as he clambered up into\nthe loft by the steep ladder. And sure enough there were two great\nbedsteads, the solid timbers of which were let into the end walls of\nthe room. In each of these were the mouldering skeletons of two or more\nhuman beings.\n\nOver these a number of mice were running, who, frightened at his\napproach, hurried off in all directions.\n\nHe now remembered the tradition of the black death. This must have\nbeen the dwelling of some of the victims, left just in the state it\nwas when the hand of the Destroyer was suddenly laid upon them. Being\na shrewd fellow, he at once perceived the value of his discovery, and\nwith his axe marked his name and the day of the month on the wall of\nthe building. As the day was far spent, he kept watch and ward in the\nweird abode, and next day started eastward, where he knew his home\nmust lie, taking care to blaze the trees on his road, as a clue to\nthe spot. He managed to get home safely, and before long returning to\nthe place with others, he soon cleared the forest, and brought the\nold enclosures into cultivation. In memory of his discovery he called\nhis new abode Mustad (Mouse Grange), the very name by which it still\ngoes; nay, his descendants are said to be its present occupiers. In the\neastern and western walls of the garret the mortice holes of the old\nbed-timbers are still visible. The date is also distinguishable on one\nof the outside fir-timbers, which are so intensely hard as almost to\ndefy the stroke of an axe.\n\nA little higher up the main valley along which I am travelling, and a\nlittle to the east of it, there is another, called Findal, which is\nthe scene of the following curious legend. The plague only spared two\npersons in this sequestered spot, a man and his wife, Knut and Thore\nby name. They were frightfully lonely, but still years rolled on, and\nthey never thought of quitting their ancient habitation. The only thing\nthat plagued them was, how to count time, and at last they lost their\nreckoning, and did not feel certain when the great winter festival of\nYule came round. It was agreed, therefore, when the winter was at hand,\nand the days rapidly shortening, that the old lady should start off on\nfoot, and go straight forward until she found people to tell her the\nday of the month. She went some distance, but the snow was so deep that\nher knees got quite tired, and she sat down on the Fond (snow-field),\nwhen suddenly, to her astonishment, she heard the following words sung\nin a clear quaint tone, by a voice under the snow.\n\n    Deka deka Thole,\n    Bake du brouv te Jole:\n    Note ei,\n    Aa Dagana tvaei,\n    So laenge ae de ti Jole.\n\n    You there, my good Thole,\n    Bake you bread for Jule:\n    Nights one,\n    And days two,\n    So long it is to Jule.\n\nThe old lady hurried back at once to her John Anderson, and they kept\nthe festival on the day signified, which they felt sure was the right\none, as it afterwards turned out to be.\n\nBishop Ullathorne and the other miracle-mongers will, no doubt, fasten\nupon this legend as one to be embodied in their next catalogue of\nsupernatural interventions in support of the Romish faith, alongside\nof \u201cOur Lady of Sallette,\u201d and other pretty stories. One might as well\nreligiously believe in those charming inventions of Ovid, to which\nthe imagination clings with such fondness, so thoroughly are they\nintertwined with human sympathies.\n\nBut let us get nearer our own time. Four years ago, I hear, the people\nof the valley were terrified by the apparition of a Scotchman, who\nhad taken it into his head to walk through Norway in full Highland\ncostume, armed with a hanger and a pair of pistols. A man who saw\nhim close to this took him for the foul fiend, and made off into the\nwood. Others, who were less alarmed, considered him to be mad (gal).\nAfter a good deal of difficulty he brought the folks to a parley, and\nnot knowing a word of Norsk, but being thirsty, he asked for grog.\nThe sailors on board the _Reine Hortense_ might have understood these\nfour letters, when signalled in Arctic waters by the aristocratic\nowner of _The Foam_. Not so the S\u00e6tersdal people. They thought he said\n\u201cgr\u00f6d,\u201d and brought him a lump of porridge. He then asked for \u201cwater,\u201d\nwhen they brought him a pair of large worsted gloves (vanter), here\npronounced vorter. This reminds me of a friend of mine who arrived at\na station-house in a great state of hunger. He could speak enough of\nthe language to inquire for provisions. \u201cPorridge,\u201d was the reply.\n\u201cAnything else?\u201d \u201cBeeren?\u201d \u201cYes, by all means,\u201d exclaimed he, revelling\nin imagination on bear-collops. The dame presently entered with a dish\nof beeren, which consisted of--wild strawberries!--a nice dessert, but\nnot fitted for a _pi\u00e8ce de r\u00e9sistance_.\n\nPerhaps the reader will not object to be introduced to some of the\nfolks here nominally. Many of the grand old names current in S\u00e6tersdal\ndon\u2019t exist elsewhere in Norway, but are to be found in the Sagas;\nand this is another proof of the tenacity with which this part of the\ncountry adheres to everything belonging to its forefathers. Instead\nof such names as Jacob or Peder, we have Bjorgulv, Torgrim, Torkil,\nTallak, Gunstein, Herjus, Tj\u00f6stolf, Tarjei, Osuf, Aamund, Aanund,\nGrunde; while the women answer to such Christian names as Durdei,\nGjellaug, Svalaug, Aslaug (feminine of Aslack), Asbjorg (feminine of\nAsbj\u00f6rn), Sigrid (feminine of Sigur), and Gunvor. The dog, even, who\ncomes up into the loft, and seems anxious to make my acquaintance, is\ncalled Storm.\n\nAs the next morning is rainy, I look about the premises for anything\nnoteworthy. In one corner is a bundle of thin strips of bark. These are\ntaken from the branches of the linden-tree, and steeped in water from\nspring to autumn. They are then separated into shreds, and woven by\nthe peasants into ropes, which are not so durable, however, as those\nof hemp. A bunch of carraway shrub is hanging up to dry. It grows all\nabout here. The seeds are mixed with all kinds of food.\n\n\u201cFriske smag har det,\u201d remarks the old lady. \u201cIt has a fresh taste with\nit.\u201d\n\nOutside the house there are two or three lysters, and some split\npine-roots for \u201cburning the water.\u201d In the dark, still nights of\nautumn, the trout and bleke which approach the shore are speared by\nthe men.\n\nIn the passage is suspended a notice to the effect that instruction\nin agriculture is offered by the Government gratis, at a school down\nthe valley, to all young men who bring a certificate of baptism,\nvaccination, and also a testimonial of good moral conduct from the\nclergyman.\n\nWhile I am reading this notice, a desolate-looking young female, with\ndishevelled black hair, comes staring at me through the open door, with\na most wobegone aspect. Her husband, I find, is a drinker of brantviin.\nOn one occasion he went down to Christiansand, drank tremendously, and\nreturned quite rabid. For some time he was chained leg to leg. He is\nbetter now, but beats the unfortunate creature, his wife, who does not\ncomplain. I recommended the people, the next time he did it, to chain\nhim again, and pay the bully back in some of his own coin--hard knocks.\n\nHearing so much of the trouts of the H\u00f6gvand, _i.e._, High-water (the\npeople here call it H\u00f6gvatn, reminding me of the Crummack-_waters_,\nand Derwent-waters, of the North of England), I take Tallak, one of the\nsons, across the lake. On the further shore stood a man, with his young\nwife and child. They had a small boat, but it could not have lived\nin the swell now on the loch; so they borrowed ours for the transit.\nThreading our way through some birch scrub, we emerge upon the old\nsmelting-house, where the copper-ore brought from the Valle copper-mine\nused to be prepared. But it is now at a stand-still, and the beck close\nby rushes down with useless and unemployed energy. This stream comes\ndown from the lake to which we are going.\n\nOn the way we pass a small shanty, of about eight feet square. I peep\nin through the open door. On the floor sits a young woman, with her\nthree children. Their sleeping berths are just overhead, let into\nthe wall. After a stiff ascent, we reach the High-water. Launched\non the lake, I expected great things, as the rain, which still\npoured when we started, had ceased, and a fine ripple curled the\nwaters, which glistened smilingly as they caught sight of the sun\u2019s\ncheerful countenance emerging from behind the heavy clouds. But my\nhopes were doomed to disappointment. Tallak said it was torden-veir\n(thunder-weather), and unpropitious. Nevertheless, a banging fish took\none of my flies, but carried the whole tackle away.\n\nI then tried the triangles, and a four-pounder, at least, golden and\nplump, dashed at me, but by a clever plunge out of his own element, he\nmanaged to get clear again. After this I had not another chance; but\nI have no doubt, that if I had given a day to the lake, instead of an\nhour or two, I should have succeeded in developing its capabilities.\nThe boat, or pram as it is called in these parts, is flat-bottomed and\noblong. The rowing appliances are very peculiar. Two narrow boards,\nabout three feet apart, were placed about midships, at right angles\nto the boat\u2019s length, and extending over the gunwale about a foot;\ntwo more similar pieces of wood were laid parallel to each other over\nthe ends of the first two pieces, to which they were tied by birchen\nthongs, so as to form a square framework lying on the boat\u2019s gunwale.\nTwo thole-pins were stuck into each of the side pieces. Here, then, in\nthe mountains of Thelemarken, we find the original outrigger, centuries\nold, the predecessor of the Claspers\u2019 invention, now so commonly used\nin England. On one of the cross-boards I sat, on the other the rower,\nthus keeping the frame firm by our own weight, it being secured to the\nbody of the boat by birch-ties only. There was not a particle of iron\nabout the whole affair; it was the simplest contrivance for crossing\nwater I ever saw.\n\nOn our walk homeward Tallak tells me that he has seen the cat-lynx\ndown in the valley, but that they generally keep up among the broken\nrocks (Urden). The wind was now so high that the passage of the Fjord\nwas somewhat difficult. At times, I hear, it is so lashed by sudden\ntempests from the storm-engendering mountains, that the water leaves\nits bed, and fills the air with spray and foam.\n\nOld Mr. Skomedal, who schusses me up this evening to Langeid, is a\nrich man in his way, owning three farms, not to mention a quantity of\n\u201carvegods\u201d (heirlooms) on his wife\u2019s side, in the shape of halberds,\nhelmets, swords, apostle-spoons, and \u201coldtids aeld-gammle sager\u201d\n(ancient curiosities).\n\nHe asked if I knew a cure for his gicht (rheumatism). Many years ago\nhe was at a bryllup (wedding), when he got fuul (Scotic\u00e8 fou = drunk);\nindeed everybody was fuul. But unfortunately he got wet outside as\nwell as in, and fell asleep in his wet clothes, since when he has been\ntroubled with aching pains.\n\nThe bears have killed two of his horses. The one he is driving he\nbought out of a drove from the Hardanger. It is only two years old,\nand shies alarmingly in the dusk[8] at some huge stones which have\nbeen placed by the roadside at intervals, battlement fashion, to keep\ntravellers from going over the precipice, though the embrasures are\nlike an act of parliament, and would admit of a coach and four being\ndriven between them. \u201cI thought it was a bear,\u201d said Skomedal, as he\nmade out the stones.\n\nBecoming quite conversational and familiar, he offers me a pinch of\nsnuff (snuus), whence the Scotch, \u201csneeshing.\u201d It was excellent \u201chigh\ndried,\u201d and, to my astonishment, of home manufacture, he buying the\ntobacco-leaf and the necessary flavouring fluid at the town. The rain\nhaving been very heavy, the valley is alive with falling waters. We\npass a splendid fall close by the road, the white rage of which gleamed\ndistinctly through the darkness, rendering that part of the road\nlighter than the rest. Imagine the way being lighted with cascades. Who\nwould care for a row of gas-lamps under such circumstances?\n\nThis fall, Skomedal tells me, was once drawn by a Frenchman; but I\ndoubt much one of that nation ever venturing into these parts. \u201cWell,\nSkomedal, can\u2019t you tell me some tales about the trolls?\u201d said I,\nthinking the hour and the scene were admirably adapted for that sort of\namusement.\n\n\u201cLet me see, ah! yes. There was a woman up at my st\u00f6l in\nSkomedal--that\u2019s where the tomt (site) of the old church is to be\nseen. She was all alone one Thorsdags qveld (Thursday evening), her\ncompanion having come down to the gaard for mad (food). Looking out\nshe sees what she supposes is Sigrid coming back up the mountain with\na great box of provisions. But when the figure gets alongside of an\nabrupt rock just below, it suddenly disappears. Gunvor knew then that\nit was a Thus.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d replied I.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s all very well to say nonsense, but why do the cattle always\nget shy and urolig (unruly), when they pass that spot. We never could\nmake out before why this was, but it was plain now, they could tell by\ntheir instinct there was something uncanny close by.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good; do you know another tale?\u201d said I, our pace well admitting\nof this diversion, as it was very slow in the dark wood, into which our\nroad had now entered.\n\n\u201cYes, that same woman, Gunvor\u2019s husband, was the best fiddler in the\nvalley. One day, when she was all alone, she heard near her a beautiful\ntune (vaene slot) played on a violin. She could see nobody, though\nshe looked all over. That must have been a Troll underground. She\nremembered the tune, and taught it her husband. It was called (the name\nhas slipped my recollection.) Nothing so beautiful as that slot was\never heard in the valley.\n\n\u201cBut he is dead now, and there is nobody who can play as he did.\u201d[9]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n    Langeid--Up the mountain--Vanity of vanity--Forest\n    perfumes--The glad thrill of adventure--An ancient\n    beacon--Rough fellows--Daring pine-trees--Quaint old\n    powder-horn--Curiosities for sale--Sketch of a group of\n    giants--Information for _Le Follet_--Rather cool--Rural\n    dainties and delights--The great miracle--An odd name--The\n    wedding garment--Ivar Aasen--The Study of Words--Philological\n    lucubrations--A slagsmal--Nice subject for a spasmodic\n    poet--Smoking rooms--The lady of the house--A Simon Svipu--A\n    professional story-teller--Always about Yule-tide--The\n    supernatural turns out to be very natural--What happened to an\n    old woman--Killing the whirlwind--Hearing is believing--Mr.\n    Parsonage corroborates Mr. Salomon--The grey horse at\n    Roysland--There can be no doubt about it--Theological argument\n    between a fairy and a clergyman--Adam\u2019s first wife, Lileth.\n\n\nAt Langeid station, where we arrived late at night, there was great\ndifficulty in finding anybody at home. At last we ferreted out an old\nman in one of the multifarious buildings, which, as usual, formed the\nestablishment. All the rest of the family are paa hoien (up on the\nmountain). That Langeid was a horrid place. As there was no wash-basin\nto be found, I laid hands upon a quaint brass mortar, which the old man\ninformed me was \u201cmanifold hundred years old.\u201d In the travellers\u2019 book\nI see a German has been informing the people that he is a Ph.D. But\nthen I have seen elsewhere, in this country, an Englishman\u2019s name in\nthe book with M.P. attached to it. But he went down, poor man, with the\nsteamer _Ercolano_, so we must leave him alone.\n\nWhat a lovely morning after the rain. The spines of the fir-trees, and\nthe hairy lichen (_alectoria jubata_) festooning the branches, frosted\nover with the moisture which still adheres to them, and is not yet\nsucked up by the sun that is just rising over the high mountains. What\nrefreshing odours they shed abroad, seconded by the lowlier \u201cpors,\u201d\nwith its delicious aromatic perfume.\n\nWhat an intense pleasure it is thus to travel through an unknown\ncountry, not knowing where one is to be at the day\u2019s end, and looking\nat the map to find out where in the world one is. Give me this rather\nthan a journey in Switzerland, and all the first-rate hotels in the\nworld.\n\n\u201cUp yonder,\u201d said my attendant, \u201ca bear used to harbour. The man in the\ngaard above shot him not long ago. He was very large. That\u2019s a \u2018Vitr\u2019\n(warning) yonder, on the top of that mountain to the east. There are a\ngreat many dozen of pine-logs piled up there from the olden times.\u201d\n\nI discovered that this was a beacon-hill, formerly used to give notice\nof the approach of foes on the coast. The next beacon was at Lobdal,\na great many miles down the valley. The establishment of beacons from\nNaes to Helgeland, is attributed, by Snorro, to Hacon the Good. A\nslower way of conveying intelligence of the descent of an enemy on the\ncoast, was the split arrow (haeror), equivalent to the fiery cross of\nScotland.\n\n\u201cAre not you frightened to travel all alone?\u201d said the little fellow,\nlooking curiously into my face. \u201cYou might be injured.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot I,\u201d replied I.\n\n\u201cOh! yes, we Norwegians are good people, except in Hallingdal--they\nare rare rough fellows there, terrible fighters.\u201d\n\nTo the left of the road, high on the hill, is the abode of Herjus,\nthe bear-victim mentioned above, who is gradually recovering from his\nwounds.\n\nThe scenery becomes grander as we advance. What would you think of\ntrees growing on the side of a precipice, apparently as steep as\nFlamboro\u2019 Head, and ten times as high? They seem determined to get into\nplaces where the axe cannot reach them. But they are not safe for all\nthat. Now and then the mountain side will crack, and some of it comes\ndown. Look at that vast stone, which would throw all your Borrowdale\nboulder stones into the shade; it has come down in this manner.\nAdvantage has been taken of its overhanging top to stow away under it a\nlot of agricultural instruments, among which I see a primitive harrow\nof wood.\n\nAt Ryssestad station I find a quaint old powder-horn, more than two\nhundred years old, on which Daniel in the lion\u2019s den, Roland, Adam and\nEve, Samson and Delilah, figure in marvellous guise. I note this, as\nI afterwards saw almost the facsimile of it in the Bergen Museum. The\nowners declined to part with it.\n\nThere was also a wolf\u2019s skin, price five dollars. The station-master\nshot him from one of the windows last winter, while prowling about the\npremises. One Sigur Sannes offers for sale a curious old \u201chand-axe,\u201d\ndate 1622, but I did not wish to add to my luggage.\n\nWhat a set of giants surrounded me while I was drinking coffee! and\nsuch names--Bjug, Salvi, Jermund, Gundar! Imagine all these long-legged\nfellows standing in trousers reaching to their very shoulders and neck,\nand supported by shoulder-straps decked in brass ornaments, while below\nthey are secured by nine buttons above the ankle. What may be seen of\ntheir shirts is confined by two immense silver bullet studs, and then\na silver brooch an inch and a half wide. The hats, of felt, are made\nin the valley. The brim is very small, and the crown narrows half way\nup, and then swells out again. A silver chain is passed round it two or\nthree times, and confined in front by a broad silver clasp, to which\nis suspended a cross. A figured velvet band likewise goes twice round\nit.\n\nThe dress of the women is the black or white skirt, already\nmentioned, swelling into enormous folds behind, and so short as to\npermit the garters with silver clasps to be seen. The stockings\nbulge out immensely at the calf--indeed, are much fuller than is\nnecessary--giving the legs a most plethoric appearance, and, as in\nthe Tyrol, they often only reach to the ankle. Occasionally, when the\nwomen wish to look very smart, a pair of white socks are drawn over the\nfoot, which oddly contrasts with the black stocking. The shoes, which\nare home-made, are pointed, and fit remarkably well. On the bosom is a\nsaucer-sized brooch of silver, besides bullet-studs at the collar and\nwristband. I see also women carrying their babies in the kjell or plaid.\n\nBeyond the station, we have to diverge from the regular road, and\ntake an improvised one, the bridge having been carried away by a\nflom (freshet). At a ferry above, where the river opens into a lake,\nthe ferrywoman, after presenting to me her mull of home-made snuff,\ninquires if I am married. This provokes a similar query from me.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d is the reply; \u201cbut I have a grown-up son.\u201d\n\nThe custom of Nattefrieri, to which I have alluded elsewhere, will\naccount for things of this kind.\n\nBeyond the ferry there has been a recent fall of rocks from the cliffs\nabove. In the cool recesses of the rocks grow numbers of strawberries\nand raspberries, which my man obligingly gathers and presents to me.\nA black and white woodpecker, with red head and rump, perches on a\npine-tree close by.\n\nA little above is the finest fall on the river, except that near\nVigeland. All around the smooth scarped cliffs converge down to the\nwater at a considerable angle, the cleavage being parallel to their\nsurface.\n\nAt one spot my chatty little post-boy, who, boy as he was, rejoiced in\na wife and child, stops to talk with a mighty tall fellow, one Bj\u00f6rn\nTvester, who offers to take me up some high mountain near to see a fine\nview. A woman close by, who is unfortunately absent on the hills,\npossesses an ancient silver cross, of great size and fine workmanship.\nThis used, in former times, to be used by the bridegroom at a wedding.\n\nA smiling plain now opens before us, in the centre of which stands the\nparish church. While I stop to enjoy the prospect, a crowd of men and\nwomen collect around me. One of the fair sex, who rejoiced in the name\nof Mari Bj\u00f6rnsdatter, I endeavour to sketch, to her great delight.\n\n\u201cStor mirakel!\u201d (great miracle) shouted the peasants, looking over my\nshoulder. \u201cAldrig seet maken[10] (never saw the like)\u201d!\n\n\u201cAnd what\u2019s your name?\u201d I asked of a red-headed urchin, of miserable\nappearance. The answer, \u201cThor,\u201d made me smile, and produced a roar\nfrom the masculines, Folke, Orm, Od (a very odd name, indeed), Dreng,\nSigbj\u00f6rn, and a titter from the feminines ditto, all of whom saw the\njoke at once.\n\nPutting up at the station-master\u2019s at Rige, I sally out and meet with\nan intelligent fellow, Arne Bjugson by name, formerly a schoolmaster,\nnow a pedlar. He tells me there is an ancient bridal dress at one of\nthe houses, and he it was who put this on, and sat to Tidemann for his\nsketch of the S\u00e6tersdal Bridegroom.\n\nWe forthwith go to inspect it. The bridegroom\u2019s jacket is of blue, over\nwhich came another of red. His knee-breeches are black, and crimped or\nplaited; his blue stockings were wound round with ribands; his hat was\nswathed in a white cloth, round which a silver chain was twisted. In\nhis hand he held a naked sword; around his waist was a brass belt, and\non his neck a silver chain with medals. The bride\u2019s dress consisted of\ntwo black woollen petticoats, plaited or folded; above these a blue\none, and over all a red one. Then came a black apron, and above that a\nwhite linen one, and round her waist three silver belts. Her jacket was\nblack, with a small red collar, ornamented with a profusion of buckles,\nhooks, fibulas, and chains. On her head was a silver-gilt crown, and\naround her neck a pearl necklace, to which a medal, called \u201cAgnus Dei,\u201d\nwas suspended.\n\nArne has read _Snorro\u2019s Chronicle_, which he borrowed from the parson.\nIvar Aasen, the author of several works on the old Norsk language,\nhas been more than once up here examining into the dialect. Those\ninterested in the sources of the English language, and in ascertaining\nhow much of it is due to the old Norsk, have ample room for amusement\nand instruction here. Many English words, unknown in the modern\nNorwegian, are to be found in use in these secluded parts, though\ndriven from the rest of the country, just in the same way as the Norsk\nlanguage was talked at Bayeux a long time after it had become obsolete\nat Rouen and other parts of Normandy. Our \u201cnoon\u201d reappears in \u201cnoni;\u201d\n\u201cgame,\u201d in \u201cgama,\u201d a word not known away from this. \u201cTo prate,\u201d is\n\u201cprata;\u201d \u201cto die,\u201d is \u201cdoi;\u201d \u201ctwo,\u201d is \u201ctwi,\u201d not \u201cto,\u201d as elsewhere;\nindeed, all the numerals differ from those used elsewhere. The people\npronounce \u201cway,\u201d \u201cplough,\u201d and \u201cnet,\u201d just like an Englishman. To\n\u201cneigh,\u201d is \u201cneja,\u201d not \u201cvrinska.\u201d A stocking is \u201csock,\u201d not \u201cstr\u00f6mpe;\u201d\neg = edge; skafe = safe or cupboard; \u201ckvik\u201d corresponds in all its\nmeanings to our word \u201cquick.\u201d The old Icelandic \u201cgildr\u201d is used as an\neulogistic epithet, = excellent. Their word for \u201cwheel\u201d sounds like our\nEnglish, and is not \u201ceule,\u201d as elsewhere; \u201cstubbe\u201d is our \u201cstub,\u201d or\nlittle bit; \u201cI\u201d is \u201coi,\u201d not \u201cIeg;\u201d \u201cfir\u201d is pronounced \u201cfir;\u201d \u201cspon\u201d\nhas been already mentioned: \u201csnow,\u201d \u201cmile,\u201d \u201ccross,\u201d re-occur here,\nwhereas elsewhere they differ from the English.\n\nWhile we are engaged in these philological lucubrations a man comes\nup, a piece of whose lower-lip has gone, interfering with his speech.\nThis occurred at a wedding. He and another had a trial of strength, in\nwhich he proved the strongest. The vanquished man, assisted by his two\nbrothers, then set upon him, and bit him like a dog. As aforesaid, the\npeople of the valley are ordinarily good-natured and peaceable enough;\nbut let them only get at the ale or brandy, and they become horribly\nbrutal and ferocious, and a slagsmal (fight) is sure to ensue. One\nmethod of attack on these occasions is by gouging the eye out, spone i\novgo (literally to spoon out the eye). Sometimes the combatants place\nsome hard substance in the hand, as a stone or piece of wood. This\nthey call \u201ca hand-devil,\u201d the \u201cknuckle-duster\u201d of English ruffians. At\nOmlid, several miles over the mountains to the east of this, the people\neven when sober are said to be anything but snil (good). So disastrous\nwas the effect of drink at a bridal (_i.e._, bride-ale or wedding\nfestival),[11] that the bride, it is said, frequently used to bring\nwith her a funeral shirt for fear that she might have to carry home her\nhusband dead. In any case she was provided with bandages wherewith to\ndress his wounds.\n\nI picked up another very intelligent Cicerone in Mr. Sunsdal, the\nLehnsman of the district.\n\n\u201cYou would, perhaps, like to see one of the old original dwellings of\nour forefathers,\u201d said he; \u201cthere are still many of them in this part\nof Norway. The name is Rogstue, _i.e._, smoke-room.\u201d\n\nWe accordingly entered one of these pristine abodes, such as were the\nfashion among the highest of the land many hundred years ago. The house\nwas built of great logs, and its chief and almost only sitting-room had\nno windows, the light being admitted from above by an orifice (ljaaren)\nin the centre of the roof, over which fitted a lid fastened to a pole.\nThrough this the smoke escaped from the great square fireplace (aaren)\nin the middle of the floor, enclosed by hewn stones. Round this ran\nheavy benches, the backs of which were carved with various devices.\nA huge wooden crane, rudely carved into the figure of a head, and\nblackened with smoke, projected from a side wall to a point half-way\nbetween the hearth and chimney-hole. From this the great porridge-pot\n(Gryd-hodden) was suspended. Kettle is \u201chodden\u201d in old English.\n\nOn this smoke-blackened crane I discerned two or three deep scars,\nindicative of a custom now obsolete. On the occasion of a wedding, the\nbridegroom used to strike his axe into this as he entered, which was as\nmuch as to say that peace should be the order of the day; an omen, be\nit said, which seldom came true in practice.\n\nOne side of this pristine apartment was taken up by the two beds\n(kvillunne) fixed against the wall, according to the custom of the\ncountry, and in shape resembling the berths on board ship. Between\nthem was the safe or cupboard (skape). On the opposite side of the\nwall was a wooden dresser of massive workmanship, while round the room\nwere shelves with cheeses upon them. They were placed just within the\nsmoke line, as I shall call it. The smoke, in fact, not having draught\nenough, descends about half-way down the walls, rendering that portion\nof them which came within the lowest smoke-mark of the sooty vapour as\nblack as the fifty wives of the King of the Cannibal Islands; while the\ngreat beams below this preserved their original wood colour.\n\nThe lady of the house, Sigrid Halvorsdatter, took a particular pride\nin showing the interior of her abode. Good-nature was written on her\nphysiognomy, and the writing was not counterfeit. When we arrived,\nshe was just on the point of going up the mountain with a light\nwooden-frame (meiss) on her shoulders, on which was bound a heavy\nmilk-pail; but she immediately deposited her burden on a great stone\nat the door, took a piece of wood from under the eaves and unfastened\nthe door. Subsequently, I find that this is the identical dame, and\nRogstue, painted by Tidemann, and published among his illustrations of\nNorwegian customs.\n\nTaking leave of her with many thanks, we proceeded to another house,\nwhere the woman said we should see a \u201cSimon Svipu.\u201d\n\n\u201cA Simon Svipu!\u201d ejaculates the reader, \u201cwhat on earth is that?\u201d\nThereby hangs a tale, or a tail, if you will. The nightmare plagued\nthese people before she visited England.\n\nThe people of this valley call her \u201cMuro,\u201d and they have the following\neffectual remedy against her. They first take a knife, wrap it up in a\nkerchief, and pass it three times round the body; a pair of scissors\nare also called into requisition, and, lastly, a \u201cSimon Svipu,\u201d which\nis the clump or excrescence found on the branches of the birch-tree,\nand out of which grow a number of small twigs. This last is hung up in\nthe stable over the horses\u2019 heads, or fixed in one of the rafters, and\nalso over their own bed.\n\nThis exorcism is then pronounced--\n\n    Muro, Muro, cursed jade,\n      If you\u2019re in, then you must out;\n    Here are Simon Svipu, scissors, blade,\n      Will put you to the right about.\n\nThe birchen charm may remind one of the slips of yew \u201cshivered in the\nmoon\u2019s eclipse,\u201d in _Macbeth_.\n\nThe term \u201csvipu\u201d is used in parts of the country for whip, instead of\nthe real word \u201csv\u00f6be.\u201d And I have no doubt this is the signification of\nit here--viz., a means of driving away the mare.[12]\n\nBut to return to the real Simon Pure--I mean Svipu. Unfortunately,\nI could not get a sight of it. The good folks either could not, or\nwould not, find the wonderful instrument. I believe, though still in\ntheir heart clinging to the ancient superstition, they were averse to\nconfessing it to others.\n\n\u201cBut here comes a man,\u201d said the Lehnsman, \u201cwho will tell us some\ncurious anecdotes; his name is Solomon Larsen Haugebirke. He is a\nsilversmith and blacksmith by trade, and having been servant to\nhalf-a-dozen priests here, he has become waked up, and having a\ntenacious memory, he can throw a good deal of light on the ancient\ncustoms of the valley. Gesegnet arbeid (blessed labour) to you,\nSolomon.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood day, Mr. Lehnsman. You have got a stranger with you, I see. Is he\na T\u00fcsker (German)?\u201d\n\nThe old gentleman was soon down on the grass, under the shadow of\nan outbuilding, the sun being intensely hot, and whiffing his pipe,\nstopped with my tobacco, while he folded his hands in deep thought.\n\n\u201cWell, really, Lehnsman, I can\u2019t mind anything just on the moment.\nLandstad and Bugge[13] were both here, and got all my stories and\nsongs.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut can\u2019t you remember something about Aasgardsreia?\u201d\n\nAfter pausing for a minute or two, Solomon said--\n\n\u201cWell, sir, you know it was always about Yule-tide, when we were just\nlaid down in bed, that they came by. They never halted till they came\nto a house where something was going to happen. They used to stop at\nthe door, and dash their saddles against the wall or roof, making the\nwhole house shake, and the great iron pot rattle again.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do you really believe in it, Solomon?\u201d said I, putting some more\ntobacco in his pipe.\n\n\u201cWhen I was a lad I did, but now I don\u2019t think I do. Still there was\nsomething very strange about it, wasn\u2019t there, sir? The horses in the\nstable used to be all of a sweat, as if they heard the noise, and were\nfrightened. _They_ could not have fancied it, whatever _we_ did.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut are you certain they did sweat?\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe you; I\u2019ve gone into the stable, and found them as wet as if\nthey had been dragged through the river.\u201d[14]\n\n\u201cAh! but I can easily explain that,\u201d said the Lehnsman. \u201cWhen I first\ncame here, some years ago, the young men were a very lawless lot; they\nthought nothing of taking the neighbours\u2019 horses at night, and riding\nthem about the country, visiting the jenter (girls); and it is my firm\nbelief that they took advantage of the old superstition about the\nAasgaardsreia coming by, and making the horses sweat, to carry on their\nown frolic with impunity. It was they that made the horses sweat, by\nbringing them back all of a heat, and not these sprites that you talk\nof.\u201d\n\nI felt inclined to take the Lehnsman\u2019s view of the case; but the old\nman shook his head doubtingly.\n\n\u201cRide, sir! why, at the time I speak of, you could not possibly ride,\nthe snow was so deep that the roads were impassable. But now we are\ntalking about it, it strikes me there may have been another cause. The\nhorses used to get so much extra food just then, in honour of Yule, and\nthe stalls are so small and close, that perhaps it made them break out\nin a sweat. Be that as it may, we used all to be terribly frightened\nwhen we heard the Aasgaardsreia.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was merely the rush of the night wind,\u201d said I, \u201cbeating against\nthe house sides.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould the night wind carry people clean away?\u201d rejoined Solomon,\nreturning to the charge. \u201cOnce, when they came riding by, there was\na woman living at that gaard yonder, who fell into a besv\u00f6mmelse\n(swoon); and in that state she was carried along with them right away\nto Toftelien, five old miles to the eastward.[15] And more by token,\nthough she had never been there before, she gave a most accurate\ndescription of the place. I was by, and heard her. What do you think\nof that, Herr Lehnsman?\u201d concluded Solomon, who was evidently halting\nbetween two antagonistic feelings, his superior enlightenment and his\nold deep-rooted boyish superstitions.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe it at all,\u201d was the incredulous functionary\u2019s reply;\n\u201cit was, no doubt, the power of imagination, and the woman had heard\nfrom somebody, though she might have forgotten it, what Toftelien\nlooked like.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou talked about the night-wind,\u201d continued Solomon, turning to me. \u201cI\nremember well when I was a lad, if there was a virvel-vind (whirlwind),\nI used to throw my toll-knife right into it. We all believed that it\nwas the sprites that caused it, and that we should break the charm in\nthat way.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course you believed in the underground people generally?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, yes, we did. I know a man up yonder, at Bykle, who, whenever he\nwent up to the St\u00f6l, used, directly he got there, and had opened the\ndoor, to kneel down, and pray them not to disturb him for four weeks;\nand afterwards they might come to the place, and welcome, till the next\nsummer.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut did you ever see any of these people?\u201d said I, resolved on probing\nSolomon with a home question.\n\n\u201cNo, I\u2019ve never _seen_ them, but I have heard them, as sure as I sit on\nthis stone.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, and how was that?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you must know, I was up in the Fjeld to the eastward at a\nfiskevatn (lake with fish in). Suddenly I heard a noise close by me,\njust behind some rocks, and I thought it was other folks come up to\nfish. They were talking very loudly and merrily; so I called out to let\nthem know I was there, as I wished to have selskab (company). Directly\nI called, it was all still. This puzzled me; so I went round the rocks,\nbut not a creature could I see, so I returned to my fishing. Presently\nthe noise began again, and I distinctly heard folks talking.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what sort of talk was it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! baade fiint o gruft (both fine and coarse, _i.e._, good and\nbad words), accurat\u00e8 som paa en bryllup (just like at a wedding). I\ncalled out again, on which the noise suddenly stopped. Presently they\nbegan afresh, and I could make out it was folks dancing. Then I felt\nconvinced that it must be a thuss[16]-bryllup (elf-wedding).\u201d\n\n\u201cHad you slept well the night before?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever better.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had been drinking, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cLangt ifra (far from it); I was as \u00e6dru (sober) and clear-headed as a\nman could be who had taken nothing but coffee and milk for weeks.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how long did this noise continue?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo hours at least. Every time I cried out they stopped, and after a\nspace began again. I examined all around very carefully, as I was not\na bit afraid; but I could see no hole or anything, nothing but bare\nrocks. Now what could it be?\u201d asked the old man, solemnly.\n\nThere are more things in heaven and earth, thought I, than we dream of.\n\n\u201cBesides,\u201d continued Solomon, \u201cthere was another man I afterwards found\nfishing at another part of the water, who heard the same noise.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho was that?\u201d said the Lehnsman.\n\n\u201cOlsen Prestergaard,\u201d (_i.e._, Olsen Parsonage, so called because he\nwas born on the parsonage farm).\n\n\u201cBut he is as deaf as a post,\u201d retorted the other.\n\n\u201cHe is _now_, but he was not then. He has been deaf only since he got\nthat cold five years ago; and this that I am talking of happened six,\ncome Martinsmass.\u201d\n\nIt may be as well to state that we met Mr. Parsonage subsequently\nmaking hay, and, after a vast deal of hammering, he was made to\nunderstand us, when, with a most earnest expression of countenance he\nconfirmed Solomon\u2019s account exactly.\n\n\u201cCan\u2019t you tell us some more of your tales?\u201d said the Lehnsman; \u201cone of\nthose will do you told to Landstad and Moe, or to Bugge last summer.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow long does the stranger stop?\u201d asked Solomon; \u201cI will endeavour to\nrecollect one or two.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I shall be off to-morrow,\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cWhy so early? Well, let me see. There was the grey fole (horse) at\nRoysland. I\u2019ll tell you about that. You must know, then, sir, we used\nmany years ago to have a horse-race (skei) on the flat, just beyond\nthe church yonder, at the end of August-month each year. There was a\nman living up at Roysland, an old mile from here, up on the north\nside of the Elv. He was a strange sort of a fellow, nobody could make\nhim out; Laiv Roysland, they called him. One August, on the morning\nof the race, a grey horse came down to his gaard and neighed. He went\nand put the halter on him, and seeing he was a likely sort of a nag,\nthought he would take him down and run him, without asking anybody any\nquestions. And sure enough he came. The horse--he was a stallion--beat\nall the rest easily. Laiv carried off all the prizes and returned home.\nWhen he got there he let the horse loose, and it immediately took up\nto the hills, and was not heard of or seen for twelve months. When the\nrace-day came round, a neigh was heard (han nejade), Laiv went out of\nthe door, and found the same horse. He put the halter on his head, and\nbrought him down to the races just as before. He won everything. There\nnever was the likes of him whether in biting or running (bitast eller\nspringast). He was always the best. At last people began to talk, and\nsaid it must be the fand sjel (the fiend himself). The third year the\nhorse ran it lost. What a rage Laiv was in. When he got home he hit\nthe horse a tremendous thwack with his whip, and cursed a loud oath.\nIt struck out, and killed him on the spot. Next year a neigh was heard\nas usual outside the house, early on the morning of the race-day, but\nnobody dared go out. They were not such dare-devils as Laiv. It neighed\na second time, but the people would not venture, and from that time to\nthis it has never been heard of or seen.\u201d\n\n\u201cA strange wild tale,\u201d said I; \u201c what do you really think it was?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I suppose it was _He_. I never told that story,\u201d continued\nSolomon, \u201cto any one before.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, there can be no doubt about it,\u201d said Solomon, after a long\npause; \u201cso many people have seen these underground people that there\nmust be some truth in it. Besides which, is not there something about\nit in Holy Writ: \u2018Every knee shall bow, both of things that are in\nheaven, and in earth, and under the earth,\u2019 and who can be under the\nearth but the underground people?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Solomon, have you no more tales?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot of the valley here, but I can tell you one of the country up\nnorth.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, that will do.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you must know, there was a man at a gaard up there--let me see,\nI can\u2019t rightly mind the name of it. He was good friends with a Tuss;\nused, in fact, to worship him (dyrkes). The priest got to hear of\nthis, and warned him that it was wrong. The man made no secret of the\nfact, but persisted that there was no harm in it. Indeed, he derived a\nmint of good from the acquaintance. His crops were a vast deal finer,\nand he really could not give up his friend on any consideration.[17]\nThe man spoke with such apparent earnestness and conviction, that the\npriest was seized with a desire to see the Tuss. \u2018That you shall, and\nwelcome,\u2019 said the man; \u2018I don\u2019t anticipate any difficulty. I\u2019ve lent\nhim two rolls of chew-tobacco, and he will be sure to return them\nbefore long. No Christian can be more punctual than he is in matters of\nbusiness.\u2019 The little gentleman put in an appearance soon after, and\nhonestly repaid the tobacco, with thanks for the loan of it (tak for\nlaane). \u2018Bide a bit, my friend,\u2019 said the farmer, \u2018our parson wants to\nhave a snak (chat) with you.\u2019 \u2018Impossible,\u2019 he replied; \u2018I\u2019ve no time;\nbut I\u2019ve a brother that\u2019s a parson. He\u2019s just the man; besides, he has\nmore time than me. I\u2019ll send him.\u2019 The tuss-priest accordingly came,\nand had a long dispute with the priest of this world about various\npassages in the Bible. The latter was but a poor scholar, so he was\neasily out-argued.\n\n\u201cAt last they began to dispute about vor Frelser (our Redeemer).\n\n\u201c\u2018Frelser!\u2019 exclaimed the goblin-priest, \u2018I want no Frelser.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How so?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m descended from Adam\u2019s first wife. When she brought forth the\nchild from which our people trace their descent, Adam had not sinned.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018First wife?\u2019 repeated the University man; \u2018where do you find\nanything about first wife in the five books of Moses? If you have found\nany such like thing there, you have not read it right,\u2019 said he.\n\n\u201c\u2018Don\u2019t you remember,\u2019 said the tuss, \u2018the Bible has it, \u201cThis is _now_\nbone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.\u201d So he must have been married\nbefore to somebody of a different nature.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe other, who was not so well read in the Bible as he ought to be--so\nmuch of his time was taken up in farming and such like unaandelig\n(un-spiritual) occupations--was not able to confute this argument.\nIndeed, the tuss-priest beat the Lutheran priest hollow in every\nargument, till at last they parted, and the latter was never known\nagain to express a wish to have any further controversy with so subtle\nan antagonist.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n    Scandinavian origin of Old English and Border ballads--Nursery\n    rhymes--A sensible reason for saying \u201cNo\u201d--Parish\n    books--Osmund\u2019s new boots--A St. Dunstan story--The\n    short and simple annals of a Norwegian pastor--Peasant\n    talk--Riddles--Traditional melodies--A story for William\n    Allingham\u2019s muse--The Tuss people receive notice to quit--The\n    copper horse--Heirlooms--Stories in wood-carving--Morals and\n    match-making.\n\n\nIt is well known that some of the old English and Border ballads,\n_e.g._, \u201cKing Henrie,\u201d \u201cKempion,\u201d \u201cthe Douglas Tragedy,\u201d the \u201cD\u00e6mon\nLover,\u201d are, more or less Scandinavian in their origin. In the same\nway, \u201cJack the Giant Killer,\u201d and \u201cThomas Thumb,\u201d derive many of their\nfeatures from the Northern Pantheon.\n\nMr. Halliwell, in his _Nursery Rhymes of England_, and _Popular\nRhymes_, quotes some Swedish facsimiles of our rhymes of this class,\nand states, further, on the authority of Mr. Stephens, that the\nEnglish infants of the nineteenth century \u201chave not deserted the\nrhymes chanted so many ages since by their mothers in the North.\u201d[18]\nIt struck me, therefore, that in this store-house of antiquities,\nS\u00e6tersdal, I might be able to pick up some information corroborative\nof the above hypothesis. It was some time, however, before I could\nmake Solomon understand what I meant by nursery rhymes. At last he hit\nupon my meaning, and I discovered that the word here for a lullaby or\njingle, is \u201cb\u00f6rne-s\u00fcd.\u201d Elsewhere, it is called Tull, or Lull-b\u00f6rn,\nwhence our Lullaby.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the use of such things?\u201d said Solomon; \u201cthey are pure nonsense.\u201d\n\nBut, on my entreaty, he and others recited a few, in a sort of simple\nchant. The reader acquainted with that species of literature in England\nwill be able to trace some resemblance between it and the following\nspecimens, which have been in vogue in this out-of-the-way valley\nseveral hundred years. The oldest people in it have inherited the same\nfrom their forefathers, and they are in the old dialect, which is, in\na great measure, the old Norse. While what is very remarkable, like as\nis the case with us and our nursery rhymes, the people in many cases\nrecited to me what appeared sheer nonsense, the meaning of which they\nwere themselves unable to explain.\n\n    B\u00f6rn lig i brondo,\n    Brondo sig i haando;\n    Kasler i krogje,\n    Kiernet i kove,\n    Hesten mi i heller fast,\n    Jeita te mi i scaare fast,\n    Saa mi spil langst noro Heio.\n\n    Bairn it lies a burning,\n    Burning itself in the hands;\n    Kettle is on the crook,\n    The churn is in a splutter,\n    My horse is fast on the rocks,\n    My goat is fast on the screes,\n    My sheep play along the northern heights.\n\nHere is another, which would remind us of a passage in \u201cThe Midsummer\nNight\u2019s Dream,\u201d only that the squirrel is now reaper instead of\ncoach-maker:--\n\n    Ekorne staa paa vaadden o\u2019 slo\n    H\u00f6re dei kaar dei sn\u00f6re;\n    Skjere laeste, kraaken dro,\n    O, roisekattan han kjore.\n\n    The squirrels they stand on the meadow and mow,\n      Hear how they bustle the vermin;\n    The magpie it loads, and who draws but the crow,\n      And the waggoner, it is the ermine.\n\nA similar one:--\n\n    Reven sitte i lien,\n    Hore b\u00f6rne grin,\n    Kom b\u00f6rne mine, o gaer heim mi ma,\n    Saa skal wi gama sja.\n      Han traeske, hun maale,\n      Kiessling knudde, kjette bake,\n      Muse r\u00f6dde mi rumpe si paa leiven.\n\n    The fox, the fox, she sits on the lea,\n    Hears her bairns a-crying:\n    Come, bairns mine, and go home with me,\n    What games you shall then be seeing.\n    The fox he thrashed, the vixen she ground;\n    The kitten kneads, the cat she bakes,\n    The mouse with his tail he sprinkles the cakes.[19]\n\nAnother:--\n\n    So ro ti krabbe skjar,\n    Kaar mange fiske har du der?\n    En o\u2019 ei fi\u00f6rde,\n    Laxen den store;\n    En ti far, en ti mor,\n    En ti den som fisker dror.\n\n    Sow row to the crab-skerrys,[20]\n    How many fishes have you there?\n    One, two, three, four,\n    The salmon, the stour.\n    One for father, for mother one;\n    One for him the net who drew.\n\nNow and then a different course of treatment is proposed for the\nfractious baby, as in the following:--\n\n    Bis, Bis, Beijo,\n    B\u00f6rn will ikke teio,\n    Tak laeggen,\n    Slo mod vaeggen,\n    So vil b\u00f6rne teio.\n\n    Bis, Bis, Beijo,\n    Baby won\u2019t be still, O,\n    By the leg take it,\n    \u2019Gainst the wall whack it,\n    So will baby hush, O.\n\nThis reminds me of another:--\n\n    Klappe, Klappe, s\u00f6de,\n    B\u00fcxerne skulle vi b\u00f6te,\n    B\u00f6te de med kjetteskind,\n    Saa alle klorene vend te ind,\n    I rumpen paa min s\u00f6de.\n\n    Clappa, Clappa, darlin\u2019,\n    Breeches they want patchin\u2019,\n    Patch them with a nice cat-skin,\n    All the claws turned outside in,\n    To tickle my little darlin\u2019.\n\nIt being now noon (noni), or Solomon\u2019s meal-time, he left me, promising\nto give me a call in the evening.\n\n\u201cYes, and you must take a glass of finkel with me; it will refresh your\nmind as well as body.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a drop, thank you. If I begin, I can\u2019t stop.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the way with these bonders,\u201d observed the Lehnsman to me, when\nwe were alone; \u201ceven the most intelligent of them, if they once get\nhold of the liquor, go on drinking till they are furiously drunk.\u201d\n\nThis then is pre-eminently the country for Father Mathews!\n\n\u201cBy-the-bye,\u201d said the Lehnsman, \u201cour parson has left us, and his\nsuccessor is not yet arrived; but I think I can get the keys from\nthe clerk, and we will go to the vicarage, and look at the kald-bog\n(call-book), a sort of record of all the notable things that have ever\nhappened at the kald (living).\u201d\n\nPresently we found ourselves seated in the priest\u2019s chamber, with the\nsaid book before us.\n\nThe following curious reminiscence of the second priest after the\nReformation is interesting:--\n\n\u201cOne Sunday, when the priest was just going up into the pulpit\n(praeke-stol), in strode the Lehnsman Wund (or ond = bad, violent),\nOsmund Berge. He had on a pair of new boots, which creaked a good\ndeal, much to the scandal of the congregation, who looked upon this\nsort of foot-covering as an abomination; shoes being the only wear of\nthe valley. The priest, who had a private feud with Osmund, foolishly\ndetermined to take the opportunity of telling him a little bit of his\nmind, and spoke out strongly on the impropriety of his coming in so\nlate, and with creaking boots, forsooth. Bad Osmund sat down, gulping\nin his wrath, but when the sermon was ended, he waited at the door\ntill the priest came out of church, and in revenge struck him with his\nknife, _after the custom of those days_. The priest fell dead, and the\ncongregation, in great wrath at the death of their pastor, set upon\nthe murderer, stoned him to death a few steps from the church, and\nburied him where he fell. Until a few years ago, a cairn of stones, the\nvery implements, perhaps, of his lapidation, marked the spot of his\ninterment. After this tragical occurrence, the parish was without a\nclergyman for three years; till at last another pastor was introduced\nby a rich man of those parts, on the promise of the parishioners that\nhe should be protected from harm.\u201d\n\nI found, in the same book, a curious notice of one Erik Leganger,\nanother clergyman. When he came to the parish, not a person in it could\nread or write. By his unremitting endeavours he wrought a great change\nin this respect, and the people progressed in wisdom and knowledge.\nThis drew upon him the animosity of the Father of Evil himself. On one\noccasion, when the priest was sledging to his other church, the foul\nfiend met him in the way; a dire contest ensued, which ended in the\nman of God overpowering his adversary, whom he treated like the witch\nSycorax did Ariel, confining him \u201cinto a cloven pine.\u201d\n\nA later annotator on this notable entry says, the only way of\nexplaining this affair is by the fact that the priest, although a good\nman, had a screw loose in his head (skrue los i Hovedet). But this\nJud\u00e6us Apella ought to have remembered the case of Doctor Luther, not\nto mention Saint Dunstan.\n\nThe good Lehnsman, who entered with great enthusiasm into my desire for\ninformation on all subjects, now commenced reading an entry made by a\nformer priest, with whom he had been acquainted, of his daily going\nout and coming in during the period it had pleased God to set him over\nthat parish, with notices of his previous history. His father had been\ndrowned while he was a child, and his widowed mother was left with\nthree children, whom she brought up with great difficulty, owing to\nher narrow means. Being put to school, he attracted the notice of the\nmaster, who encouraged him to persevere in his studies. Finally, by the\nassistance of friends, he got to the University, earning money for the\npurpose by acting as tutor in private families during the vacations.\nAt last he passed his theological examination, but only as \u201cbaud\nillaudabilis;\u201d the reason for which meagre commendation he attributes\nto his time being so taken up with private tuition. At the practical\nexamination he came out \u201claudabilis,\u201d so that he had retrieved his\nposition. He then mentions how that he was married to the betrothed\nof his boyhood and became a curate; till at length he was promoted to\nthis place, which he had now left for better preferment, expressing the\nhope, in his own hand-writing, \u201cthat he had worked among his people not\nwithout profit. Amen.\u201d\n\nAt this moment, the good Lehnsman--whether it was that the heat or his\nfatigue in my behalf was too much for him, or whether it was that he\nwas overcome by the simple and feeling record of his former pastor\u2019s\nearly struggles--turned pale, and became deadly sick. Eventually he\nrecovered, and, in his politeness, sat down to dinner with me in his\nown house.\n\nIn the evening I took my fly-rod, and went down to the river with a\nretinue of forty rustics at my heels. The flies, however, having caught\nhold of one boy\u2019s cap, nearly breaking my rod, the crowd were alarmed\nfor their eyes, and kept a respectful distance, while I pulled out a\nfew trout; an exploit which drew from them many expressions of by no\nmeans mute wonder.\n\nAfter this I sat down on a stone, and had a chat with these fellows.\nThey had evidently got over the feeling so common among the peasantry\nof being afraid at being laughed at by the stranger and by each other.\nMany of them blurted out something. Riddles (Gaator or Gaade, allied to\nour word \u201cguess,\u201d) were all the go. These are a very ancient national\npastime. They were, however, of no great merit. Here are specimens:--\n\n    Rund som en egg,\n    L\u00e4nger end kirke-v\u00e6gg.\n\n    Round as an egg,\n    Longer than a church-wall.\n\n_Answer._ A roll of thread.\n\n    Rund som solen, svart som jorde.\n\n    Round as the sun, swart as the earth.\n\n[_i.e._, the large round iron on which girdle-cake is baked.]\n\n    Hvad er det som go rund o giore eg?\n\n    What is that which goes round o\u2019 gars eggs?\n\n_Answer._ A grindstone. A _double entendre_ is contained in the word\negg; which means either \u201cedge,\u201d or \u201cegg.\u201d\n\n    I know a wonderful tree,\n    The roots stand up and the top is below,\n    It grows in winter and lessens in summer.\n\n_Answer._ A glacier.\n\n    Four gang, four hang,\n    Two show the way, two point to the sky,\n    And one it dangles after.\n\n_Answer._ Cow with her legs, teats, eyes, horns, and tail.\n\n    What is that as high as the highest tree,\n    But the sun never shines on it?\n\n_Answer._ The pith.\n\n    What goes from the fell to the shore\n    And does not move?\n\n_Answer._ A fence.\n\nThese country-people are not deficient in proverbs--_e.g._,\n\n    Another man\u2019s steed\n    Has always speed.\n\nMuch of what they said was spoken in an outlandish dialect, and what\nmade it worse, when I asked for an explanation, they all cried out\ntogether, like the boys in a Government school in India. Indeed, when\nthey were once fairly afloat it was difficult to curb the general\nexcitement.\n\nMoe, a Norwegian writer, who has penetrated into many of the\nout-of-the-way valleys of this part of the country and Thelemarken,\nstates that the peasants are provided with a large budget of\ntraditional melodies; but more than this, these genuine and\nonly representatives of the ancient \u201csmoothers and polishers of\nlanguage\u201d (scalds), not only use the very strophe of those ancient\nimprovisatores, but have also a knack of improvising songs on the spur\nof the moment, or, at all events, of grafting bits of local colouring\ninto old catches.\n\nThe peasants around tipped me one or two of these staves. When the\ncompany are all assembled, one sings a verse, and challenging another\nto contend with him in song, another answers, and, after a few\nalternate verses, the two voices chime in together. What I heard was\nnot extempore, but traditional in the valley.\n\nOne young fellow commenced a stave which seemed to be a great\nfavourite, for directly he began it, the others said, \u201cTo be sure, we\nall know that; sing it, Thorkil.\u201d\n\nIn the evening, true to his promise, old Solomon appeared. He had\ncalled to mind a tale that would perhaps please me.\n\n\u201cThere was once on a time a shooter looking for fowl on the heights\n(heio) above S\u00e6tersdal. Well, on he went, doing nothing but looking\nup into the tree-tops for the fowl, when, all of a sudden, he found\nhimself in a house he had never seen before. There were large chambers\nall round, and long corridors, and so many doors he could not number\nthem. He went seeking about all over till he was tired. Folk he could\nsee none, nor could he find his way out. At last he came to one chamber\nwhere he thought he could hear people, so he opened the door and looked\nin; and there sat a lassie alone (eisemo); so he spoke to her, and\nasked who lived there. So she answered they were Tuss folk, and that\nthe house was so placed that nobody could see it till they got into\nit, and then one could not get out again. \u2018That\u2019s the way it went\nwith me,\u2019 said she, mournfully; \u2018I have been here a long time now, but\ndon\u2019t think I shall ever get out again.\u2019 The shooter on this got very\nfrightened, and asked her if she could not tell him some way of escape.\n\u2018Well,\u2019 answered the girl, \u2018I\u2019ll tell you how you can do it, but you\nmust first promise me to come back to the gaard and take me away.\u2019 This\nhe promised at once to do without fail. \u2018Now, then, follow me, and\nopen the door I point out. They are sitting at the board and eating\n(aa eta), and he who sits at the top is the king, and he\u2019s bigger and\nbrawer than all the others, so that you\u2019ll know him directly. You must\ntake your rifle, and aim at the king--only aim, you mustn\u2019t shoot.\nThey\u2019ll be in such a fright they\u2019ll drive you out directly you heave\nup the gun; so you\u2019ll be all safe, and then you must think of me. You\nmust come here next Thursday evening[21] as ever is, and the next, and\nthe third; and then I\u2019ll follow you home--of that you may be certain.\u2019\nSo she went and showed him the door, and he opened it and went in, and\nsaw them all eating and drinking, and he up with his gun and pointed\nit at the one at the top of the table. Up they all jumped in alarm; he\nsprung out, they after him, and so he got clean out and safe home. On\nthe first Thursday evening away he went to the Fell, and the second,\nand talked each time with the girl; but the third Thursday, on which\nall depended, he didn\u2019t come. I don\u2019t know why it was he did not keep\nhis promise. Perhaps he thought if he took her home he should have to\nmarry her. Anyhow it was base ingratitude. Some three or four years\nafter the shooter was on the heights again, when he heard a girl\u2019s\nvoice greet (gret), and lament that she was so dowie (dauv) and lonely,\nand could not get away to her home. He knew the voice at once--it was\nthe girl he had deserted. He looked round and round, and about on all\nsides, but could see nothing but rocks and trees, and so nothing could\nbe done for the poor lassie.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow I think of it,\u201d continued Solomon, \u201cthere is a tuss story I\u2019ve\nheard about this Rigegaard where you are stopping.\u201d\n\n\u201cDelightful!\u201d thought I; \u201cI never did yet sleep in a haunted house--it\nwill be a capital adventure for the journal.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a long time ago since, though. The \u2018hill-folks\u2019 used to come\nand take up their quarters here at Yule. It was every Yule the same;\nthey never missed. They did keep it up, I believe you, in grand style,\neating, and drinking, and clattering till they made the old house ring\nagain. At last, Arne--he lived here in those days--gave the underground\npeople notice to quit; he would not put up with it any longer. So off\nthey went. In the hurry of departure they left some of their chattels,\nand, among others, a little copper horse, which Arne put out of sight,\nthough he had no idea what it was used for. Next day, a Troll came down\nfrom the hill above yonder, into which the whole pack had retired for\nthe present, and claimed the property. Arne, however, had taken a fancy\nto the horse, and would not give it up. They might have that little\ndrinking-beaker of strange workmanship, but the copper horse he was\ndetermined to keep. \u2018Well,\u2019 said the Troll, \u2018keep it then; but, mind\nthis, never you part with it. If ever you do, this house will never be\nfree from poverty and bad luck to the end of the present race.\u2019[22]\n\u2018Good!\u2019 replied Arne, \u2018I\u2019ll take care of that, and my son will keep the\nhorse after me, and hand it down as an heir-loom.\u2019\n\n\u201cAfter this, the house went on prosperously, and no more was heard of\nthe Trolls. Many years after, when Arne and his son were dead, the\ngrandson parted with the horse. He had heard of the story, but he did\nnot care; he did not want such trash--not he. After this, nothing went\nwell with him. Poverty overtook him, and the family fell into the\nutmost distress.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d interposed I, \u201cthe people seem very well-to-do. I see no\nsymptoms of poverty. The woman is a filthy creature, and that towel is\ndisgusting [all travellers in Norway, mind and take a towel with you],\nand the food she gives me is uneatable; but I hear they are rich.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Solomon, \u201cbut this is quite another branch of the family.\nThe other one died quite out, and then the destiny altered. The present\npeople have risen again in the world.\u201d\n\nTalking of heirlooms, there is no copper horse now, of course, but\nthere are several quaint things about the gaard, mementos of ancient\ndays. Among the rest were two curious old hand-axes, used, as\nabove-mentioned, by the Norwegians as walking sticks, when not applied\nto more desperate service, the iron being then used as a handle. The\ndoor-jambs of an out-house, moreover, are of singularly beautiful\ncarving. These are a couple of feet in width, and formerly adorned\nthe entrance to the old church of Hyllenstad, and give an idea of the\ngreat taste displayed by these people in ecclesiastical ornament in the\nRoman Catholic days. A tale is told here in wood, which I could not\nmake out. It is most likely connected with the building of the church.\nSundry figures appear with bellows and hammers, and the implements\nof the carpenter. But these are afterwards exchanged for weapons of a\nmore deadly nature. A man with a sword drives it right through another,\nwhile on the corresponding jamb a gentleman is seen in hot contest with\na dragon, whose tail is artfully mingled with the arabesques around.\nAll these figures are carved in bold relief. The work was no doubt by\nNorwegian artists, for the interlacing foliage is in that peculiarly\ngraceful and broad style (mentioned by Mallet and Pontoppidan), which\nalways seems to have been at home in this country. These beautiful\npanels, together with the slender pillars joined to them, sold at the\nauction of the old materials for one dollar!\n\nSo little has this valley been modernized, that I find in almost every\nhouse specimens of the Primstav, or old Runic calendar, handed down\nfrom father to son for centuries. \u201cIt is the same with those tales you\nhave heard,\u201d said the Lehnsman; \u201cthe oldest people in the valley got\nthem from the oldest people before them, though not in writing, but by\noral tradition.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is the state of morals up here?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Nattefrieri is very much in vogue, but the evil consequences are\nnot so great as may be imagined.\u201d\n\nI must own that the revelations of the Lehnsman stripped those\npeople, in my eyes, of a good deal of the romance with which their\nliterary tastes had invested them. Nor was my idea of the artless and\nunsophisticated simplicity of these rustic Mirandas enhanced, when I\nwas told that match-making was not uncommon among the seniors, and the\njuniors consented to be thus bought and sold. Hear this, ye man\u0153uvring\nmammas!\n\n    \u201cWith a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter\u2019s heart.\u201d\n\nYes! marriage here, as among the grand folks elsewhere, turns upon a\nquestion of lots of money--a handsome establishment. Perhaps, too,\nthe jilts of refined and polished society will rejoice, to hear that\nthey are kept in countenance by the doings in S\u00e6tersdal. It sometimes,\nthough rarely, happens that a girl is engaged to a young fellow, who\nmeans truly by her, the wedding guests are bidden, and she--bolts with\nanother man.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n    Off again--Shakspeare and Scandinavian literature--A\n    fat peasant\u2019s better half--A story about Michaelmas\n    geese--Explanation of an old Norwegian almanack--A quest after\n    the Fremmad man--A glimpse of death--Gunvar\u2019s snuff-box--More\n    nursery rhymes--A riddle of a silver ring--New discoveries\n    of old parsimony--The Spirit of the Woods--Falcons at\n    home--The etiquette of tobacco-chewing--Lullabies--A frank\n    invitation--The outlaw pretty near the mark--Bjar\u00e4en--A\n    valuable hint to travellers--Domestic etcetera--Early\n    morning--Social magpies--An augury--An eagle\u2019s eyrie--Meg\n    Merrilies--Wanted an hydraulic press--A grumble at\n    paving commissioners--A disappointment--An unpropitious\n    station-master--Author keeps house in the wilderness--Practical\n    theology--Story of a fox and a bear--Bridal stones--The\n    Vatnedal lake--Waiting for the ferry--An unmistakable hint--A\n    dilemma--New illustration of the wooden nutmeg truth--\u201cPolly\n    put the kettle on\u201d--A friendly remark to Mr. Caxton--The real\n    fountain of youth--Insectivora--The maiden\u2019s lament.\n\n\nBidding adieu to the kind and hospitable Lehnsman and his spouse, whose\ncourtesy and hospitality made up for the forbidding ways of Madame\nRige, I turned my face up the valley. The carriage-road having now\nceased, my luggage is transposed to the back of a stout horse, which,\nlike the ancient Scottish wild cattle, was milk-white, with black\nmuzzle. The straddle, or wooden saddle, which crosses his back, is\ncalled kl\u00f6v-sal. Curiously enough, the Connemara peasants give the name\nof \u201ccleve\u201d to the receptacles slung on either side the ponies for the\npurpose of carrying peat, and through which the animal\u2019s back _cleaves_\nlike a wedge. A very fat man came puffing and panting up to my loft to\nfetch my gear.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said I, \u201care _you_ going to march with me all that distance?\u201d\nwith an audible _aside_ about his \u201clarding the lean earth as he walks\nalong.\u201d The allusion to Falstaff he of course did not understand. His\nliterature is older than Shakspeare; indeed the bard of Avon often\nborrowed from it. Whence comes his \u201cMan in the moon with his dog and\nbush,\u201d but from the fiction in the Northern mythology of M\u00e2ni (the\nmoon), and the two children, Bil and Hiuki, whom she stole from earth.\nScott\u2019s Wayland Smith, too, he is nothing but V\u00f6lund, the son of the\nFin-king, who married a Valkyr by mistake, and used to practise the\nart of a goldsmith in Wolf-dale, and was hamstrung by the avaricious\nKing Nidud, and forced to make trinkets for him on the desert isle of\nSaeverstad. Though it is only fair to say that the legend belonged also\nto the Anglo-Saxons, and indeed to most of the branches of the Gothic\nrace. But we are forgetting our post-master. He was the first fat\npeasant I ever saw in this country.\n\n\u201cNei, cors\u201d (No, by the Rood). \u201cI\u2019m not equal to that. It\u2019s nearly four\nold miles. My wife, a very snil kone (discreet woman), will schuss you.\u201d\n\nHis better half accordingly appeared, clad in the dingy white woollen\nfrock already described, reaching from the knee to the arm-holes, where\nis the waist. On this occasion, however, she had, for the purpose\nof expedition, put an extra girdle above her hips, making the brief\ngown briefer still, and herself less like a woman about to dance in a\nsack. Sending her on before, I sauntered along, stopping a second or\ntwo to examine the huge unhewn slab before the church door, with a\ncross and cypher on it, and the date 1639; to which stone some curious\nlegend attaches, which I have forgotten. Passing Solomon\u2019s house, and\nfinding he had gone to the mountains, I left for him some flies, and a\n_douceur_, to the bewilderment of his son. At a house further up the\nvalley I found a primstav two hundred years old, the owner of which\nperfectly understood the Runic symbols.\n\n\u201cThat goose,\u201d said he, \u201crefers to Martinsmass, (Nov. 11). That\u2019s the\ntime when the geese are ready to kill.\u201d\n\nSo that our derivation of Michaelmas goose-eating from the old story\nof Queen Elizabeth happening to have been eating that dish on the day\nof the news of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, is a myth. We got\nthe custom from Norway, but the bird being fit to eat on the 29th\nSeptember, Englishmen were too greedy to wait, and transferred to the\nfeast of the archangel the dish appertaining to the Bishop of Tours.\n\nThat\u2019s a lyster for Saint Lucia (13th Dec.); it means that they used\nto catch much fish against Yule. That knife means that it is time to\nslaughter the pigs for Yule. That horn is Yule-horn [the vehicle for\nconveying ale to the throats of the ancient Norskmen]. That\u2019s Saint\nKnut (Jan. 7th). That\u2019s his bell, to ring winter out. The sun comes\nback then in Thelemarken. Old folks used to put their hands behind\ntheir backs, take a wooden ale-bowl in their teeth, and throw it over\ntheir back; if it fell bottom upwards, the person would die in that\nyear. That\u2019s St. Brettiva, (Jan. 11), when all the leavings of Yule are\neat up. You see the sign is a horse. I\u2019ll tell you how that is. Once on\na time a bonder in Thelemarken was driving out that day. The neighbour\n(nabo) asked him if he knew it was Saint Brettiva\u2019s day. He answered--\n\n    Brett me here, brett me there,\n    I\u2019ll brett (bring) home a load of hay, I swear.\n\nThe horse stumbled, and broke its foot; that\u2019s the reason why the day\nis marked with a horse in Thelemarken.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s St. Blasius (Feb. 3), marked with a ship. If it blows (bl\u00e4se)\non that day, it will blow all the year through. That\u2019s a very\nparticular day. We must not use any implement that goes round on it,\nsuch as a mill, or a spindle, else the cattle would get a swimming in\nthe head (Sviva).\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s St. Peter\u2019s key (Feb. 22). Ship-folks begin to get their boats\nready then. As the weather is that day it will be forty days after.\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d continued this learned decipherer of Runes, \u201cis St. Matthias\n(24th Feb.) If it\u2019s cold that day, it will get milder, and _vice\nvers\u00e2_; and therefore the saying is, St. Matthias bursts the ice; if\nthere is no ice, he makes ice. The fox darn\u2019t go on the ice that day\nfor fear it should break.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a mattock (hakke) for St. Magnus (16th April). We begin then to\nturn up the soil.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s St. Marcus (25th April). That\u2019s Stor Gangdag (great\nprocession-day). The other gang-days are Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday\nbefore Ascension.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why are they called Gang-days?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause a procession used to go round the fields, and the priest, at\ntheir head, held mass, to drive away all evil spirits.\u201d\n\nHere, then, we see the origin of our beating the bounds. Although,\nperhaps, the custom may be traced to some ceremonial in honour of Odin\nakin to the Ambarvalia at Rome in honour of Ceres. According to an old\ntradition, however, it originated thus. There was, many years ago,\na great drought in Norway about this period of the year. A general\nprocession-day was ordered in consequence, together with a fast, which\nwas kept so strictly, that the cattle were muzzled, and the babe in\nthe cradle kept from the breast. Just before the folks went to church\nit was as dry as ever, but when they came out, it was raining hard. We\nChristians ring the \u201cpassing bell\u201d on the death of anybody, but are\nperhaps not aware that it began in northern superstition. Sprites, as\nwe have mentioned elsewhere, can\u2019t bear bells--one of them was once\nheard lamenting in Denmark that he could stay no longer in the country\non account of the din of the church bells. So, to scare away the evil\nspirits, and let the departing soul have a quiet passage, the sexton\ntolls the bell.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Gowk\u2019s-mass (May 1); you see the gowk (cuckoo) in the tree.\nThat\u2019s a great bird that. They used to say--\n\n    North, corpse-gowk, south, sow-gowk,\n    West, will-gowk, east, woogowk.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the meaning of that?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, if you heard the cuckoo first in the north, the same year you\nwould be a corpse; if in the south, you would have luck in sowing; if\nin the west, your will would be accomplished; if in the east, you would\nhave luck in wooing.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Bjornevaak (bear\u2019s waking day) May 22. You see it\u2019s a bear.\nThey say the bear leaves his \u2018hi\u2019 that day. On midwinter (Jan. 12) he\ngave himself a turn round.[23]\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Saint Sunniva, Bergen\u2019s Saint[24] (July 8).\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Olsok (St. Olaf\u2019s day), July 29, marked with an axe. The bonder\nmust not mow that day, or there will come vermin on the cattle.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Laurentius\u2019 day, marked with a gridiron.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s Kverne Knurran, marked with a millstone, Sept. 1. If it\u2019s dry\nthat day the millers will come to want water.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s vet-naet (winter-night), Oct. 14, when the year began. That\u2019s a\nglove,[25] to show cold weather is coming. There\u2019s an old Runic rhyme\nabout that, where Winter says:--\n\n    On winter-night for me look out,\n    On Fyribod (Oct. 28) I come, without doubt;\n    If I delay till Hallow e\u2019en,\n    Then I bow down the fir-tree green.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cTale of the Calendar\u201d[26] was, however, now interrupted by a tap\nat the window, and a man screams out--\n\n\u201cWhere is the Fremmad man? where is the Fremmad man?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe stranger is here in the house,\u201d was the reply.\n\nAnd in came a man, who had evidently just dressed in his best, with\nsomething very like death written in his sunken cheeks, starting eyes,\nand sharpened features.\n\n\u201cCan you tell me what is good for so and so?\u201d he asked. \u201cOh! what pain\nI endure.\u201d\n\nThe poor fellow was clearly suffering from the stone, and there was no\ndoctor within a great many days\u2019 journey. His doom was evidently sealed.\n\nFurther up the valley, a fierce thunder-storm coming on, I entered\none of the smoke-houses above described, where an old lady, Gunvor\nThorsdatter, bid me welcome. She offered me her mull of home-dried\nsneeshing--it was rather a curious affair, being shaped like a\nswan\u2019s-egg pear, and sprigged all over with silver. A very small\naperture, stopped by a cork, was the only way of getting at the\nprecious dust. Gunvor was above eighty, but in full possession of her\nfaculties, and I judged her therefore not an unlikely person to have\nsome old stories.\n\n\u201cWhat do you sing to the babies when you want to make them sleep?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know. All sorts of things.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, will you repeat me one?\u201d\n\nShe looked hard at me for a moment, and suddenly all the deep furrows\nacross her countenance puckered up and became contorted, just like a\nploughed field when the harrow has passed over it. A stifled giggle\nnext escaped her through her _erkos odont\u00f4n_, which was still white,\nand without gaps. A slight suspicion that I was making fun of her I at\nonce removed from her mind; then, looking carefully round, and seeing\nthat there was nobody else by, she croaked out, in a sort of monotonous\nmelody, the following, which I give literally in English:--\n\n    Row, row to Engeland,\n    To buy my babe a pearlen-band,\n    New breeches and new shoes,\n    So to its mother baby goes.\n\nThis sounds like our--\n\n    \u201cTo market, to market, to buy a plum-bun.\u201d\n\nAnother, the first lines of which remind one of our--\n\n    Rockabye, babye, thy cradle is green,\n    Father\u2019s a nobleman, mother\u2019s a queen.\n\n    Tippi, Tippi, Tua (evidently our \u201cDibity, Dibity, Do\u201d),\n    Mother was a frua (lady),\n    Father was of gentle blood,\n    Brother was a minstrel good;\n    His bow so quick he drew,\n    The strings snapt in two.\n    Longer do not play\n    On your strings, I pray:\n    Strings they cost money,\n    Money in the purse,\n    Purse in the kist,\n    Kist in the safe,\n    Safe is in the boat,\n    Boat on board the ship,\n    Ship it lies in Amsterdam,\n    What\u2019s the skipper\u2019s name?\n    His name is called Helje;\n    Have you aught to sell me?\n    Apples and onions, onions and apples,\n    Pretty maidens come and buy.\n\nThis species of accumulated jingle is called \u201cReglar,\u201d and reminds us\nof \u201cThe House that Jack built.\u201d\n\nAnother, sung by a woman with a child on her knee:--\n\n    Ride along, ride a cock-horse,\n    So, with the legs across;\n    Horse his name is apple-grey[27] (abel-graa),\n    Little boy rides away.\n    Where shall little boy ride to?\n    To the king\u2019s court to woo;\n    At the king\u2019s court,\n    They\u2019re all gone out,\n    All but little dogs twain,\n    Fastened with a chain:\n    Their chains they do gnaw,\n    And say \u201cWau, wau, wau.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good,\u201d said I. \u201cMany thanks. Have you any gaade (riddles)?\u201d\n\nUpon which, the old lady immediately repeated this:--\n\n    Sister sent to sister her\u2019n,\n      Southwards over the sea,\n    With its bottom out, a silver churn,\n      Guess now what that can be.\n\n_Answer._ A silver ring.\n\nBefore parting with her, I begged the old lady to accept a small\ncoin in return for her rhymes, which she said she had heard from her\ngrandmother; but this she indignantly refused to accept, begging me at\nthe same time, as she saw a man approaching, not to say a word about\nwhat she had been telling me. The fact is, as has been observed by\nthe Norwegians themselves, that the peasants fancy that nobody would\ninquire about these matters unless for the sake of ridiculing them,\nof which they have a great horror. Although they retain these rhymes\nthemselves, they imagine that other people must look upon them as\nuseless nonsense.\n\nThe man who approached the cottage brought with him a tiny axe, a\ncouple of inches long, which he had dug up in the neighbourhood.\nIts use I could not conceive, unless, perhaps, it was the miniature\nrepresentation of some old warrior\u2019s axe, which the survivors were too\nknowing and parsimonious to bury with the corpse, and so they put in\nthis sham. That the ancient Scandinavians were addicted to this thrift\nis well known. In Copenhagen, as we have already seen, facsimiles, on\na very small scale, of bracelets, &c. which have been found in barrows,\nare still preserved. This peasant had likewise a bear-skin for sale.\nThe bear he shot last spring, and the meat was bought by the priest.\n\nThe storm being over, I walked on through the forest alone, my female\nguide being by this time, no doubt, many miles in advance. All houses\nhad ceased, but, fortunately, there was but one path, so that I could\nnot lose my way. How still the wood was! There was not a breath of\nwind after the rain, so that I could distinctly hear the sullen\nbooming of the river, now some distance off. As I stopped to pick some\ncloud-berries, which grew in profusion, I heard a distant scream. It\nwas some falcons at a vast height on the cliff above, which I at first\nthought were only motes in my eyes. With my glass I could detect two or\nthree pairs. They had young ones in the rock, which they were teaching\nto fly, and were alternately chiding them and coaxing them. No wonder\nthe young ones are afraid to make a start of it. If I were in their\nplaces I should feel considerable reluctance about making a first\nflight.\n\nAt length I spied a cottage to the right in the opening of a lateral\nvalley. Hereabout, I had heard, were some old bauta stones; but an\nintelligent girl who came up, told me a peasant had carried them off\nto make a wall. This girl, who wore two silver brooches on her bosom,\nbesides large globular collar-studs and gilt studs to her wristbands,\nasked me if I would not come and have a mjelk drikke (drink of milk).\n\nJorand Tarjeisdatter was all the time busily engaged in chewing harpix\n(the resinous exudation of the fir-tree); presently, on another older\nwoman coming in, she pulled out the quid, and gave it to the new-comer,\nwho forthwith put it into her own mouth. But after all this is no worse\nthan Dr. Livingstone drinking water which had been sucked up from the\nground by Bechuana nymphs, and spit out by them into a vessel for the\npurpose.\n\nJorand was nice-looking, and had a sweet voice, and without the least\nhesitation she immediately sang me one or two lullabies, _e.g._--\n\n    Upon the lea there stands a little cup\n    Full of ale and wine,\n    So dance my lady up.\n    Upon the lea there stands a little can\n    Full of ale and wine,\n    So dance my lady down.\n\nShe then chanted the following:--\n\n    Hasten, hasten, then my goats\n    Along the northern heights,\n    Homewards over rocky fell,\n    Tange,[28] Teine, Bear-the-bell,\n    Dros also Duri,\n    Silver also Fruri,\n    Ole also Snaddi,\n    Now we\u2019ve got the goats all,\n    Come hither buck and come hither dun,\n    Come hither speckled one,\n    Young goats and brown goats come along,\n    That\u2019s the end of my good song,\n    Fal lal lal la.\n\nAnother.\n\n    Baby, rest thee in thy bed,\n    Mother she\u2019s spinning blue thread,\n    Brother\u2019s blowing on a buck\u2019s horn,\n    Sister thine is grinding corn,\n    And father is beating a drum.\n\nShe then started off with a stave full of satirical allusions to the\nswains of the neighbourhood, showing how Od was braw, and Ola a stour\nprater (stor Pratar), Torgrim a fop, and Tarjei a Gasconader--\n\n    But Bj\u00f6rn from all he bore the bell,\n    So merry he, and could \u201cstave\u201d so well.\n\nThe whole reminded me of the catalogue in the glee of \u201cDame Durden.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how long will you stop with us? If you\u2019ll wait till Sunday,\nwe\u2019ll have a selskab (party). Some of the men will come home from the\nmountains, and then you shall hear us stave properly.\u201d\n\nShe seemed much disappointed when I told her I must be off there and\nthen, my luggage was already miles ahead.\n\nLeaving her with thanks, I made a detour of a couple of miles into the\nside valley, to see a very ancient gaard, to which a story attaches.\nRoynestad, as it was called, was built of immense logs, some as much\nas three feet thick;[29] on one of which several bullet marks were\nvisible. Here once dwelt a fellow bearing the same names as the\nmurderer of the priest at Valle, viz., Wund Osmund. He had served\nin the wars, and seen much of foreign lands. For some reason he\nincurred the displeasure of the authorities, and fled for refuge to\nhis mountain home. A party of officials came to seize him. When he saw\nthem approaching, he took aim with his cross-bow at a maalestock (pole\nfor land-measuring), which he had placed in the meadow in front of his\nhouse, and sent three or four shafts into it.\n\n    Cloudesley with a bearing arrow\n    Clave the wand in two.\n\nThe Dogberries were alarmed, and, after discharging a few bullets,\nturned tail.\n\nThere were in the loft some curious reminiscences of this daring\nfellow, _e.g._, an ancient sword, and some old tapestry, or rather\ncanvas painted over with some historical subject, which I could\nnot make out. In ancient times the interior of the houses was often\ndecorated with hangings of this kind (upstad, aakl\u00e6d). But what I\nchiefly wanted to see was a genuine old Pagan idol, which had been\npreserved on the spot many hundred years. But \u201cFaxe,\u201d I found, was not\nlong ago split up for fuel. The real meaning of \u201cfaxe\u201d is horse with\nuncut mane, so that it was most likely connected with the worship of\nOdin.\n\nRegaining my old road, by a short cut, which fortunately did not turn\nout a longer way, I plodded on to Bjar\u00e4en, a lonely house in the\nforest. Here I found my excellent conductress, who, alarmed at my\nnon-appearance, had halted, and it being now dusk, further advance\nto-night was not to be thought of.\n\nThose horrible cupboards, or berths, fixed against the wall, how I\ndreaded getting into one of them! A stout, red-cheeked lass, the\ndaughter of the house, was fortunately at home, and posted up the hill\nfor some distance, returning with a regular hay-cock on her back, which\nimproved matters. But before I bestowed myself thereon, I took care to\nplace under the coverlet a branch of Pors, which I had cut in the bog.\nIt did for me what the aureus ramus did, if I remember rightly, for\n\u00c6neas, gained me access to the realms of sleep. The fleas, it is true,\nmustered strong, and moved vigorously to the attack, but the scent of\nthe shrub seemed to take away their appetite for blood, and I remained\nunmolested.\n\nThe stout lass brought me a slop-basin to wash in next morning, and\ninstead of a towel, an article apparently not known in these parts, a\nclean chemise of her own. The house could not, by-the-bye, boast of any\nknives and forks. No sugar was to be had, and the milk, which was about\nthree months old, was so sharp that it seemed to get into my head,\ncertainly into my nose.\n\nNext morning, after some miles walk through uninterrupted solitudes, I\nfound myself on the shores of a placid lake, from which the mist was\njust lifting up its heavy white wings. As I stood for a moment to look,\na large fly descended on the smooth water, and was immediately gobbled\nup by a trout. Over head, half hidden in the mist, were perpendicular\nwhite precipices, stained with streaks of black, which returned my\nhalloo with prompt defiance. Between their base and the lake vast\nstone blocks were strewed around, and yet close by I now discovered a\nfarm-house exposed to a similar fall.\n\n    On fair Loch Ranza shone the early day,\n      Soft wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curled\n    From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay\n      And circling mountains sever from the world.\n\nThat\u2019s a very proper quotation, no doubt, but the smoke must be left\nout. The farm was deserted; not a soul at home, the family having gone\nup to the mountain pasture. We must, however, except a couple of sad\nand solitary magpies, which, as we drew near, uttered some violent\ninterjections, and jumped down from the house-top, where they had been\npruning themselves in the morning sun. They must be much in want of\ncompany, for they followed our steps for some distance, and then left\nus with a peculiar cry. Would that I had been an ancient augur to have\nknown what that last observation of theirs was!\n\nThe path now wound up the noted Bykle Sti, or ladder of Bykle, which\nis partly blasted out of the rocks, and partly laid on galleries of\nfir logs. Formerly, this place was very dangerous to the traveller.\nHere the river, which has been flowing at no great distance from us\nall the way, comes out of a lake. From a considerable height I gaze\ndown below, and see it gurgling and then circling with oily smoothness\nthrough a series of black pits scooped out in the foundation rocks of\nthis fine defile. Opposite me is a huge precipice, whence the screams\nthat are borne ever and anon upon my ear, proclaim the vicinity of an\neagle\u2019s eyrie. Below, the river widens again, and I see a number of\nlogs slumbering heads and tails on its shores. We are now more than two\nthousand feet above the sea, but shall have to descend again to the\nlake, and cross it, as the road soon terminates entirely.\n\nThe ferry-boat was large and flat-bottomed, but all the efforts of my\nattendant and myself failed to launch it. At this moment a sort of Meg\nMerrilies, clad in grey frieze, with hair to match, streaming over her\nshoulders, made her appearance.\n\n\u201cCome and help us!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no use. The boat\u2019s fast; the water has fallen from the dry\nweather, and old Erik himself can\u2019t move it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, let us try. You take one oar, and Thora the other, and I\u2019ll go\nand haul in front.\u201d\n\nThe two women used their oars like levers, when suddenly, Oh,\nhorror!--snap went one of them. Tearing up a plank, which was nailed\nover the gunwale as a seat, I placed it as a launching way for the\nleviathan. This helped us wonderfully, and at last the unwieldly\nmachine floated. The Danish Count would have flung \u201cTrahuntque siccas\nmachin\u00e6 carinas\u201d in our faces, but he would have had to alter the\nepithet, as the boat was thoroughly water-logged. So much so, that when\nthe horse and effects and we three were on board, it leaked very fast.\nThe women took the oars, the broken one being mended by the garters of\nMeg Merrilies. The water rose in the boat much quicker than I liked,\nand I could not help envying a couple of great Northern divers, which\nmy glass showed me floating corkily on the smooth water--fortunately it\nwas so--if the truth were known they doubtless looked upon us with a\nmixture of commiseration and contempt.\n\nWhen we arrived safely on the other side, which was distant about\nhalf-a-mile, I gave our help-in-need sixpence. She was perfectly amazed\nat my liberality.\n\n\u201cDu er a snil karro du.\u201d (You\u2019re a good fellow, you are.)\n\nShe was, she told me, the mother of fourteen children. Her pluck and\nsagacity were considerable. Now, will it be believed, that this awkward\npassage might altogether be avoided if the precipice were blasted for\ntwo or three score yards, so as to allow of the path winding round it.\nAs it is, a traveller might arrive here, and if the boat were on the\nother side, might wait for a whole day or more, as nobody could hear or\nsee him, and no human habitation is near.\n\nAs we rose the hill to Bykle, I saw two or three species of mushrooms,\none of which, of a bright Seville-orange colour, with white\nimposthumes, I found to be edible. Visions of a comfortable place to\nput my head into smiled upon me, as I saw a church-spire rising up the\nmountain, and a gaard, the station-house, not far from it. But alas! I\nwas doomed to be disappointed--all the family were at the St\u00f6l, and the\ndoors and windows fastened. A man fortunately appeared presently, whom\nI persuaded for a consideration to go and fetch the landlord. My guide\nmeantime departed, as she was anxious to get half home before night.\nMeantime I lay on some timbers, and went to sleep. Out of this I was\nawakened by a sharp sort of chuckle close to my ear, and on raising\nmyself I found that two magpies had bitten a hole into the sack, and\nwere getting at my biscuits and cheese. It was with some difficulty\nthat I drove off these impudent Gazza-ladras: and as soon as I went to\nsleep again, they recommenced operations. In three hours the messenger\nreturned with the intelligence that the station-master would not come;\nthe road stopped here, and he was not bound to schuss people Nordover\n(to the North).\n\nThere was nothing for it but to go up the mountain, and wade through\nthe morasses to see the fellow. Fortunately I found an adjoining st\u00f6l,\nwhere dwelt another peasant, Tarald (Anglic\u00e8 Thorold) Mostue, whom I\npersuaded to come down and open his house for the shelter of myself\nand luggage. He brought down with him some fresh milk, the first I had\ntasted since leaving Christiansand. After lighting for me a fire, and\nmaking up a bed, he returned to his ch\u00e2let, promising to return by six\nA.M. with a horse, and schuss me to Vatnedal. Here, then, I was all\nalone, but I managed to make myself comfortable, and slept well under\nthe shadow of my own fig-tree--I mean the branch of Pors--secure from\nthe fleas and bugs! Tarald appeared in the morning, and off we started.\nHe was, I found, one of the Lesere or Norwegian methodists.\n\n\u201cDo they bann (banne = the Scotch \u2018ban\u2019) much in the country you come\nfrom?\u201d inquired he, as we jumped over the dark peat-hags, planting our\nfeet on the white stones, which afforded a precarious help through them.\n\n\u201cI fear some of them do.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I\u2019ve not heard you curse.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I don\u2019t think it right.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere does the Pope (Pave) live?\u201d\n\n\u201cAt Rome.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey call it the great ---- of Babylon, don\u2019t they? Is Babylon far\nfrom Rome?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does not exist now. It was destroyed for the wickedness of its\ninhabitants, and according to the prophecy it has become something like\nthis spot here, a possession for the cormorant and the bittern, and\npools of water.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! I had forgotten about that; I know the New Testament very well,\nbut not the Old.\u201d\n\nTarald had also something to say about Luther\u2019s Postils; but like most\nof these Lesere, he had no relish for a good story or legend. He had\na cock-and-a-bull story--excuse the confusion of ideas--of a bear and\na fox, but it was so rigmarole and pointless, that it reminded me of\nAlbert Smith\u2019s engineer\u2019s story. The real tale is as follows. I picked\nit up elsewhere:--Once on a time, when the beasts could talk, a fox and\na bear agreed to live together and have all things in common. So they\ngot a bit of ground, and arranged, so that one year the bear should\nget the tops and the fox the bottoms of the crop, and another year\nthe bear the bottoms and the fox the tops. The first year they sowed\nturnips, and, according to agreement, the bear got the tops and the fox\nthe bottoms. The bear did not much like this, but the fox showed him\nclearly that there was no injustice done, as it was just as they had\nagreed. Next year, too, said he, the bear would have the advantage, for\nhe would get the bottoms and the fox the tops. In the spring the fox\nsaid he was tired of turnips. \u201cWhat said the bear to some other crop?\u201d\n\u201cWell and good,\u201d answered the bear. So they planted rye. At harvest\nthe fox got all the grain, and the bear the roots, which put him in a\ndreadful rage, for, being thick-witted, he had not foreseen the hoax.\nAt last he was pacified, and they now agreed to buy a keg of butter\nfor the winter. The fox, as usual, was up to his tricks, and used to\nsteal the butter at night, while Bruin slept. The bear observed that\nthe butter was diminishing daily, and taxed the fox. The fox replied\nboldly--\u201cWe can easily find out the thief; for directly we wake in the\nmorning we\u2019ll examine each other, and see whether either of us has\nany butter smeared about him.\u201d In the morning the bear was all over\nbutter; it regularly dropped off him. How fierce he got! the fox was so\nafraid, that he ran off into the wood, the bear after him. The fox hid\nunder a birch-tree root, but bruin was not to be done, and scratched\nand scratched till he got hold of the fox\u2019s foot. \u201cDon\u2019t take hold of\nthe birch-root, take hold of the fox\u2019s foot,\u201d said Reynard, tauntingly.\nSo the bear thought it was only a root he had hold of, and let the foot\ngo, and began scratching again. \u201cOh! now do spare me,\u201d whispered the\nfox; \u201cI\u2019ll show you a bees\u2019-nest, which I saw in an old birch. I know\nyou like honey.\u201d This softened the bear, for he was desperately fond\nof honey. So they went both of them together into the wood, and the\nfox showed the bear a great tree-bole, split down the middle, with the\nwedge still sticking in it. \u201cIt\u2019s in there,\u201d said the fox. \u201cJust you\nsqueeze into the crack, and press as hard as you can, and I\u2019ll strike\nthe wedge, and then the log will split.\u201d The trustful bear squeezed\nhimself in accordingly, and pushed as hard as ever he could. Reynard\nknocked out the block, the tree closed, and poor Bruin was fast.\nPresently the man came back who had been hewing the tree, and directly\nhe spied the bear, he took his axe and split open his skull; and--so\nthere is no more to tell.\n\nOn the bare, rocky pass which separates S\u00e6tersdal from Vatnedal were\nseveral stones, placed in a line, a yard or two apart from each other.\n\n\u201cThose are the Bridal Stones,\u201d observed Tarald. \u201cA great many years ago\nthere was no priest on the Bykle side (I suppose this was after the\nmurder by Wund Osmond, the Lehnsman), and a couple that wanted to wed\ncame all the way over here to be married. Those stones they set up in\nmemory of the event. On this stone sat the bridegroom, and on that the\nbride.\u201d\n\nThe mountain pink (Lycnis viscaria) occurs on most of these stony\nplateaus. I also met with a mighty gentian, with purplish brown flower,\nemitting a rich aromatic odour, the root of which is of an excessively\nbitter taste, and is gathered for medicinal purposes.\n\nA mile or two beyond this we stood in a rocky gorge, from which we had\na glorious view of the Vatnedal lake, and another beyond it several\nhundred feet below us. After a very precipitous descent, on the edge\nof which stood several blocks, placed as near as they could be without\nrolling over, we skirted the lake through birch-grove and bog till we\ngot opposite a house visible on the further shore. At this a boat was\nkept, but it was very uncertain whether anybody was at home. Leaving\nTarald to make signals, I was speedily enticing some trout at a spot\nwhere a snow-stream rushed into the lake. At last Tarald cried out--\n\n\u201cAll right, there are folk; I see a woman.\u201d And sure enough, after a\nspace, I could discern a boat approaching. A brisk and lively woman\nwas the propelling power. We were soon on the bosom of the deep--the\ntwo men, the woman, and the horse, all, in spite of my protestations,\nconsigned to a flat-bottomed leaky punt, though the wind was blowing\nhigh. The horse became uneasy, and swayed about, and, being larger\nthan usual, he gave promise of turning the boat upside-down before\nvery long. I immediately unlaced my boots, and pulled off my coat. The\nNorwegians seemed at this to awake to a sense of danger, and rowed\nback to the shore; the horse was landed and hobbled when he forthwith\nbegan cropping the herbage. We then made a safe passage. Unfortunately,\nHelge\u2019s husband, whom I had counted on to help me on my journey,\nhad started with his horse the day before to buy corn at Suledal,\nthirty-five miles off.\n\nIn this dilemma, I begged Tarald to take pity on me, or I might be\nhopelessly stopped for some days. The \u201cLeser\u201d was like \u201ca certain\nLevite.\u201d He had been complaining all day of fatigue. He felt so ill, he\nsaid, he could hardly get along. I had even given him some medicine.\nIn spite, however, of his praiseworthy antipathy to swearing, and the\nnasal twang with which he poured out some of his moral reflections, I\nhad felt some misgivings about the sincerity of his professions; for\nhe had begged me to write to the Foged, and complain of the absence of\nthe station-master at Bykle, that he might be turned out, and he get\nhis place. And, sure enough, I found him to be a wooden nutmeg with\nnone of the real spice of what he professed to be about him. No sooner\ndid he finger the dollars, than his fatigue and indisposition suddenly\nleft him, and he started off home with great alacrity, reminding me of\nthose cripples in Victor Hugo\u2019s _Hunchback of Notre Dame_, who, from\nbeing hardly able to crawl, suddenly became all life and motion.\n\n\u201cTruly,\u201d mused I, \u201cthese Lesere are all moonshine. They profess to be\na peculiar people, but are by no means zealous of good works. But this\nlies in the nature of things. Which is the best article, the cloth\nstiffened and puffed up with starch and \u2018Devil\u2019s dust,\u2019 or the rough\nTweed, which makes no pretence to show whatever, but, nevertheless,\ndoes duty admirably well against wind and weather?\u201d But enough of the\nthin-lipped, Pharisaical Tarald.\n\nThere was a beaminess about the hard-favoured countenance of Helge\nTarjeisdatter Vatnedal, together with a _brusque_ out-and-out\nreadiness of word and deed, that jumped with my humour. The fair Tori\ntoo, her daughter, with her good-tempered blue eyes and mouth, and\ncomfortable-looking figure, swept up the floor, and split some pine\nstumps with an axe, and lit the fire, and acted \u201cPolly put the kettle\non\u201d with such an evident resolve to make me at home, that the prospect\nof being delayed in such quarters looked much less formidable. The two\nwomen had netted some gorgeous trout that afternoon, and I was soon\ndiscussing them.\n\n\u201cWe must go now,\u201d said Helge.\n\n\u201cWhere to?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the st\u00f6l. We are all up there now. It was only by chance we came\ndown here to-day. Will you go with us, or will you stop here? You will\nbe all alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind; I\u2019ll stop here.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good. We know of a man living a long way off on the other lake.\nWe\u2019ll send a messenger to him by sunrise, and see if he can schuss you.\nIn the morning we\u2019ll come back and let you know.\u201d\n\nMy supper finished, by the fast waning light I began reading a bit of\nBulwer\u2019s _Caxtons_. The passage I came upon was Augustine\u2019s recipe\nfor satiety or _ennui_--viz., a course of reading of legendary\nout-of-the-way travel. But I can give Mr. Caxton a better nostrum\nstill--To do the thing yourself instead of reading of it being done. In\nthe Museum at Berlin there is a picture called the Fountain of Youth.\nOn the left-hand side you see old and infirm people approaching,\nor being brought to the water. Before they have got well through\nthe stream, their aspect changes; and arrived on the other bank,\nthey are all rejuvenescence and frolic. To my mind this is not a bad\nemblem of the change that comes over the traveller who passes out of\na world of intense over-civilization into a country like this. How\ndelightful to be able to dress, and eat, and do as one likes, to have\nescaped for a season, at least, from the tittle-tattle, the uneasy\nstudy of appearances, the \u201cwhat will Mr. So-and-so think?\u201d the fuss\nand botheration of crowded cities, with I don\u2019t know how many of the\npopulation thinking of nothing but getting 10 per cent. for their\nmoney. Sitting alone in the gloaming, under the shadow of the great\nmountains, with the darkling lake in front, now once more tranquil,\nand lulled again like a babe that has cried itself to sleep--the sound\nof the distant waterfalls booming on the ear--a star or two twinkling\nfaintly in the sky--I might have set my fancy going to a considerable\nextent.\n\nBut bed, with its realities, recalled my wandering thoughts. That was\nthe hour of trial! A person, who ought to know something about these\nmatters, apostrophized sleep as being fond of smoky cribs, and uneasy\npallets, and delighting in the hushing buzz of night flies. I had all\nthese to perfection, the flies especially, quite a plague of them.\nBut nature\u2019s soft nurse would not visit me. The fact was, I had lost\nmy branch, and the \u201cinsectivora\u201d of all descriptions, as a learned\nfarmer of my acquaintance phrased it, roved about like free companions,\nravaging at will. Knocked up was I completely the next morning, when at\nsix o\u2019clock the women returned with the welcome intelligence that one\nKetil of the Bog was bound for that Goshen, Suledal, to buy corn, and\nwould be my guide.\n\n\u201cI am so weary,\u201d said I; \u201cI have not slept a wink.\u201d\n\nWith looks full of compassion, the women observed--\u201cWe thought you\nwouldn\u2019t. We knew you would be afraid. That kept you awake, no doubt.\u201d\n\nWhether they meant fear of the fairies or of freebooters, they did not\nsay. My assurance to the contrary availed but little to convince them.\nNo solitary traveller in Norway at the present day need fear robbery or\nviolence. The women soon shouldered my effects, not permitting me to\ncarry anything, and we started through morass, and brake, and rocks,\nfor the shieling of Ketil of the Bog.\n\nAt one spot where we rested, the fair Tori chanted me the following\nstrain, which is based on a national legend, the great antiquity of\nwhich is testified by the alliterative metre of the original. It refers\nto a girl who had been carried off by robbers.\n\n    Tirreli, Tirreli Tove,\n    Twelve men met in the grove;\n    Twelve men mustered they,\n    Twelve brands bore they.\n    The goatherd they did bang,\n    The little dog they did hang,\n    The stour steer they did slay,\n    And hung the bell upon a spray,\n    And now they will murder me,\n    Far away on the wooded lea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n    Ketil--A few sheep in the wilderness--Brown Ryper--The\n    Norwegian peasants bad naturalists--More bridal stones--The\n    effect of glacial action on rocks--\u201cCatch hold of her\n    tail\u201d--Author makes himself at home in a deserted ch\u00e2let--A\n    dangerous playfellow--Suledal lake--Character of the\n    inhabitants of S\u00e6tersdal--The landlord\u2019s daughter--Wooden\n    spoons--Mountain paths--A mournful cavalcade--Simple\n    remedies--Landscape painting--The post-road from Gugaard to\n    Bustetun--The clergyman of Roldal parish--Poor little Knut at\n    home--A set of bores--The pencil as a weapon of defence--Still,\n    still they come--A short cut, with the usual result--Author\n    falls into a cavern--The vast white Folgefond--Mountain\n    characteristics--Author arrives at Seligenstad--A milkmaid\u2019s\n    lullaby--Sweethearts--The author sees visions--The Hardanger\n    Fjord--Something like scenery.\n\n\nI was quite at Ketil\u2019s mercy in a pecuniary point of view. But he\nwas not one of the Lesere, and was moderate in his demands. After a\nscramble through his native bog, which would, I think, have put a very\nmoss-trooper on his mettle, we debouched on the end of a lake. Here we\ntook boat, and there being a spanking breeze, we soon shot over the six\nmiles of water. With a stern-wind, fishing was not to be thought of; I\nnever found it answer. At the other end of the lake was a stone cabin,\nwhere I took shelter from the blast, while Ketil went in search of his\nhorse.\n\nWhile I was engaged caulking the seams in my appetite, a fine young\nfellow in sailor\u2019s costume, who had rowed from the opposite shore,\nlooked in. Talleif, as he was yclept, was from Tjelmodal, with a\nflock of fourteen thousand sheep and twenty milking goats. He and his\ncomrade, Lars, sleep in an old bear-hole in the Urden (loose rocks).\nThey get nine skillings (threepence) a-head for tending the sheep for\nten weeks. Besides this, they pay twelve dollars to Ketil and two other\npeasants, who are the possessors of these wilds. Their chief food is\nthe milk of the goats. In winter they get their living by fishing.\n\n\u201cHave you any ryper here,\u201d said I to Ketil, as we passed through some\nvery likely-looking birch thickets.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat colour?\u201d\n\n\u201cGrey.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre there no brown ones?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; they are grey, and in winter snow-white.\u201d\n\nAt this instant I heard the well-known cackle of the cock of the brown\nspecies, and a large covey of these birds rose out of the covert.\n\n\u201cWell, they are brown,\u201d said he; \u201cnow, I never laid mark to (remarked)\nthat before.\u201d\n\nSo much for the observation of these people. Never rely upon them\nfor any information respecting birds, beasts, fishes, or plants. All\ncolours are the same to a blind man, and they are such. I take the\nman\u2019s word, however, for the fact of there being abundance of otters\nabout and reindeer higher up.\n\nTerribly desolate was that Norwegian Fjeld that now lay before us. But\nsetting our faces resolutely to the ascent, we topped it in two and a\nhalf hours, the way now and then threading mossy lanes, so to say, sunk\nbetween sloping planes of rock. Screeching out in the unharmonious\njargon of Vatnedal, which the S\u00e6tersdal people, proud of their own\nmusical lungs, call \u201can alarm,\u201d Ketil pointed to a row of stones upon\nthe ridge similar to those I had seen the day before, also called the\nBridal stones, and with a similar legend attached to them. What poverty\nof invention. Why not call them Funeral stones by way of ringing the\nchanges? But no; the people of this country will escort a bride much\nfurther than a bier. The honours of sepulture are done with a niggard\ngrace.\n\nAs we now began to descend past beds of unmelted snow, I had a good\nopportunity of seeing the manifest effect of glacial action upon the\nrocks, the strata of which had been heaved up perpendicularly. Rounded\nby the ice in one direction, and quartered by their own cleavage\nin another, the rocks looked for all the world like a vast dish of\nsweetbreads; just the sort of tid-bit for that colossal Jotul yonder\nbehind us, with the portentously groggy nose, who stands out in sharp\nrelief against the sky. What Gorgon\u2019s head did that? thought I; as the\npicture in the National Gallery of Phineus and Co. turned to stone at\nthe banquet occurred to my mind. But my reverie was disturbed by a cry\nfrom Ketil of the Bog.\n\n\u201cCatch hold of her tail!\u201d\n\nWhich exclamation I not apprehending at the moment, the mare slipped\ndown a smooth sweetbread, and nearly came to grief.\n\nLower down we passed some ice-cold tarns, where I longed to bathe and\ntake some of the limpid element into my thirsting pores, but prudently\nabstained. After a long descent we came upon a deserted ch\u00e2let, the\ndoor of which we unfastened, and plundered it of some sour milk. We\nshall pay the owner down below. After this refreshment we plunged into\na deep gorge, skirting an elv just fresh from its cradle, and which was\nstruggling to get away most lustily for so young an infant.\n\n\u201cAh! it\u2019s only small now,\u201d said Ketil; \u201cbut you should see it in a flom\n(flood). It\u2019s up in a moment. Two years ago a young fellow crossed\nthere with a horse, and spent the day in cutting grass on the heights.\nIt rained a good deal. He waited too long, and when he tried to get\nover, horse and man were drowned. They were found below cut to pieces.\u201d\n\nI must take care what I\u2019m about, thought I, as I nearly slipped down\nthe precipice, which was become slippery from a storm of rain which now\novertook us.\n\nBelow this the scenery becomes more varied, in one place a smiling\nlittle amphitheatre of verdure contrasting with the bold mountains\nwhich towered to an immense height above.\n\nAt length we descend to Suledal lake drenched to the skin. A ready,\noff-hand sort of fellow, Thorsten Brathweit, at once answers my\nchallenge to row me over the water to Naes. The scenery of the lake is\ntruly superb. The elv, which we had been following, here finds its way\nto the lake by a mere crack through the rocks of great depth. In one\nplace a big stone that had been hurled from above had become tightly\nfixed in the cleft, and formed a bridge. Thorsten had plenty to say.\n\nTwo reindeer, he told me, were shot last week on the Fjeld I had just\ncrossed. Large salmon get up into the lake. The trout in it run to ten\npounds in weight; what I took were only small.\n\nThe landlord at Naes, where I spent the night, was astonished that I\nshould have ventured through S\u00e6tersdal.\n\n\u201cThey are such a Ro-bygd folk there,\u201d observed he, punningly, _i.e._,\nbarbarous sort of people.\n\nThe race I now encounter are, in fact, of quite a different costume\nand appearance. The married daughter of the house possessed a good\ncomplexioned oval face, with a close-fitting black cloth cap, edged\nwith green, in shape just like those worn by the Dutch vrows, in\nNetscher\u2019s and Mieris\u2019 pictures. Her light brown hair was cut short\nbehind like a boy\u2019s; such is the fashion among the married women\nhereabouts.\n\n\u201cLong hair is an ornament to the woman,\u201d observed I to her.\n\n\u201cShe didn\u2019t know; that was the custom there.\u201d\n\nThe only spoon in the house was a large wooden one, but as by long\npractice I have arrived at such a pitch of dexterity that I might\nalmost venture on teaching my grandmother to suck eggs, this\noccasioned me little inconvenience in transferring to my mouth the\nparboiled mementoes left by a hen now, alas! no more.\n\nThere is a mountain-pass across the Fjeld from hence to Roldal, and, as\nI mounted it next morning by the side of one of the feeders of the lake\ncascading grandly down, I had a fine view of this noble piece of water.\nAfter a stiff walk of three hours and a half we arrive at the summit\nof the _col_, and passing the rnan, or cairn, which marks the highest\npoint, looked down upon the pretty Roldal water sunk deep among the\nmountains, with the snowfields of the Storfond gleaming in the distance.\n\nHere we met a mournful cavalcade. First came a sickly-looking man\nriding, and another horse following loaded with luggage, while a spruce\nold dame and a handsome lad walked in the rear. This is a rich bonder\nfrom Botne below, who is troubled with a spinal complaint, and after\nenduring frightful tortures, is on his travels in search of a doctor.\nHorror of horrors! I felt it running cold down my back as I heard\nof it. Imagine a man with a diseased spine riding down a Norwegian\nmountain. Heaven help him! The lad hails me, and asks if I know where\na doctor is to be found. I recommend Stavanger, sixty miles off--much\nof which distance, however, may be travelled by water--in preference to\nLillesand, a small place nearer.\n\nIt was a great relief, after walking in the intense heat, to boat\nacross Roldal lake, under the shade of the mountains, the air\ndeliciously cooled by the glacier water, which, though milky in colour,\ndid not prevent me catching some trout. The poor fellow, my boatman,\nhas a swollen hand and wrist of some weeks\u2019 standing; I recommend\nporridge poultice as hot as possible, and a douche of icy water\nafterwards. Formerly, instead of this simple remedy, it would have been\nnecessary to do \u201csome great thing.\u201d Abana and Pharpar alone would have\nsufficed. I allude to the miraculous image which used to be kept in the\nold church at Roldal, now pulled down. On the Eve of St. John it used\nto sweat, and people came from far and near to apply the exudation to\ntheir bodily ailments. Like Dr. Steer\u2019s opodeldoc, it never failed to\neffect a cure.\n\nAs we approach the other end of the lake, a little modern church rises\non the shore, while an amphitheatre of cultivated ground, dotted here\nand there by log-houses, slopes gently upwards towards the grey rocky\nmountains behind, which afford pasturage for herds of tame reindeer.\nIn the distance may be discerned at intervals a winding path. This\npath, which at present is only practicable for horses, crosses the\nsummit level of the Hardanger mountains. At Gugaard it becomes a\ncarriage-road, and thence passes on through Vinje to the part of\nThelemarken visited by me last year. The Storthing have long been\ntalking of completing the post-road from Gugaard to Busteten, on the\nS\u00f6r Fjord, a branch of the Hardanger; but hitherto it is confined to\ntalk, although, at present, the only way of getting from the Hardanger\ndistrict to Kongsberg and the capital, is either to go the long route\nby the sea round the Naze, or up to Leirdals\u00f6ren, where the high road\ncommences. Formerly Roldal parish was annexed to Suledal, thirty miles\noff, but it has lately been separated, and has the advantage of a\nresident clergyman, and service every Sunday.\n\nSending my effects to the Lehnsman\u2019s, where I purposed stopping the\nnight, I went up the hill to call upon his reverence. He was out, so\nthe girl went to fetch him, taking care to lock the house-door and put\nthe key in her pocket. Presently a vinegar-faced, Yankee-looking young\nman, with white neckcloth, light coat, and pea-green waistcoat, with\nenormous flowers embroidered on it, and sucking a cigar the colour\nof pig-tail, approached. There was a Barmecide look about him, which\nwas not promising, and his line of action tallied exactly with his\nphysiognomy. He stood before the house-door, but made no effort to open\nit, and there was a repelling uncommunicative way about him, which\ndetermined me to retire the moment I had obtained the information I\nstood in need of.\n\nAs I had landed from the boat, a ragged square-built little fellow,\nwith gipsy countenance, had offered to carry my luggage, seventy pounds\nin weight, over the mountain to Odde, thirty miles distance. Showing\nme a miserable little hut, he told me he was very poor, and had five\nchildren with no bread to eat, while his wife, a tidy-looking woman\ncarrying a bundle of sticks, chimed in with his entreaties, and thanked\nme warmly for the gift of the few fish I had caught. I was quite\nwilling to hire him, and had come to the priest, to whom he referred\nme, for some account of his trustworthiness and capabilities.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said his reverence, \u201che is able to carry that weight; he carried\nfor me more than double as much when I came hither from Odde, and\nthat\u2019s much more uphill (imod).\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I; \u201cbut I travel quick, and I don\u2019t wish to use a man as a\nbeast of burden.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe lives by carrying burdens. And what do you want, Knut, for the job?\u201d\n\n\u201cA dollar.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s too much.\u201d\n\nI did not think so, and the bargain was struck, and I took leave of the\nvinegar-cruet, who was said to be a chosen vial of pulpit declamation.\n\nWhat a set of bores or burrs my host the Lehnsman and his family\nwere. They would not let me alone in the loft, which was frightfully\nhot, and with no openable window. Up tramped first the old man, with\nhalf-a-dozen loutish sons, then followed a hobbling old beldam, leaning\non a stick, and attended by Brida, a young peasant lass, the only\nredeeming feature in the group. Fancy arriving at a place dog-tired,\nand a dozen people surrounding you in the foreground, and asking a\nhundred questions, with a perspective of white heads bobbing about, and\nappearing and disappearing through the doorway in the middle distance.\n\nMy only chance was my pencil; that is the weapon to repel such\nintruders. Not that I used it aggressively, as those hopeful students\ndid their styles (see Fox\u2019s _Martyrs_), digging the sharp points into\ntheir Dominie\u2019s body. Taking out my sketch-book, I deliberately singled\nout one of the phalanx, and commenced transferring his proportions\nto the paper. This man\u0153uvre at once routed the assailants, and they\nretired. Before long, however, the old gent stole in, and prowled\nstealthily around the fortress before he summoned it to surrender.\nI parried all his questions, and he departed. His place was then\nsupplied by his eldest son, who was equally unsuccessful, but whom I\nmade useful in boiling some water for tea. The only thing approaching\nto a tea-pot was a shallow kettle, a foot in diameter. The butter of\nRoldal is celebrated, and compared to the Herregaard butter of Denmark,\nbut the pile of it brought in by the landlord\u2019s son, on a lordly\ndish, was stale and nauseous. As nothing was to be got out of me, he,\ntoo, disappeared, and I was left in peace and quietness. Another yet!\nHorrible sight! the old Hecate herself again rises into the loft--not\none of \u201cthe soft and milky rabble\u201d of womankind, spoken of by the\npoet, but a charred and wrinkled piece of humanity--all shrivelled and\ntoothless, came and stood over me as I sat at meat.\n\n\u201cWho are you? You _shall_ tell me. Whence do you come from?\u201d\n\n\u201cChristiansand.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut are you Baarnef\u00f6d (born) there?\u201d\n\nAt the same time she hobbled to a great red box, with various names\npainted on it, and as a kind of bait, I suppose, produced a quaint\nsilver spoon for my use, which she poised suspiciously in her hand\nlike a female Euclio, as if she was fearful I should swallow it.\n\nBut I was much too tired to respond; and at last, seeing nothing was\nto be got out of me, she crawled away, and I was speedily between the\nwoollen coverlets--sheets there were none. By five A.M. the gipsy\nKnut was in attendance, with a small son to help him; and on a most\ninspiriting morning we skirted along the lake, and began to mount the\nheights. The haze that still hung about the water, and filled the\nshadowy nooks between the mountains, lent an ineffable grandeur to\nthem, which the mid-day atmosphere, when the sun is high in heaven,\nfails to communicate.\n\nLeaving my coolies to advance up the track, I thought I would take a\nshort cut to the summit of the pass, when I came unexpectedly upon a\nlake, which stretched right and left, and compelled me to retrace my\nsteps for some distance. As I scrambled along fallen rocks, my leg\nslipped through a small opening into a perfect cavern. Thank God, the\nlimb was not broken, as the guide could not have heard my cries, and I\nmight have ceased to be, and become a tissue of dry bones (_de mortuo\nnil nisi bonum_), long before I could have been discovered. That old\nraven overhead there, who gave that exulting croak as I fell, you\u2019re\nreckoning this time without your host. See, I have got my leg out of\nthe trap; and off we hurry from the ill-omened spot. Those ravens are\nsaid to be the ghosts of murdered persons who have been hidden away on\nthe moors by their murderers, and have not received Christian burial.\n\nWhat a delicious breeze refreshed me as I stood, piping hot, on the top\nof the pass. Half-an-hour of this let loose upon London would be better\nthan flushing the sewers. It was genuine North Sea, iced with passing\nover the vast white Folgefond. There it lies full in front of us, like\na huge winding-sheet, enwrapping the slumbering Jotuns, those Titanic\nembodiments of nature in her sternest and most rugged mood, with which\nthe imagination of the sons of Odin delighted to people the fastnesses\nof their adopted home.\n\nAs we had ascended, the trees had become, both in number and size,\nsmall by degrees and beautifully less, until they ceased altogether,\nand the landscape turned into nothing but craggy, sterile rockscape.\nThis order of things as we now descended was inverted, and I was not\nsorry to get once more into the region of verdure.\n\nAt length we arrive at Seligenstad, where, to avoid the crowd of\nquestioners, I sit down on a box, in the passage, to the great\nastonishment of the good folks. The German who has preceded me has\nbeen more communicative: \u201cHe is from Hanover; is second master in a\nGymnasium; is thirty years old; has so many dollars a year; is married;\nand expects a letter from his wife at Bergen.\u201d\n\nWhen the buzz had subsided, and nobody is looking, one girl, dressed\nin the Hardanger costume, viz., a red bodice and dark petticoat, with\nmasculine chemise, but with the addition of a white linen cap, shaped\nlike a nimbus by means of a concealed wooden-frame, comes and sits on a\nmilk-pail beside me. At my request she sings a lullaby or two. One of\nthem ran thus:--\n\n    Heigho and heigho!\n    My small one, how are you?\n    Indeed but you\u2019re brave and well:\n    The rain it pours,\n    And the hurricane roars,\n    But my bairn it sleeps on the fell.\n\nI vow that the touching address of the daughter of Acrisius to her\nnursling, in the Greek Anthology, never sounded so sweetly to me in my\nschool-boy days, as did the lullaby I had just heard. I\u2019m sure the girl\nwill make a good mamma. Perhaps she\u2019s thinking of the time when that\nwill happen.\n\nAnother--\n\n    My roundelay, it runs as nimble\n    As the nag o\u2019er the ice without a stumble;\n    My roundelay can turn with a twirl,\n    As quick as the lads on snow-shoes whirl.\n\nA strapping peasant lad, joining our _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_, I bantered him on\nthe subject of sweethearts.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ve got one. Now, tell me what you sing to her.\u201d\n\nWith a look of _nonchalance_, which thinly covered over an abundance of\nsheepishness, the rustic swain pooh-poohed the idea, and, in defiance,\nsang the following--\n\n    To wed in a hurry, of that oh! beware;\n      You had far better drag on alone;\n    What, tho\u2019 she be fair, a wife brings much care,\n      With marriage all merriment\u2019s flown.\n\n    Well, suppose you have land, and flocks and herds too,\n      But at Yule, when they\u2019re all in the byre,\n    It perhaps happen can, that you\u2019ve scarce a handfu\u2019\n      Of fodder the cattle to cheer.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s very fine, no doubt,\u201d interrupted the girl; \u201cbut he\u2019s got a\nkj\u00e6rste (sweetheart) for all that, and I\u2019ll tell you what he sings to\nher:--\n\n    Oh! hear me, my pretty maid,\n      What I will say to thee,\n    I\u2019ve long thought, but was afraid;\n      I would woo thee,\n      Wilt thou have me?\n\n    Meadows I have so fair,\n      And cattle and corn good store,\n    Of dollars two or three pair,\n      Then don\u2019t say me nay, I implore.\u201d\n\nThe girl had completely turned the tables on the said flippant young\nfellow, who, by his looks, abundantly owned the soft impeachment.\n\nTaking leave of these good folks, I pursued my downward course along\nthe river, which was, however, hidden by trees and rocks. Suddenly,\nhowever, we got a sight of the torrent in an unexpected manner. The\nearth at our feet had sunk into a deep, well-like hole, leaving,\nhowever, between it and the stream, a great arch of living rock,\ncrowned with trees like the Prebischthor in the Saxon Switzerland,\nonly smaller. Soon after this, we pass a picturesque bridge (Horbro),\nwhere the river roars through a deep and very narrow chasm, terrible\nto look down into; and, after some hours\u2019 walking, get the first peep\ninto the placid lake of Hildal, with two great waterfalls descending\nthe opposite mountain, as if determined to give _\u00e9clat_ to the river\u2019s\nentrance therein. Visions of Bavarian beer, fresh meat, clean sheets,\n&c., crowd upon my imagination, as, after catching some trout in\ncrossing the lake, we land on the little isthmus which separates the\nsheet of fresh water from the beautiful salt-water S\u00f6rfjord; and with\nlight foot I hasten down to Mr. M----\u2019s, the merchant of Odde. The\nsituation is one of the grandest in Norway. The mighty Hardanger\nFjord, after running westward out of the Northern Ocean for about\neighty miles, suddenly takes a bend south, and forms the S\u00f6r (South)\nFjord, which is nearly thirty miles long. At the very extreme end of\nthis glorious water defile I now stood. To my left shoot down the\nsloping abutments of the mountain plateau, on which lies the vast\nsnow-field called the Folgefond; they, with their flounce-like bands\nof trees, first fir, then birch, and above this mere scrub, are now\nimmersed in shadow, blending in the distance with the indigo waters\nof the Fjord. But further out to seaward, as we glance over the dark\nshoulder of one of these natural buttresses, rises a swelling mound of\nwhite, like the heaving bosom of some queenly beauty robed in black\nvelvet. That is a bit of \u201cFolgo\u201d yet glowing with the radiance of the\nsetting sun. As I stood gazing at this wonderful scene--the snow part\nof it reminding me of the unsullied Jungfrau, as seen from Interlacken,\nonly that there the water, which gives such effect to this scene, is\nabsent--I saw a man rise from behind a stranded boat in front of me.\nHe was a German painter, and had been transferring to his canvas the\nvery sight I had been looking on.\n\n\u201cEine wundersch\u00f6ne Aussicht, Mein Herr,\u201d remarked I.\n\n\u201cUnvergleichbar! We\u2019ve nothing like it even in Switzerland,\u201d said he.\n\nWith this observation I think I can safely leave the scenery in the\nreader\u2019s hands.\n\n\u201cThat church, there,\u201d said the German, pointing to a little ancient\nedifice of stone, with mere slits of windows, \u201cis said to have been\nbuilt by your countrymen, as well as those of Kinservik and Ullensvang,\nfurther down the fjord. They had a great timber trade, according to\ntradition, with this part of the country. But, to judge from that\nbreastwork and foss yonder, the good people of the valley were favoured\nat times with other visits besides those of timber merchants.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n    Author visits a glacier--Meets with two compatriots--A good\n    year for bears--The judgment of snow--Effects of parsley fern\n    on horses--The advantage of having shadow--Old friends of the\n    hill tribe--Skeggedals foss--Fairy strings--The ugliest dale\n    in Norway--A photograph of omnipotence--The great Bondehus\n    glacier--Record of the mysterious ice period--Guide stories--A\n    rock on its travels.\n\n\nNext day I went across the Hildal Lake to visit a glacier of which I\nhad got a glimpse the evening before. It then seemed a couple of miles\noff; but I never was more taken in in judging of distance before--such\nis the uncommon clearness of the atmosphere and the gigantic scale of\nobjects in this country. After a sweltering walk, however, of nearly\nthree hours, I at last stood at the spot, where a torrent of water,\nthe exact colour of that perennial sewer that comes to the light of\nday, and diffuses its fragrance just below London Bridge, rushed out\nof an archway of the purest azure, setting me a moralizing about\ndeceitful appearances, and so forth. My boy-guide halted the while at\na respectful distance from the convulsed mass of ice.\n\n\u201cDo let me go back,\u201d he had apostrophized me; \u201cI am so frightened, I\nam. It is sure to fall on us.\u201d\n\nAnd it was only by yielding to his cowardly entreaties that I prevented\nhim from imitating the trickling ice, and being dissolved in tears.\n\nClose to the ice grew white and red clover, yellow trefoil, two kinds\nof sorrel, and buttercups. This fertility on the edge of a howling\ndesert had been taken advantage of, for, as I moved my eye to the\nopposite cliff from taking a look at the sun, who had just hidden his\nscorching glare behind the tips of the glacier, I descried several men\nand women busily engaged, at an enormous height, making hay on a slope\nof great steepness. As we descended, a noise, as of a salute of cannon,\ngreeted my ears. The above sewer, which descends with most prodigious\nforce, had set agoing some stones apparently of great size, which\nthundered high even above the roar of the waters, making the rocks and\nnodding groves rebellow again.\n\nNext day I had determined to cross \u201cFolgo\u201d to the Mauranger Fjord, but\nthe clouds hanging over him forbid the attempt.\n\nThat evening it cleared up, and two compatriots from the Emerald Isle\narriving by water, we agreed to join forces the next day.\n\nOn the 20th of August, at an early hour, we started with two guides,\none Ole Olsen Bustetun, and J\u00f6rgen Olsen Pr\u00e6stergaard. The latter was\na very grave-looking personage, with a blue face and red-tipped nose,\nwhich, however, told untrue tales.\n\n\u201cWell, J\u00f6rgen,\u201d said I, \u201chow are you off for bears this year?\u201d\n\n\u201cHereabouts, not so bad; but yonder at Ulsvig they are very\ntroublesome. It was only the other day that Ulsvig\u2019s priest was going\nto one of his churches, when a bear attacked him. By good luck he had\nhis hound with him--a very big one it is--and it attacked the bear\nbehind, and bothered him, and so the priest managed to escape.\u201d\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t there some old sagas about the Folgefond?\u201d asked I.\n\n\u201cTo be sure. I know one, but it is not true.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue or not true, let me hear it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, it is said among the bonders that once on a time under\nall this mountain of ice and snow there was a valley, called Folgedal,\nwith no less than seven parishes in it. But the dalesmen were a proud\nand ungodly crew, and God determined to destroy them as He did Sodom\nand Gomorrah--not by fire, however, but by snow. So He caused it to\nsnow in the valley for ten weeks running. As you may suppose, the\nvalley got filled up. The church spires were covered, and not a living\nsoul survived. And from that day to this the ice and snow has gone on\nincreasing. They also say that in olden days there used to be a strange\nsight of birds of all colours, white, and black, and green, and red,\nand yellow, fluskering about over the snow, and people would have it\nthat these were nothing but the spirits of the inhabitants lingering\nabout the place of their former abodes.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a strange story, no doubt,\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cAnd, now I think of it,\u201d continued J\u00f6rgen, \u201cI\u2019ve heard old men say\nthat this tale of the snowing-up must be true, for, now and then, when\nthere has been a flom (flood), pieces of hewn timber, as if they had\nbelonged to a house, and household implements, such as copper kettles,\nhave been brought down by the stream that comes out of Overhus Glacier.\n\n\u201cNow and then, too, the traveller over Folgo is said to hear strange\nnoises, as of church bells ringing and dogs barking. But the fact is,\nthere\u2019s something so lonely and grewsome about the Fond, and the ice\nis so apt to split and the snow to fall, that no wonder people get\nsuch-like fancies into their heads.\u201d\n\nAs we ascend I see tufts of a dark green herb growing in the crevices\nof the grey rocks.\n\n\u201cAh! that\u2019s spraengehesten (horse burster),\u201d said J\u00f6rgen. \u201cIf a horse\neats of this a stoppage of the bowels immediately takes place. A horse\nat Berge, below there, was burst in this way not long ago.\u201d\n\n[The reader may remember that a similar account was given me last year\non the Sogne-fjeld].[30]\n\nWe had now emerged from the thickets, and, after crossing a _mauvais\npas_ of slippery rock, touched the snow after four hours\u2019 hard walking.\nThe glare of the sun on the snow was rather trying to the eyes, I\ncongratulated myself that I was not shadowless, like Peter Schlemil,\nas it was a great relief to me to cast my vision on my own lateral\nshadow as we proceeded. It was first-rate weather, and the air being\nnortherly, the snow was not very slushy. The German painter ought to be\nhere. He told me his _forte_ is winter landscape.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said the grave-faced J\u00f6rgen, who was at bottom a very good sort\nof intelligent fellow, \u201clook due east, sir, over where the S\u00f6r fjord\nlies. Yonder is the Foss (waterfall) of Skeggedal, or Tussedal, as some\nfolks call it.\u201d\n\nAs I cast my eyes eastward, I saw the highest top of the Hardanger\nFjeld, which I traversed last year; my old friend Harteigen very\nconspicuous with his quaint square head rising to the height of 5400\nfeet, while his grey sides contrasted with the Storfond to the south\nand the dazzling white Tresfond and J\u00f6klen to the north.\n\nStraight in a line between myself and Harteigen I now discerned a\nperpendicular strip of gleaming white chalked upon a stupendous wall\nof dark rock. That is Skeggedals foss. It falls several hundred feet\nperpendicularly, but no wonder it looks a mere thread from here, for it\nis more than fourteen miles off as the crow flies.\n\n\u201cThere are three falls at the head of the valley,\u201d continued J\u00f6rgen.\n\u201cTwo of them cross each other at an angle quite wonderful to see. They\nare called Tusse-straenge (Fairy strings).\u201d\n\nWonderful music, thought I, must be given forth by those fairy strings,\nmayhap akin to\n\n                \u201cThe unmeasured notes\n    Of that strange lyre whose strings\n    The genii of the breezes sweep.\u201d\n\n\u201cTussedal is a terribly st\u00fcgt (ugly) dale,\u201d went on J\u00f6rgen, \u201cso narrow,\nand dark, and deep. A little below those three waterfalls the river\nenters into the ground, and disappears for some distance, and than\ncomes out again. We call that the Swelge (swallow). Just below that\nthere is a great stone that has fallen across the chasm. It\u2019s just like\na bridge: I\u2019ve stood on that stone and looked down many, many ells\ndeep into the water boiling below. Ay! that\u2019s an ugly dale--a very\nugly dale. It\u2019s not to be matched in Norway. You ought to have gone to\nsee it; but now I think of it, it\u2019s difficult to get to the falls, for\nthere is a lake to cross, and I think the old boat is stove in now.\u201d\n\nAfter passing one or two crevasses (spraekker), which become dangerous\nwhen the fresh snow comes and covers them over, we at length arrive\nat the first skiaer (skerry), a sort of Grand Mulets of bare jagged\ncrag, on which the snow did not seem to rest. After lunching here,\nand drinking a mixture of brandy and ice, we descend a slope of snow\nby the side of a deep turquoise-coloured gutter, of most serpentine\nshape, brimful of dashing water. Just beyond this a sight met our eyes\nnever to be effaced from my memory. Far to the westward the ocean\nis distinctly visible through a film of haze rising from the snow,\njust thick enough, like the crape on those veiled Italian statues, to\nenhance its beauty. Between us and the sea, purple ranges of mountains\nintersect each other, the furthermost melting into the waves. At right\nangles to these ranges is the Mauranger Fjord, to which we have to\ndescend. There it lies like a mere trough of ink, opening gradually\ninto the main channel of the branching Hardanger, with the island of\nVarald lying in the centre of it. Over this to the north-west lies\nBergen. To the southward, skirting the Mauranger, is a cleft rock, like\nthe Br\u00e8che de Roland in the Pyren\u00e9es, while between it and us may be\nseen the commencement of the great Bondehus glacier.\n\nLook! the smooth, sloping, snow-covered ice has suddenly got on the\n_qui vive_. It\u2019s already on the incline, no drag will stop it; see how\nit begins to rise into billows and fall into troughs, like the breakers\napproaching the sea-shore; and yonder it disappears from view between\nthe adamantine buttresses that encroach upon its sweep. To our right\nis another pseudo glacier hanging from a higher ascent like a blue\nball-cloak from the shoulder of a muslin-frocked damsel.\n\nThe _rochers montonn\u00e9es_ on which we stand tell tales of that\nmysterious ice-period when the glacier ground everything down with its\npowerful emery, while by a curious natural convulsion, a crevasse as\nbroad and nearly as deep as the Box cutting--not of ice but of rock,\nas if the very rocks had caught the infection, and tried to split in\nglacial fashion--strikes down to a small black lake dotted with white\nice floes.\n\nIt was indeed a wondrous scene. As we looked at it, one of my\ncompanions observed, one could almost imagine this was the exceeding\nhigh mountain whence Satan shewed our Saviour all the kingdoms of the\nworld and the glory of them. As if to make the thing stranger still, on\none of the bleached rocks are carved what one might easily suppose were\ncabalistic letters, the records of an era obscured in the grey mists of\ntime, but which it is beyond our power to decipher. Above us the sky\nwas cloudless, but wore that dark tinge which as clearly indicates snow\nbeneath as the distant ice-blink of the Arctic regions tells tales to\nthe voyager of a frozen ocean ahead.\n\n\u201cNow were off the Fond,\u201d said J\u00f6rgen. \u201cYou laughed at me when I asked\nyou if you had a compass. We\u2019ve made short work of it to-day, but\nyou don\u2019t know what it is when there is a skodda (scud) over Folgo.\nTwenty-five years ago five Englishmen, who tried to come over with five\nhorses, lost their way in the mist, and had hard work to get back. Why\nit\u2019s only fourteen days since that I started with three other guides\nand four Englishmen, but we were forced to return. At this end of the\npassage there is one outlet, and if you miss that it is impossible to\nget down into the Mauranger.\u201d\n\nI found he was right; for, after worming our way for a space through a\nhotch-potch of snow and rocks, we suddenly turned a sharp corner, and\nstood in a gateway invisible a moment before, from whence a ladder of\nstone reached down to the hamlet of Ovrehus, at the head of the Fjord,\nfour thousand feet below us.\n\n\u201cFour years ago,\u201d said J\u00f6rgen, \u201cI guided a German state-councilor\nacross the Fond. How he did drink brandviin! I think it was to give\nhim courage. He had a bottle full when he started, and he kept pouring\nthe spirits on to lumps of sugar, and sucking them till the bottle got\nquite empty and he quite drunk. We could not get him a step further\nthan this, and night was coming on. I had to go down to Ovrehus, and\nget four men with lanterns, and at last we got him down at two o\u2019clock\nin the morning.\u201d\n\nJ\u00f6rgen thought the traveller was a German, but I suspect if the real\ntruth were known, it must have been our friend the Danish Count, whose\npropensity for drink and other peculiarities have been recorded in the\n_Oxonian in Norway_. The descent was uncommonly steep, even in the\nopinion of one of my companions, who had ascended the Col du G\u00e9ant, and\nthe stiffest passes in the Tyrol.\n\nAfter descending in safety, we entered a belt of alder copse-wood. In\none part of this the ground had been ploughed up, and the trees torn\naway and smashed right and left, as if some huge animal had rushed\nthrough it, or rather, as if two or three Great Western locomotives\nhad run off the line and bolted across country. What could it be! The\ngash, I found, reached to a torrent of fierce snow-water, in the centre\nof which a rock of a great many tons weight had come to an anchor.\nThis was the _corpus delicti_. Looking at the cliffs, I could discern\nseveral hundred feet above me the mark of a recent dislocation, whence\nthe monster had started. The rupture had occurred only two or three\ndays before. What a grand sight it must have been.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n    Three generations--Dangers of the Folgo--Murray at\n    fault--Author takes boat for the entrance of the Bondehus\n    Valley--The king of the waterfall--More glacier paths--An\n    extensive ice-house--These glorious palaces--How is the\n    harvest?--Laxe-stie--Struggle-stone--To Vik\u00f6r--\u00d6studfoss,\n    the most picturesque waterfall in Norway--An eternal crystal\n    palace--How to earn a pot of gold--Information for the\n    _Morning Post_--A parsonage on the Hardanger--Steamers for\n    the Fjords--Why living is becoming dearer in Norway--A\n    rebuke for the travelling English--Sunday morning--Peasants\n    at church--Female head-dresses--A Norwegian church\n    service--Christening--Its adumbration in heathen Norway--A\n    sketch for Washington Irving.\n\n\nAfter a very sharp walk of eleven hours in all, we entered a small\nfarm-house. No less than eighteen persons, from the sucking infant to\nthe old woman of eighty-four, surrounded us, as we dipped our wooden\nspoons into a round tub of sour milk, the only refreshment the place\nafforded. Red stockings, and blue caps, with an inner one of white,\nand red bodices, were the chief objects that caught my eye. The\nventilation soon became so defective from the crowd, that I got up\nand succeeded in pushing open a wooden trap-door in the centre of the\nroof by a pole attached to it. The apartment, in fact, was one of the\nold \u201csmoke rooms,\u201d described elsewhere, and the orifice, the ancient\nchimney and window in one, which had been superseded by a modern window\nand chimney in two. \u201cThat\u2019s an awkward place to cross, is that Folgo,\u201d\nsaid a big fellow to me. \u201cMy grandfather, who lived in S\u00f6rfjord, where\nyou come from, was to marry a lass at Ovrehus here. On the day before\nthe wedding he started, with thirteen others, to cross Folgo. Night\ncame, but the party did not arrive. But no harm was done, you see, sir;\nfor I\u2019m his grandson, and if he had been lost I should not have seen\nthe light. [This pleasantry seemed to tickle the crowd.] They did,\nhowever, stop all night on the snow, and it was not till next day that\nthey got down.\u201d\n\nFrom these people I find that there is no foundation for the statement\nin \u201cMurray,\u201d that a band of peasants lost their lives in crossing the\nsnow. The nearest approach to an accident is that detailed above.\n\nNext morning we take boat for the entrance of the Bondehus valley,\nwhich debouches on the Fjord half a mile from this, and opposite to\nwhich, across the Fjord, is a place called Fladebo, from which Forbes\nascended the Folgefond by a much easier path than that we had taken.\nIndeed, as we loll easily in the boat, and look back at the descent\nof yesterday, it seems astonishing how we ever could get down at all.\nLanding at Bondehus, after an hour\u2019s walk up the valley, which was\noccupied for some distance by meadows, in which peasants were at work\nmaking hay, we reached a lake, across which we row. By the stream,\nwhich here shot into the further side of the lake, there were a couple\nof water ouzels, bobbing about.\n\n\u201cAy, that\u2019s an Elv-Konge (river king), or, as some call him, Foss-Konge\n(king of the waterfall),\u201d said our guide.\n\nIn spite of the apparent proximity of the glacier, it still took us\nseveral minutes\u2019 climb before we reached its foot.\n\nTruth to tell, the bad fare exhibited by Margareta Larsdatter Ovrehus,\nwas bad travelling on, and made me rather exact in distances to-day.\nPassing through a birch-grove, full of blue-berries and cloud-berries\nof delicious taste, we found the glacier only about thirty yards in\nfront of us. The shingly space which intervened was traversed by four\nor five breastworks of loose sand and stones, about ten feet in height.\nThese are the moraines left by the retreating glacier, so that at one\ntime the ice and the birch-copse must have touched. Indeed, on either\nside of the glacier the trees may be seen holding their ground close by\nthe ice, loth, apparently, to be separated from their opposite brethren\nby the intervention of such an unceremonious intruder.\n\nWe scrambled over the loose ramparts, and going close under the\nglacier where a muddy stream came forth, we discovered a huge cave,\ncut out of a blue wall of ice, some sixty feet in height. Some of the\nsuperincumbent mass had evidently just fallen in, causing, perhaps,\nthe roar which we had heard as we ascended the valley. It was rather\ndangerous work entering the cavern, as another fall might take place,\nand I had no ambition to be preserved after the manner of the Irish\nsalmon for the London market. But it was not every day that one is\nprivileged to enter such a magnificent hall, so in I went alone. It\nwas lit, too, by a lantern in the roof, in other words, by a perfectly\ncircular hole, drilled through the crown of the arch, through which I\nsaw the sky overhead. Nothing could exceed the intense depth of blue in\nthis cool recess.\n\nBut let us come and look a little more at the stupendous scene above.\nFar up skyward, at a distance of perhaps six English miles, though\nit looks about one, is the pure cold level snow of the Folgefond,\nglistening between two mighty horns of shivered rock, that soar still\nhigher heavenward.\n\nThese two portals contract the passage through which pours the great\nice ocean; so that the monstrous billows are upheaved on the backs of\none another in their struggle onward, and tower up into various forms.\n\n\u201cBy Jove,\u201d said one of my companions, \u201cit looks just like a city on a\nhill side, Lyons, for instance. Look yonder, there are regular church\ntowers and domes, and pinnacles and spires, and castellated buildings,\nonly somehow etherialized. Why, there\u2019s the arch of a bridge, you can\nsee right under it at the buildings beyond.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf Macaulay\u2019s New Zealander were there,\u201d remarked I, \u201che would behold\na grander sight than ever he will on London Bridge when the metropolis\nof the world is in ruin.\u201d\n\n\u201cRuin!\u201d rejoined the poetical son of Erin, \u201cthat\u2019s already at work\nhere. Look at this hall of ice which has come down to-day. Ah!\nit\u2019s quite melancholy to think how all this splendid vision, these\ncloud-capped towers, these glorious palaces of silver and aquamarine,\nare moving on insensibly, day by day, to their destruction, and will\nmelt away, not into air, but into dirty water, by the time they reach\nthe spot where we\u2019re standing.\u201d\n\nWe had some hours of boating before night-fall, so that we were forced\nto tear ourselves from the scene, not forgetting to have a good look\nfirst at a feature in it not yet mentioned--a magnificent waterfall,\nwhich descended from the cliffs on the left. So now adieu to the\nmountains. I shall climb no more this year. Positively I feel as\ndowncast as the hot-brained youth of Macedon when no more worlds were\nleft for him to conquer.\n\nWe were soon at the farm-house near the sea, where Ragnhild Bondehus,\nwith her red stockings, blue polka-jacket and red boddice, looking\nquite captivating, albeit threescore-and-ten, put before us porridge\nand goat\u2019s milk, which we devoured with keen glacial appetite.\n\n\u201cHow is the harvest looking where you came from?\u201d asked she, with\nanxious looks. This was a question that had been frequently asked me\nthis summer.\n\n\u201cVery good all over Europe.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo God be praise and thanks!\u201d she ejaculated. \u201cWe shan\u2019t have corn\nthen too dear to buy. We did hear that there was no grain sown in\nDenmark this year; that\u2019s not true, is it?\u201d\n\nThe old lady derived no small comfort from my assurance that this must\nbe a fabrication of some interested person.\n\nOur boatmen landing with their great provision boxes to dine at the\nrocky point where we reach the main Hardanger, we land and examine one\nof those singular \u201cfixings\u201d for catching salmon, called a laxe-stie,\nor salmon ladder. It consists of a high stage, projecting on a light\nscaffolding into the water. In front of this, under the water, is an\noblong square of planks, painted white, from twenty to thirty feet long\nand six broad. This is kept at the bottom by great stones. Beyond this,\nand parallel with the shore, several yards out, is a fixed wall-net,\nto guide the fish into a drag-net, one end of which is fastened to the\nshore, the other sloped out to seaward. The dark-backed salmon, which\nin certain places are fond of hugging the shore, as they make for the\nrivers to spawn, swim over the white board, and are at once seen by the\nwatcher perched on the stage above, and he speedily drags in the net\nset at right angles to the shore, with the fish secure in the bag. In\nsome places the rock close by is also painted white[31] to attract the\nfish, who take it for a waterfall. The man lodges in a little den close\nby, his only escape from hence being most likely his boat, drawn into a\ncrevice of the sheer rocks around him. Sometimes from twelve to twenty\nfish are taken in this manner in a day. St. Johann\u2019s-tid (Midsummer) is\nthe best time for taking them. The season is now over, and the solitary\nsentinel off to some other occupation.\n\nAccording to the boatmen\u2019s account, who, however, are very lazy\nfellows, the stream is hard against us; indeed, it always sets out in\nthe Hardanger from the quantity of river water that comes into it.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Ole, \u201cthat\u2019s called Streit-Steen (Struggle-Stone). Satan\nonce undertook to tow a Jagt from Bergen up the Hardanger. He had tough\nwork of it, but he got on till he reached that stone; then he was\ndead beat, and banned and cursed dreadfully. It was he who called it\nStreit-Steen.\u201d\n\nThe less said about the poisonous beer and bad food at Jondal, where we\nslept that night, the better.\n\nWe cross over, early next morning, to Vik\u00f6r. The elder boatman,\nseventy-nine years old, was a strange little, dried-up creature,\ndressed in a suit of dark-green, the ancient costume of Jondal. One of\nthe party told him if he were to see him in the gloaming he should take\nhim for a Tuss. Anyhow he had a great aversion to the priest, against\nwhose profits he declaimed loudly.\n\n\u201cOnly to think,\u201d said he, \u201cthe parson got tithe of butter and\ncalf-skins--yes, actually got a hundred and fifteen calf-skins every\nyear, worth half-a-crown each, from Jondal alone!\u201d\n\nHow beautiful the placid Fjord looked as we pulled up the smiling\nlittle estuary to Vik\u00f6r, and gradually opened behind us the end of the\ngreat Folgefond peninsula!\n\nNear Vik\u00f6r is the famed \u00d6studfoss, said to be the most picturesque\nwaterfall in Norway. At all events, it is a very eccentric one. The\nstream, which at times is of immense volume, shooting from the well\nshrubbed cliff above, which projects considerably, makes a clear jump\nover a plot of green turf, on which a dozen people or more could stand\nwithout being wetted; in fact, right inside the fall. While I stood\nwithin this crystal palace, one of my Hibernian friends, who had\napproached the spot by another route, clambering up the rocks, mounted\non to the platform,--\n\n\u201cFaith, and I\u2019ve earned the pot of gold!\u201d exclaimed he, breathless with\nexertion.\n\n\u201cHow so?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, did ye never hear the proverb--\u2018If you catch hold of the rainbow\nyou will get a pot of gold?\u2019 Ye never saw such a thing; just below\nthere, where the stream makes a shoot, I put me hand right into a\nrainbow--yes, clean into it.\u201d\n\nOn our return we overtook a number of women, dressed in their best. The\ninventory is as follows: A lily-white, curiously-plaited head-dress,\nthe \u201cgetting-up\u201d of which must take an infinity of time and trouble;\nred or parti-coloured bodice, black gown, and stockings of the same\ncolour, cut off at the ankle, while on the foot were white socks with\nred edging, and shoes with high leather insteps, such as were worn in\nthe days of the Cavaliers. By their side were a lot of children, also\nin their best attire.\n\n\u201cWhere are you all going to this fine day?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s vaccination (bole, an Icelandic word) day, and we are all going\nto meet the doctor, who will be here from Strandebarm by two o\u2019clock.\nWe must all of us get a bolen-attest (certificate of vaccination).\nThat\u2019s the King\u2019s order.\u201d\n\nThe merchant\u2019s establishment supplied us with some tolerable Madeira\nwherewith to drink to our next merry meeting, and my Irish friends, who\nwere pressed for time, took boat that afternoon for Graven.\n\nThat evening and the next day (Sunday) I spent under the hospitable\nroof of the parson of the district. His house is beautifully situate on\na nook of the Hardanger, with a distant view of the Folgefond.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said he, \u201cit won\u2019t be so difficult to explore the beauties of our\nFjords for the future. Our Storthing, I see, by the last Christiania\npapers, has voted several thousand dollars for setting up steamers on\nthis and the Romsdal Fjord, which are to stop at the chief places.\nThe abrogation of Cromwell\u2019s Navigation Act has done great things for\nNorge\u2019s commerce, and brought much money into the country.\u201d\n\n\u201cNorway is getting richer,\u201d said I, \u201cno doubt, if one is to judge from\nthe increase in the price of living.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat may be caused in some measure by the increase of capital, but the\nchief cause is another, though it, too, lies at England\u2019s door. We used\nto get a great deal of butter, cheese, meal, and meat from Jutland, but\nnow, since the English steamers run regularly thither, and carry off\nall the surplus provisions, that source of supply is stopped, and the\narticles of food are dearer.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would not affect us much up here,\u201d put in the Frua (priest\u2019s\nlady); \u201cNo, no; it is the travelling English that do the mischief.\nLast year, sir, when I and my husband went up to see the V\u00f6ring foss,\neverything was so dreadfully dear, we said we must never venture out on\nanother summer trip. And then, only think, there was an English lord\nthere with his yacht, who saw a pig running on the shore, and said he\nwould have the pig for dinner cost what it might. It was quite a small\none, and they charged him six dollars. Yes, it positively makes us\ntremble, for you know we parson\u2019s wives have not a great deal of money,\nthough we have good farms.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt all events, I can\u2019t be charged with this sort of folly,\u201d said I;\n\u201cfor I resisted the extortions of the merchant at Jondal.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, he! he is one of the Lesere, and is considered a very\nrespectable man.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut will play the rogue when he thinks it won\u2019t be talked of,\u201d rejoined\nI. \u201cShams and realities are wonderfully alike. Do you know, even that\nblack-coated biped, the ostrich, can make a roar just like a lion\u2019s?\u201d\n\nAs I crossed over from my bed-room next morning to the main building,\nI found the grass-plot in front of the house thronged by peasants who\nhad come to church, while in the centre of them was the priest in his\nLutheran cloak and elaborate frill. The washing and starching of one of\nthese ruffs costs a shilling. The widow of a clergyman in Bergen is a\ngreat adept in getting them up, and it is no uncommon thing for them to\ncome to her by steamer from a distance of one hundred and forty English\nmiles.\n\nThe congregation were in church when I entered with the ladies. We\nsat altogether in a square pew on a level with the chancel dais. This\nmingling of the sexes, however, was not permitted, of course, among\nthe primitive bonders: the men being on one side of the interior,\nthe women on the other, reminding me of the evening parties in a\nfamous University town. The former wore most of them short seamen\u2019s\njackets, though a few old peasants adhered to the antique green coat of\nsingular cut, while their grey locks, which were parted in the centre\nof the forehead, streamed patriarchally over their shoulders, shading\ntheir strongly-marked countenances. The female side was really very\npicturesque. The head-dress is a white kerchief, elaborately crimped\nor plaited, but by some ingenious contrivance shaped in front somewhat\nlike the ladies\u2019 small bonnets of the present day, with one corner\nfalling gracefully down behind, like the topping of the Carolina ducks\non the water in St. James\u2019s Park. Another part of this complicated\npiece of linen, which is not plaited, covers the forehead like a\nfrontlet, almost close down to the eyebrows, so that at a distance they\nlooked just like so many nuns. Nevertheless, they were the married\nwomen of the audience. The spinsters\u2019 head-dress was more simple. They\nwore no cap at all. The back hair, which is braided in two bands or\ntails with an intermixture of red tape, is brought forward on either\nside of the head and round the temples just on a level with the front\nhair. For my part, I much admired the clean and classic cut which some\nof their heads exhibited in consequence. Most of the females wore\ntight-fitting scarlet bodices edged with green.\n\nOn either side of their bosom were six silver hooks, to hold a cross\nchain of the same metal. The snow-white sleeves of the chemise formed\na conspicuous feature in the sparkling parterre. One woman wore a\ndifferent cap from the rest: its upper part was shaped just like a\nglory, or nimbus; this is done by inserting within a light piece of\nwood of that shape. Her ornaments, too, were not plain silver, but\ngilt. She was from Strandebarm, which I passed yesterday on the Fjord,\nthe scene of a celebrated national song--\u201cBonde i Bryllups Gaarden.\u201d\n\nMuch psalm-singing prevailed out of Bishop Kingo, of Funen\u2019s,\npsalm-book. The priest then read the Collect, Epistle, and Gospel, with\nthe traditional, I suppose, but what sounded to me very frightful,\nintonation. The sermon was not extempore.\n\n\u201cHe is a tolerable preacher,\u201d said a peasant, with quite the \u201cHabitans\nin sicco\u201d tone of criticism, \u201cbut it is out of a book, and not out of\nhis hoved (head), like priest So-and-so, on the other side of the\nFjord.\u201d\n\nVery small and very red babies, not many hours old,[32] I\nbelieve--such is the almost superstitious eagerness with which these\ngood folk rush to have that sacred rite administered--were now brought\nto be christened. No font was visible; there was, however, an angel\nsuspended by a cord from the roof, with deep, flesh-coloured legs and\narms, and a gilt robe. In its right hand was a bowl, in its left a\nbook. The glocker, or clerk, a little man in a blue sailor\u2019s jacket,\nhere dispatched a girl for some water, which was brought, and poured\ninto the bowl, and the ceremony proceeded; which being concluded, the\nangel was pulled up again midway to the ceiling.[33]\n\nThe priest then examined some young men and women, who stood on either\nside of the aisle, he walking up and down in the intervals of the\nquestions.\n\nAs we left the church a characteristic sight presented itself. The\nchurchyard was just the spot in which one would like to be buried--a\nbeautiful freshly-mown sward, sloping down to the sea, and intersected\nby a couple of brooks brawling down from the hills, extended upwards\nto the copse of hazel, aspen, ash, and rowan trees that fringed the\nheights. Under some of these trees sat two or three maidens, looking\nas stiff as Norwegian peasant girls only can, when busked in their\nbest, and before a crowd of people. Nor was a view of the placid fjord\nwanting. Look, some of the church-goers are already in their boats, the\nred bodices and white sleeves conspicuous from afar, while the dripping\noars flash in the sun.\n\nBefore I took leave of my host and his agreeable family, I presented\none of them, who was studying English, with a volume of Bulwer\u2019s.\nThe parting glass, of course, past round--a sacred institution, the\nAfskeds\u00f6l of the Sagas.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n    Up Steindalen--Thorsten Thormundson--Very near--Author\u2019s\n    guide gives him a piece of agreeable information--Crooked\n    paths--Raune bottom--A great ant-hill--Author turns rainbow\n    manufacturer--No one at home--The mill goblin helps author out\n    of a dilemma--A tiny Husman--The dangers attending confirmation\n    in Norway--The leper hospital at Bergen--A melancholy\n    walk--Different forms of leprosy--The disease found to be\n    hereditary--Terrible instances of its effects--Ethnological\n    particulars respecting--The Bergen Museum--Delicate little\n    monsters--Fairy pots--The best bookseller in Bergen--Character\n    of the Danish language--Instance of Norwegian good-nature--New\n    flames and old fiddles.\n\n\nPassing the \u00d6studfoss, I struck straight up Steindalen, purposing to\npass a place called Teigen, and thence over to the Samnanger Fjord, on\nmy road to Bergen. My hulking guide, Thorsten Thormundson, who, from\nhis height, had been chosen as the front man of his regiment, was but\na poor fellow notwithstanding. Having started later than we ought, we\ndid not reach our destination before dark; and as there was not the\nsmallest vestige of a path through the morasses, we had nearly walked\nover a cliff into a lake before I was aware of our danger. Luckily, we\nat last found a cot, and a boy conducted us to our destination.\n\nAfter an uncomfortable night in a miserable hole of a cottage, I\nreceived the agreeable intelligence from my attendant, that he did not\nknow the way any further, and wished to leave me. I informed him that\nhe was quite welcome to do so, but if he did, he must go minus all\npay. Upon this, the giant put on a very martial air, but seeing that I\nwas not to be bullied, he prepared for the journey, employing a little\nmaiden to show the way.\n\nIt was lucky for us that he did so, for the road was intricate beyond\ndescription. The old St. Giles\u2019s rookery may serve as a comparison, for\nwant of a better one. Being ahead, I was marching straight forward,\nwhen I was recalled by the shrill voice of the bare-footed lassie.\n\n\u201cOn there,\u201d she said, \u201cwas a precipice, over which Brat-foss poured.\nThere was not foot-hold for a goat that way. We must try and get\nthrough the bog to the left, and so round by Raune bottom.\u201d\n\nIt was a bottom indeed--cliffs all round, with a treacherous swamp and\nstreams flowing all manner of ways; and then came another descent, the\ngirl leading the pony, and the man pulling hard at its tail by way of\ndrag.\n\nThe progress was so slow that I sat down, from time to time, to look\nabout me. In one place I found I was close upon a great ant-hill,\na yard high, from whence I perceived a regular line was formed to\na neighbouring pine-tree. Up the bole of this a number of these\nindustrious insects were ascending and descending with most exemplary\nperseverance; though I could not see that, either going or returning,\nthey went otherwise than empty away. I tapped the tree with my stick,\nwhen in the twinkling of an eye the ascending and descending squadrons\nput themselves in a posture of defence; that is to say, each of them\nthrew itself on its back, with its head reared up, and its tail\nprotruded. In a moment or two, when all was quiet, they, as if by\nsignal, unfixed their bayonets, and recommenced their march.\n\nIn another part of our round-about walk I sat down by a stream side,\nand began making rainbows--yes, rainbows. The sun shone straight up\nthe valley, and the wind was blowing in the same direction. I threw a\nstone into the clear torrent right among some watching trout, and from\nthe spot where it struck an iris immediately threw out its tricoloured\narch athwart the stream, slowly disappearing as the spray, upheld for a\nsecond or two by the wind, again subsided on the water.\n\nIf my friend the Irishman was to find a pot of gold for getting hold of\nthe rainbow, what luck was in store for me who had actually made one?\nBut the augury was a treacherous one, as we shall see.\n\nFollowing the stream, which abounded in most captivating looking holes,\nto my piscatorial eye, we at length reach the farm of Tyssen, whence a\nbeautiful view is obtained across the head of the Samnanger Fjord, with\nthe church of Samnanger lying under the mountains at the further side.\nAs bad luck would have it, not a soul was at home. The only biped I saw\nwas a statuesque heron standing on a stone by the boat-house. What was\nto be done? It was my object to obtain a boat here and sail down the\nFjord to Hatvigen, where I should be on the great coast road, and not\nmany miles from Bergen.\n\nIn this dilemma I descried a little man emerge from the quern, or\ncorn-mill, which stood at the bottom of the stream, near some salmon\ntraps. Perhaps he was only the mill-goblin, but at any rate I would\nhail him. He took no notice. It must be the Quern knurre. But perhaps\nthe noise of the stream rushing over the rocks into the Fjord drowned\nmy voice, and prevented it being heard; so I and the loutish Thorsten\nclubbed lungs, when the figure looked round, and immediately walked\naway. Mr. Thorsten Thormundson wished to be off and leave me to my\nfate; but I positively forbid him to move until we had discovered some\nmeans of conveyance. Presently the small figure reappeared, accompanied\nby a female figure. We hailed again, and this time the mannikin\nwalked to a boat and came across to us. He was a poor peasant from the\nmountains, who had been buying a sack of corn for four dollars three\nmarks, which would serve him and three mouths till \u201cMichelsmass,\u201d and\nhe and his wife had come hither to grind it. The grinding must be\nfinished, and the meal carried up to his distant home before night.\nNevertheless he would row me, he said, half a Norwegian mile, where he\nthought I might get another boatman.\n\nWhen we had rowed some distance we descry some people making hay on the\nlea.\n\n\u201cWould they row me?\u201d\n\n\u201cHad no time. But they had a husman in a cottage hard by, who perhaps\ncould do it.\u201d\n\nMy man landed, and went in search of the said husman. A tiny little man\nin rags, much smaller than the mill-goblin, with a very tiny voice,\nand a still more tiny boy, appear and undertake the job, provided I\ngive him time to have some mad (meat) first. Although the boat was very\nleaky, and though at one place we encountered a good deal of swell\nfrom the effects of a gale out at sea, we manage by night-fall to reach\nHatvigen.\n\nOn the road we meet a boat full of boys and girls, who have been\nseveral miles to be examined by the clergyman for confirmation. We\nlittle know the hardships to which these people are subject. Only a few\ndays ago, a boat similarly laden, and on a similar errand, was upset by\na sudden squall, and about a dozen unfortunate young people drowned.\n\nNothing particular caught my eye next day, as I drove along the coast\nto Bergen, beyond the new telegraphic line which is just completing to\nBergen. Some of the posts are the growing pine-trees, which happen to\nstand ready fixed for the purpose. Another telegraphic cable is making\nfor a part of the coast to advertize people of the approach of the\nherrings. This will be the future sea-serpent of the country.\n\nI was not sorry to sleep that night under the roof of Madame Sontum at\nBergen. Next day, under the auspices of a German physician, I visit\nthe Leper Hospital on the hill above the town. It is a magnificent\nbuilding of wood, lately constructed by the State, at an expense of\nsixty thousand dollars, and kept up from the same source, private\ndonations being unusual. Three years ago the old hospital was burned\ndown at dead of night, and eight unfortunates were consumed. The\npresent spacious building can accommodate two hundred and eighty\npatients; at present there are only one hundred and eighty inmates.\nIn the J\u00f6rgen Spital there are one hundred and thirty, and a few in\nanother hospital in the town. This disease is generally supposed to be\nincurable. About twenty-five per cent. die in the course of the year.\nThe chaplain, a burley, good-looking man, was in his canonicals, and\nabout to bury a recently deceased patient on our arrival; he descanted\non the horrors of the place.\n\nWith these I became personally acquainted on the arrival of Dr. L----,\nthe physician of the establishment.\n\n\u201cNow, gentlemen, if you please,\u201d said that functionary, putting on a\nblouse of black serge; \u201cbut I warn you it is a terrible sight.\u201d\n\nWell, thought I to myself, I will go notwithstanding. The best antidote\nto the imaginary ills of this life, is to become acquainted with the\nreal ones.\n\nWalking along the spacious corridors, we first entered a room devoted\nto male cases. Here, as in all the other rooms, there were six beds.\nI conversed with one man. This case was not yet at a bad stage. He\nhad suffered much hardship in his youth as a seaman, was often wet,\nand badly fed withal. By dint of industry, he became owner of a jagt,\nand he said he hoped to get out again and be well enough to take the\ncommand of it.\n\nAnother man in a bed close by was affected with the smooth leprosy. He\nattributed it to his having slept in the same bed with a man affected\nwith the disease. He was worn to the bone, and his face and body were\nblotched and copper-coloured. But before pursuing our melancholy walk,\nI will just glance at a small tract which has been published by the\nGovernment in respect to this foul and mysterious disease, which,\nafter having been driven out of the other countries of Europe, still\nholds its ground on the sea-coast of Norway, especially from Stavanger\nnorthwards.\n\nThere are two sorts of leprosy, which are so very dissimilar in their\noutward symptoms, that one would hardly imagine that they are the same\ndisease; the one is called the knotted leprosy, the other the smooth\nleprosy. The first indications of the poison being in the system are\nlassitude and stiffness in the limbs. The body feels unusually heavy\nand disinclined to exertion. Sharp pains rack the frame, especially\nwhen it is warm, or on the eve of a change of weather. Cold shudderings\nalso supervene, succeeded presently by fever; together with pains in\nthe head, thirst and loss of appetite. All this is accompanied by\ngeneral listlessness and depression of spirits. Another symptom is a\nstrong inclination to sleep, though sleep brings no refreshment to the\nlimbs.\n\nIn knotted leprosy, red spots and sores break out upon the body,\nespecially on the face, which becomes much swollen. These are not\naccompanied with pain, and often disappear again; but with a new attack\nof fever they re-appear, and at last become permanent. They now\ngrow larger and larger--some of the knots attain the size of a hazel\nnut--and are generally of a yellow-brown colour, with occasionally a\ntint of blue. They are most frequent on the arms, hands, and face, but\nmost of all about the eyebrows, which fall off in consequence. After a\nperiod of time--which is shorter or longer as the case may be--pain is\nfelt in these knots, and they then either turn into regular sores, or\nbecome covered with a brown crust. The eyes, mouth, and throat are next\nattacked, and the eye-sight, breathing and swallowing are affected.\n\nIn smooth leprosy, the symptoms are large blisters and white spots,\ntogether with great pain and tenderness in various parts of the body.\nThese vesicles are from the bigness of a hazel-nut to that of a hen\u2019s\negg, and are filled with a watery fluid. They are situated about\nthe elbows and knees, occasionally under the sole of the foot, and\nelsewhere, and soon burst. The spots, which in the smooth leprosy occur\non the body, are not brown, as in the knotted leprosy, but white, and\nof a larger size, sometimes being as big as a man\u2019s hand; they are\ncovered with white scales. The pain and tenderness which occur in this\nkind of leprosy gradually disappear, and are followed by utter absence\nof feeling. At this stage fire or the knife can be applied to the parts\ndiseased without the patient feeling it in the least. A large portion\nof the body can be thus affected. The patient now begins to get thin,\nhis skin is dry, and his countenance distorted. He can\u2019t shut his eyes,\nand he is not able to bring his lips together, so as to cover the\nteeth; besides this, the toes and fingers become contracted and rot off.\n\nCuriously enough symptoms of both these horrible phases of a most\nloathsome disorder occur in one and the same person; in that case the\nknotted leprosy occurs first, and the knots gradually vanishing, the\nsmooth leprosy supervenes.\n\nThis frightful malady has been ascertained to be hereditary, that is\nto say, it can be transmitted by either parent to their offspring. At\nfirst the children seem to be quite healthy, but they conceal within\ntheir system the hidden germs of the complaint, which may at any\ntime break out. Sometimes such children never do betray the presence\nof the poison, certain defective sanitary conditions being necessary\nfor its development. But, notwithstanding, the disease may come out\nin the third generation. The most favourable circumstances for its\ndevelopment are an irregular way of life, defective clothing, bad\nlodging or diet, want of personal cleanliness, and mental anxiety.\nUnder such circumstances, persons who have no hereditary tinge may take\nthe complaint. It is not contagious in the strict sense of the word,\nbut experience seems to show that persons who live in intercourse with\nleprous persons are very prone to become so themselves. A remarkable\nillustration of this occurred in Nord-Fjord. The owners of a gaard took\nthe leprosy, and died. The farm was inherited by another family, who\nbecame infected with the disease, and died of it. A third family, who\nsucceeded to the dwelling, also perished of the malady. On this, the\nowner of the house burnt it down.\n\nThe Government authorities finally recommend, as a means of getting\nrid of this dreadful disease, personal and household cleanliness,\nproper apparel and lodging, wholesome diet (especially abstinence\nfrom half-rotten fish), moderation, particularly in the consumption\nof spirituous liquors; and, above all, they deprecate intermarriage\namong those so affected. The present number of lepers in Norway is two\nthousand and fifty odd, or about one in every seven thousand.\n\nBut to proceed with our walk through the hospital. In another ward set\napart for males, I addressed a lump of what did not look like humanity,\nand asked how old he was. The answer was sixteen. He looked sixty. His\nvoice--oh heavens! to think that the human voice divine could have\nbecome degraded to that hoarse grating, snuffling sound, the dry husk\nof what it ought to be!\n\nClose by this case was a man whose face was swollen immensely, and over\nthe brows huge knots and folds of a dark tint congregated together.\nHis face looked more like a knotted clump in the bole of a tree than\na human countenance. Sitting on a bed in another room was a boy whose\nface was literally eaten through and through, and honeycombed as if\nby malignant cancer. Nobody can witness all this without realizing to\nhimself more completely the power of Him who could cure it with a mere\ntouch.\n\nCrossing the passage, I saw a nice, pretty little girl playing about.\n\n\u201cShe is all right at present,\u201d said the doctor, \u201cbut both her sisters\nshowed it at her age, and her parents died of it. She is here to be\ntaken care of.\u201d\n\nOn the women\u2019s side, one of the first cases that caught my attention\nwas an old woman with the septum of the nose gone, and groaning\nwith intense agony. Near her was a woman whose toes and fingers had\ndisappeared, and for the present the complaint was quiescent. Indeed,\none of the not least frightful symptoms of the disease is, that after a\ntoe or finger is gone the sore heals up, but suddenly breaks out afresh\nhigher up the limb. Unlike a person in an adjoining bed, who shrieked\nout for fear she should be touched--so sensitive was her flesh--this\npoor thing had lost all sense of feeling. When I touched her, at the\ndoctor\u2019s request, she could feel nothing.\n\nOne blue-eyed girl, with a fair skin and well combed hair, looked well\nin the face, but the doctor said her body was in a terrible state.\n\nAs I walked round the room, I observed another young woman, stretched\non a bed in the corner, with dark luxuriant hair--very un-Norwegian in\ntint--and with peculiarly bright flashing eyes, with which she gazed at\nme steadfastly.\n\n\u201cCome hither,\u201d said the doctor to me; \u201cshut your eyes, Bergita.\u201d\n\nThe poor thing gave a faint smile, and slightly moved her lids; but\nthis was all. She will never shut those eyes again, perhaps, not even\nin death.\n\nIn another bed was a woman with her teeth uncovered and lips apart.\n\n\u201cNow, mother, try and shut your lips.\u201d\n\nA tremulous movement of the lower jaw followed, but the muscles would\nnot work; the disease had destroyed the hinges, and there she lay,\nmouth open, a spectacle of horror.\n\nIn some cases--indeed, very many--when the disease has seriously set\nin, it throws a white film over the iris of the eye, the pupil becomes\ncontracted, the ball loses its colour, becomes a whitish mass, and\ngradually rots out of the socket. Each patient had a religious book by\nhis side, and some sat on the bed or by it reading. They all seemed\nunrepining at their lot. One poor woman wept tears of gladness when I\naddressed a word or two of consolation to her. Indeed, the amount of\npain felt by these poor sufferers is very small in comparison with what\nmight have been expected from the marks of the fell talons imprinted on\ntheir frames. The doctor said they were chiefly carried off at last by\nhectic fever. Scurvy ointment is used in many cases, frequent cupping\nin others. One poor woman, with a leg like an elephant\u2019s, so deformed\nand shapeless was it, declined amputation. And there she will go on,\nthe excessive sensitiveness to pain succeeded by an utter an\u00e6sthetic\nstate, and one extremity rotting off after another, till she is left a\nmere blotched trunk, unless a merciful death relieve her before.\n\nOne poor woman had been afflicted for no less than fifty years; her\nparents, if I remember rightly, were free from the malady, but her\ngrandfather and grandmother had suffered from it. But we have seen\nenough of this melancholy place. It is a satisfaction to know that,\nat all events, although the disease cannot be cured by medicine or\nany other remedy, yet as much is done as possible to alleviate its\nmiseries. The surgeon and chaplain are daily in attendance; abundance\nof active young women--not old gin-drinking harridans--discharge the\noffice of nurses. The diet is much better than these people would\nobtain at home. I examined the spacious kitchens, and learned that\nmeat is served thrice a-week to the patients, not to mention soups,\npuddings, &c. It has been asserted that the disease has lately been\non the increase in Norway, but this statement is based most likely on\ninsufficient data.\n\nIn the rest of Europe, Scotland especially, to judge from all accounts,\nit was at one time as bad as it is now in this country. Neither was it\nconfined to the lower classes. Robert Bruce died of it. But as it is\nnow almost, if not altogether, exterminated in Scotland, there seems\nno reason why, if the advice of the Government above-mentioned is\nfollowed, it should not also die out in Scandinavia. In other respects,\nthe population is healthy and strong, and not affected by go\u00eetre or any\nof the usual mountain complaints.\n\nWe now took leave of the doctor; my friend, the German physician,\nwho was specially interested in the effect produced on the sight by\nthe disease, appointed the next day for a microscopic examination of\nsome of the patients\u2019 eyes in early stages of the disorder. It may\nbe as well to state that Professor Danielson has published a work\nillustrating by plates the progress of the disorder. Inoculation is\nalso about to be tried as a method of cure, it having been used with\nsuccess in this country in another disease, many symptoms of which, to\na non-professional observer at least, are identical in appearance with\nthose above described.\n\n\u201cFarewell!\u201d said the doctor; \u201cI have shown you a sad spectacle. I am\nsorry I can\u2019t converse with you in your own language. But the next\ngeneration will all speak English. It has just been proposed in the\nStorthing that, in the middle schools, less Latin shall be taught, and\nEnglish made a necessary branch of education.\u201d\n\nBefore leaving Bergen I visited the museum, under the auspices of the\nvery obliging curator, Dr. Korn.\n\nHere is a specimen of a new kind of starfish (Beryx Borealis),\ndiscovered by Asbj\u00f6rnsen. The only habitat yet known of this animal is\nthe S\u00f6rfjord. The Glesner Regalicus was also here. It is found in very\ndeep water, and so rarely that, in three hundred years, only two or\nthree specimens had been met with.\n\nSome embryo whales of different degrees of maturity were also preserved\nin spirits; specimens of these delicate little monsters are not, I\nbelieve, to be found in any other museum of Europe. The Strix Funerea,\nor Hawk Owl, such as I shot in the Malanger, with its beautiful black\nand white plumage, was also to be seen. Especially beautiful was the\nAnas Stellaris from beyond the North Cape.\n\nThe usual assortment of old Runic calendars and other mementoes of\nancient days were not wanting: not to mention one of those enigmatical\nJette gryde (fairy pots) with which the vulgar have connected all sorts\nof stories. It is composed of two parts, a mortar-shaped cavity in\nstone, and in this a loose, round cannon-ball sort, also of stone. Here\nwere evidently cause and effect. A loose stone happening to be brought\nby the stream into a depression in the rocky bed of the torrent, by the\naction of water becomes itself round, after the manner of a marble, and\nmakes its resting-place round too. The countenances of people who live\ncontinually together are often observed to become like. In the same way\nthe perforated and rounded stones which are formed by trituration in\nthe channels of the brooks on the Scottish borders are still termed,\nsays Scott, by the vulgar, fairy cups and dishes.\n\nBefore leaving Bergen, I must not omit to record an incident which\nreally speaks much for the good-nature of these people.\n\n\u201cWill you tell me, sir,\u201d said I, accosting a jolly, bearded gentleman,\nin the street, \u201cwhich is the best bookseller in Bergen?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, sir; come this way, I will show you.\u201d\n\nWe entered the shop of the bookseller, whose snuffling, sobbing\nmethod of talk convinced me at once that he was a Dane. The language\nis a nerveless, flabby sing-song, gasped out with bated breath.\nThe Norwegian speaks out like a man, and with a pith and marrow in\nhis pronunciation worthy of the rugged power with which one always\nassociates in idea the name of Norway.\n\nThe pale bibliopole, after carefully shutting the door, which I had\npurposely left open--so close and oppressive was the atmosphere of the\nunventilated shop--fumbled about for a little time, and then discovered\nthat the book I wanted was out of print.\n\n\u201cOh! never mind,\u201d said the stranger, \u201cI have got a copy, which is very\nmuch at your service.\u201d\n\nAnd in spite of my protestations, this amiable gentleman, whom I\nafterwards discovered to be Professor C----, an author of some repute,\nconducted me to his house, placed refreshments before me, and\ncompelled me to take the book, the cost of which was considerable.\nIndeed, all books in Norway are very dear, which may account for the\nfewness of readers.\n\nTwo matters of considerable importance stirred Bergen to its innermost\ncore while I was there. What do you think they were, reader? Gas has\nbeen introduced, and to-night is the first night of lighting it. What\na number of people are moving about to see it, as we go on board the\nsteamer _Jupiter_, bound for Hamburg. The other incident was productive\nof no less ferment. Ole Bull, the prince of fiddlers, the Amphion of\nthe American wilds, sick apparently of combining the office of leader\nof a colony, and musician-in-chief to the new community, has just\nreturned to this, his native place, and is about to give a concert, to\ninaugurate his assumption of his new office of director of the Bergen\nTheatre.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n    The safest day in the year for travelling--A\n    collision--Lighthouses on the Norwegian coast--Olaf the Holy\n    and the necromancers--The cathedral at Stavanger--A Norwegian\n    M.P.--Broad sheets--The great man unbends--Jaederen\u2019s Rev--Old\n    friends at Christiansand--Too fast--The Lammer\u2019s schism--Its\n    beneficial effects--Roman Catholic Propagandism--A thievish\n    archbishop--Historical memoranda at Frederickshal--The Falls\n    of the Glommen--A department of woods and forests established\n    in Norway--Conflagrations--A problem, and how it was\n    solved--Author sees a mirage--Homewards.\n\n\nIn the old coaching days it used to be said the safest day in the year\nto travel by the Tantivy was the day after an upset. The same will\nhold good, thought I, of steamers, as I heard an animated conversation\non board, how that last voyage it was all but a case of _Norge_ v.\n_Bergen_ (alluding to a collision between those two steamers, when the\nformer went down), and how the _Viken_, Government steamer, would have\nbeen utterly cut down, and sunk, had it not been for the presence of\nmind of the _Jupiter_ captain; how, moreover, a fierce newspaper war\nwas going on in consequence, and the Government had ordered an inquiry.\n\nSooth to say, the navigation of this coast by night is very dangerous.\nLord Dufferin, I think, says there are no lighthouses. He is wrong;\nthere are more than twenty. But what are these among so many shoals,\nislands, narrow channels, ins and outs, as this coast exhibits?\n\n\u201cYonder,\u201d said a Norwegian gentleman on board, \u201cis the Skratteskjaer\n(skerry of shrieks).\u201d This spot takes its name from a tragic event of\nwhich it was the scene many hundred years ago. Olaf the Holy, being\nresolved to get rid of the Seidemaend (magicians and necromancers), who\nthen abounded in Norway, made a quantity of them drunk, and, in that\ncondition, set fire to the house where they were assembled, and made a\nholocaust of them. Eywind, however, a noted warlock, escaped through\nthe chimney-hole; but afterwards he, with three hundred others, were\ncaught, and chained down on that skerry, which is covered at high\nwater. As the tide rose, the shrieks of the victims pierced the air;\nbut the royal executioner was inexorable.\n\nCrossing the mouth of the Buknfjord, we stopped for half-an-hour at\nStavanger, where I had an opportunity of examining the cathedral, which\nreally exhibits some fine pieces of early Gothic. The nave was built\nin 1115. The verger was profoundly ignorant of all architecture, and\nso were some Norwegian gentlemen who accompanied me. What they chiefly\nattended to was a plaster model of Christ, after Thorwaldsen, and some\ntasteless modern woodwork. The pulpit is two hundred years old.\n\nWe here shipped a deputy, on his way to the Storthing now sitting at\nChristiania. He was a very staid person, who evidently considered\nthat he was called upon to set the passengers an edifying example of\nsuperior intelligence and unmoved gravity. I heard that he had formerly\nbeen a simple bonder, but was now a thriving merchant. Perhaps I shall\nbest describe him by saying that his parchment visage reminded me of a\nPalimpsest, whence a secular composition had been erased to make room\nfor a sanctimonious homily; but, at the corners of the parchment, some\nof the old secular characters still peeped out unerased. Next me, after\ndinner, sat a sharp young Bergenser. To while away the time, I asked\nhim if he could recite me any popular songs or rhymes. He responded\nto the call at once, and produced a couple of broad sheets from his\npocket-book, containing two favourite old Norsk ballads; one of which\nwas the famed \u201cBonde i Brylups Garen;\u201d the other was, \u201cThe Courtship of\nOle and Father Mikkel\u2019s Daughter.\u201d\n\nThe deputy\u2019s attention I observed to be caught by our conversation, and\nhe smiled gravely. Only think of a Storthingsman, clad in a sober suit\nof brown, whose mind was supposed to be full of the important business\nof the country, listening to such trifles. Gude preserve ye! Mr. ----,\nwhat childish stuff. Nevertheless, he had once been a child, and a\npeasant-child, too; and there was a time when he sat on the maternal\nknee, and heard the lullabies of his country. Nay, he went so far as\nto recite a country jingle himself. It was what we call in England a\nGame rhyme. Seven children are dancing round in a ring; suddenly the\nring is broken, and each one endeavours to seize a partner.\n\n    Shear shearing oats,\n      The sheaves who shall bind?\n    My true love he shall do it,\n      Where is he to find?\n\n    I saw him yestere\u2019en\n      In the clear light of the moon,\n    You take yours, I take mine,\n      One is left standing alone.\n\nHe uttered this in a low tone of voice, as if he was heartily ashamed\nof the infantine reminiscence. Human nature shrunk again into itself;\nthe deputy remembered that his countrymen\u2019s eyes were upon him, and\nhe must be careful of betraying any further weakness of the sort. One\nor two Norwegians who had overheard the conversation, looked with\nno little astonishment at their representative, and with a somewhat\nindignant expression of countenance at me, doubtful, apparently,\nwhether I had not of _malice prepense_ been taking a rise out of a\nNorwegian Storthingsman.\n\nAs we passed Jaederen\u2019s Rev (reef), a long, low flat shore of some\nmiles in extent, we had the usual storm, which stirred up the\nbilgewater to an offensive degree, and in consequence thereof, the\nwrath of a doctor on board, who wore yellow kids and much jewellery,\nbut who was not half a bad fellow in spite of his foppery.\n\nAs I sat by the open window of the hotel, at Christiansand, two burly\nfellows in the singular S\u00e6tersdal costume, greeted me. In them I at\nonce recognised two peasants with whom I had had speech at Valle. They\nhad come down to meet the new parson and his family, whom they would\ndrive up on the morrow on the way to his expectant parishioners. The\ngood fellows were mightily pleased when I handed them some Bayersk\n\u00d6l out of the window. A Norwegian student who was with me heard them\ndeliberating whether they should not treat the strange Carl to a glass\nof something; but they apparently thought it would be taking too\ngreat a liberty, and presently made their bow, carrying all sorts of\ngreetings to my friends in their distant home.\n\nNext day I started to Moss, in the Christiania Fjord, by the steamer\nof that name. She was built in Scotland, and goes sixteen miles an\nhour, more than double the pace of the Government steamers, which are\nproverbially slow. Many of the Norwegians are frightened of her, and\nsay she will break her back.\n\nThere was an intelligent young Norwegian on board who is resident\nin America. He tells me that the Lammers\u2019 schism has done no little\ngood, in a religious point of view, by awaking the State clergy from\nthe torpor into which they had sunk; and there is every symptom of\na new spiritual life being infused into the community. Things, he\nsays, have hitherto been at a low ebb in this respect throughout the\ncountry. Among the better classes there is no such thing as family\nprayers, they seldom look at their Bibles. At Arendal and Christiania\nprivate meetings have been set on foot for prayer and reading of the\nScriptures. A Moravian clergyman, who was the first to establish\ngatherings of this kind, and who has laboured diligently in this line\nfor some years, has lately received a subvention from the Government\nwithout his solicitation.\n\nIn Sweden, the proposal to abolish the law by which Dissenters may not\nreside in that country, has lately been thrown out in the Chambers,\nCount P---- having described in pathetic language the danger likely to\nensue upon such a change, and being backed in his opposition by 280\nclergy.\n\nIn Norway, on the contrary, as in England, all religions, provided they\ndo not trangress the laws of morality and social order, are tolerated.\nThe Roman Catholics take advantage of this, and are busy in a quiet way\nmaking proselytes. The widow of the late King Bernadotte is understood\nto give her countenance to their exertions. Contributions are also\nreceived from Belgium and France, and two French ladies conduct a\nschool on Romish principles at Christiania. One of the two Romish\npriests there is a born Norwegian.\n\nMy travelling companion also informs me of a curious discovery made\nlately by Lange, the author of a _History of Norwegian Monasteries_.\n\nIt has always been supposed that the precious treasures which adorned\nthe tomb of St. Olaf, in the Cathedral of Trondjem, were stolen by King\nChristian the Second, and that the ship conveying the ill-gotten booty\nsank near Christiansand.\n\nAt Amsterdam, however, from whence Lange has just returned, he found\nincontestable documentary evidence that the Archbishop of Trondjem was\nhimself the thief. He fled to Amsterdam, got into debt, and the jewels\nwere sold and dispersed.\n\nLanding at Moss, I passed through a wretchedly ugly country to\nFrederickshal. There is nothing in the place worth seeing, except the\nfortress and the statue to the patriotic burgher, Peder Colbj\u00f6rnsen.\nSome of the houses are far beyond the average of many of the Norwegian\ntowns; to which detracting people might be inclined to apply the old\ndescription of Granville:--\n\n    Granville, grand vilain,\n    Une \u00e9glise, et un moulin,\n    On voit Granville tout \u00e0 plein.\n\nA small enclosure outside the fortress marks the spot where the Swedish\nmadman was sacrificed by one of his own soldiers while occupied in the\nsiege. The monument, however, has utterly disappeared. A new one is\ntalked of.\n\nThence I posted to Sarpsborg, to see the mighty falls of the Glommen,\nwith the beautiful suspension-bridge swung over them. Above it the huge\nriver winds away its vast coils into the distant mountains, bringing\ndown the timbers which once grew upon their sides. But the wastefulness\nof the people in timber is now beginning to tell. Norway is at length\nabout to start a Forstwesen similar to that of Germany, and Asbj\u00f6rnsen\nis now employed by the Government in travelling through Bavaria, for\nthe purpose of investigating the admirable regulations there in force\nin the Department of Woods and Forests.\n\nAs usual, there has been a fire in Sarpsborg. Half the town is\ndestroyed, and presents a terrible scene of desolation.[34] A new\nchurch, just completed, was saved by a miracle. At Drammen, on the\nother side of the Fjord, one or two fires have also been sweeping\naway a vast quantity of buildings. The conflagration was visible at\nUddevalla, near Gottenburg, about one hundred and fifty miles off.\n\nMy slumbers that night, at the waterside inn, whence the steamer was\nto start next morning, were interrupted by an odd sort of visitation.\nTwo bulky Norwegian gentlemen were ushered into the bed-room, puffing\naway at cigars, and forthwith prepared to occupy the other bed. By\nwhat Procrustean process it could possibly be made to contain two such\nponderosities was a problem now to be solved. However, one of them\ngot in first, and retreated as far as he could into its recesses. The\nother followed, and managed to squeeze himself into the space left by\nthe side of his companion. Many jocular remarks were let fall between\nthem, and one remark especially seemed to tickle the risibilities of\nthe larger and fatter man to such an extent that he shook again, and\nthe bed also. Suddenly I heard a loud smash, and looking up, found that\nthe bottom of the bed, though equal to their dead weight in a quiescent\nstate, was unable to bear the momentum of their laughter-shaken frames,\nand had given way, both gentlemen falling through on to the floor.\n\nFor some time they had great difficulty in escaping from their awkward\npredicament. This, however, was at length effected, and for the rest of\nthe night the floor was their couch--the floor which they had used as\na spittoon; but this did not seem in the least to interfere with their\ncomfort.\n\nHaving nothing to call me to the capital, I determined to catch the\nKiel steamer that afternoon in the Christiania Fjord, where I saw for\nthe first time one of those remarkable mirages so common in the seas\nof Scandinavia, which are supposed to have given rise to the legends\nof phantom-ships, which prevail along the coast. The next day we were\nsteaming over a smooth sea, along the low coast of our forefathers, the\nJutes, and the day after shot by train through the heathy flats whence\nissued England\u2019s sponsors, the Angles.\n\nTHE END.\n\n[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF NORWAY.\n\n_J. Netherclift lith._\n\n_London. Pubd. by Hurst & Blackett Gt. Marlboro\u2019 St. 1858_]\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n[1] According to Worsaae, the \u201cstone\u201d period in Denmark preceded the\nCelts, who possessed settled abodes in Europe 2000 years ago, by about\na thousand years. The \u201cbronze\u201d period must have prevailed in the early\npart of the Christian era, when the Goths were inhabitants of the\ncountry. The \u201ciron\u201d period can first be traced in Norway and Sweden\nwith any certainty in the fourth and fifth centuries. In Denmark the\nuse of iron superseded the use of bronze altogether about 700 A.D. But\nit is hardly necessary to observe, that there is still much controversy\namong antiquarians on this difficult subject.\n\n[2] There must have been an air of barbaric grandeur about these\nheathen temples. On the door of that at Lade, near Trondjem, was a\nmassive gold ring. Olaf Trygveson, when wooing Sigrid the Haughty, made\nher a present of it. Having an eye to the main chance, she put it in\nthe hands of the Swedish goldsmiths to be tested (Becky Sharp would\nnot have done worse). They grinned knowingly. The weight was due in a\ngreat measure to a copper lining. No wonder after this that she flatly\nrefused to be baptized, the condition Olaf had laid down for wedding\nher. Upon this he called her a heathen ----, and struck her on the\ncheek with his glove. \u201cOne day this shall be thy death,\u201d she exclaimed.\nShe kept her word. Through her influence Sweyne was induced to war with\nOlaf, who lost his life in the memorable battle of the Baltic.\n\n[3] These tolls, as is well known, have since been redeemed.\n\n[4] Foster-children are as common in Norway at the present day as they\nused to be in Ireland, where it was proverbially a stronger alliance\nthan that of blood. The old sign of adoption mentioned in the Sagas was\nknaesetning, placing the child on the knee.\n\n[5] In this part of Norway the wolf is known by no other name. Like\ngraa-been (grey-legs) elsewhere in Norway, so here skr\u00fcb is a euphemism\nfor wolf. The word is evidently derived from skr\u00fcbba, to scrub, and\nalludes to the rough dressing or scrubbing to be expected at the claws\nof that beast. This disinclination to use the real name \u201culv,\u201d is no\ndoubt due to the ancient superstition of the \u201cvarulf\u201d (wer-wolf).\n\n    Oh! was it wer-wolf in the wood,\n    Or was it mermaid in the sea,\n    Or was it man or vile woman,\n    My own true love, that misshaped thee?\n\n    A heavier weird shall light on her\n    Than ever fell on vile woman,\n    Her hair shall grow rough and her teeth grow lang,\n    And on her fore feet shall she gang.\n\nSee Grimm. _Deutsche Mythologie_, 1047. In the war of 1808 it was\ncommonly believed in Sweden that those of their countrymen who were\nmade prisoners by the Russians were changed by them into wer or\nwere-wolves, and sent home to plague their country. The classical\nreader will remember the Scythian people mentioned by Herodotus, who\nall and several used to turn wolves for a few days in every year. The\nSwedes go still further in their reluctance to call certain animals\nby their real names. Not only do they call the bear _the old one_, or\n_grandfather_, and the wolf _grey-foot_, but the fox is _blue-foot_, or\n_he that goes in the forest_; the seal is _brother Lars_, while such\nsmall deer as rats and mice are known respectively as the _long-bodied_\nand the _small-grey_.\n\n[6] Still the mountain ch\u00e2let is now no longer known here by the name\nof \u201cs\u00e6ter,\u201d but by that of \u201cst\u00f6l.\u201d \u201cS\u00e6ter\u201d is most probably derived\nfrom the word \u201csitte,\u201d to sit = to dwell; the technical phrase for a\nperson being at the mountain dairy being \u201csitte paa st\u00f6len.\u201d\n\n[7] I asked this same question of the intelligent and obliging curator\nof the Bergen Museum. He replied that it was generally believed to be\nthe case, though bear-stories, unless well authenticated, must be taken\n_cum grano_.\n\nThe following statistics of the amount of wild animals destroyed in\nNorway in three years may be interesting--\n\n    +----+------+-------+-------+---------+-------+-----+------+\n    |    |Bears.|Wolves.|Lynxes.|Gluttons.|Eagles.|Owls.|Hawks.|\n    +----+------+-------+-------+---------+-------+-----+------+\n    |1848|  264 |  247  |  144  |    57   |  2498 | 369 | 527  |\n    |    |      |       |       |         |       |     |      |\n    |1849|  325 |  197  |  110  |    76   |  2142 | 343 | 485  |\n    |    |      |       |       |         |       |     |      |\n    |1850|  246 |  191  |  118  |    39   |  2426 | 268 | 407  |\n    +----+------+-------+-------+---------+-------+-----+------+\n\n[8] Dusk, in Norsk, \u201cTus-m\u00f6rk:\u201d that being the hour when the Tus, or\nThus (sprite), loves to be abroad.\n\n[9] Like the Daoineshi of the Scotch Highlands, the Neck of Scandinavia\nshines in a talent for music. Poor creatures! the peasantry may well\nfancy they are fallen angels, who hope some day for forgiveness; for\nwas not one heard, near Hornbogabro, in West Gotland, singing, to a\nsweet melody, \u201cI know, and I know, and I know that my Redeemer liveth?\u201d\nAnd did not a Neck, when some boys once said to him \u201cWhat good is\nit for you to be sitting here and playing, for you will never enjoy\neternal happiness,\u201d begin to weep bitterly?\n\n[10] In Border-ballad language, \u201cmaik.\u201d\n\n[11] So, in old English, \u201cChurch-ale\u201d was the festival on the\nanniversary of the consecration of a church: while \u201cgrave-ale\u201d was the\n\u201cwake\u201d at an interment.\n\n[12] I must not quit the subject without mentioning the Danish remedy.\nIn Holberg\u2019s facetious poem, _Peder Paars_, we read:--\n\n    For the nightmare a charm I had,\n      From the parson of our town--\n    Set your shoes with the heels to the bed,\n      Each night when you lie down.\n\n[13] Landstad is a Norwegian clergyman, who has lately edited a\ncollection of Norsk minstrelsy, gathered from the mouths of the people.\nBugge is a student, who is travelling about the remote valleys, at\nthe expense of the Government, to collect all the metrical tales and\ntraditions that still linger there. It is very unfortunate that this\nwas not done earlier. The last few years have made great inroads on\nthese reminiscences of days gone by.\n\n[14] A Manx gentleman assured Waldren that he had lost three or four\nhunters by these nocturnal excursions, as the fairies would not\ncondescend to ride Manx ponies. In Norway, however, they have no choice.\n\n[15] \u201cUpon a time, when he (Lord Duffus) was walking abroad in the\nfields, near his own house, he was suddenly carried away, and found\nnext day at Paris, in the French king\u2019s cellar, with a silver cup in\nhis hand. Being brought into the king\u2019s presence, and questioned who he\nwas, and how he came thither, he told his name, country, and place of\nresidence; and that, on such a day of the month (which proved to be the\nday immediately preceding), being in the fields, he heard a noise of a\nwhirlwind, and of voices crying, \u2018Horse and Hattock!\u2019 (this is the word\nthe fairies are said to use when they remove from any place); whereupon\nhe cried, \u2018Horse and Hattock\u2019 also, and was immediately caught up,\nand transported through the air by the fairies to that place; where,\nafter he had drank heartily, he fell asleep; and, before he awakened,\nthe rest of the company were gone.\u201d--_Letter from Scotland to Aubrey,\nquoted by W. Scott._ I could not learn what the _mot_ of the fairy\npack is in S\u00e6tersdal, or that there was any at all. Still the Norsk\nsuperstition is clearly the parent of the Scotch one.\n\n[16] The word is written with or without h.\n\n[17] \u201cSome of the Highland seers, even in our day, have boasted\nof their intimacy with elves as an innocent and advantageous\nconnexion.\u201d--Walter Scott, _Border Minstrelsy_.\n\n[18] Mr. Bellenden Kerr\u2019s theory of a political and much less ancient\norigin for these rhymes is surely more ingenious than correct.\n\n[19] This alludes to the custom of sprinkling the girdle-cake with a\nbrush during the baking.\n\n[20] Like our \u201cRompty idity, row, row, row.\u201d\n\n[21] The day on which Thor is on his rounds; and when, therefore, the\nlittle people are forced to sing small.\n\n[22]\n\n    \u201cIf this glass do break or fall,\n    Farewell the luck of Edenhall.\u201d\n\nThat goblet was said to have been seized by a Musgrave at an\nelf-banquet.--See Longfellow.\n\n[23] So the old French proverb:--\n\n    \u201cQuatorze Janvier,\n    L\u2019ours sort de tani\u00e8re,\n    Fait trois tours,\n    Et rentre pour quarante jours.\u201d\n\n[24] Sunniva was an Irish king\u2019s daughter. In order to escape\ncompulsory marriage with a heathen, she took ship, and was driven by\ntempests on the Isle of Selia, near Stad, in Norway, and, with her\nattendants, found shelter in a cave. The heathens on the mainland, on\nthe look-out for windfalls, observed that there were people on the\ndesert island, and immediately put off to it. At this juncture, through\nthe prayers of Sunniva and her friends, the rocks split, the cave\nbecame blocked up, and the savages drew the island blank. In 1014, when\nOlaf Trygveson landed here from Northumberland, breathing slaughter\nagainst the pagans, he discovered the bones of Sunniva, and she was at\nonce canonized.\n\n[25] The similarity between vetr, the old word for winter, and v\u00f6ttr,\nthe old word for vante (glove), most likely suggested the use of this\nsymbol.\n\n[26] Much of the above explanations of the Runes has been thrown\ntogether by Professor T. A. Munck, in the _Norsk Folke Kalender_ for\n1848.\n\n[27] Hence evidently comes our \u201cdapple,\u201d _i.e._, mottled like an apple.\n\n[28] Names of goats.\n\n[29] In the district of Lom, where the climate is said to be the\ndriest in Norway, there are the remains of a house in which Saint Olaf\nis said to have lodged. There was, not long ago, a house at Naes, in\nHallingdal, where the timbers were so huge that two sufficed to reach\nto the top of the doorway from the ground. This old wood often gets so\nhard that it will turn the edge of the axe.\n\n[30] It is singular that two peasants in different parts of the country\nshould have made this statement, which seems after all to be based on\nerror: for the plant was nothing but our Rock-brake, or parsley fern\n(Allosurus crispus), which is not generally supposed to possess any\nnoxious qualities.\n\n[31] The Chinese have a somewhat similar device. \u201cA strip of white\ncanvas is stretched slanting in the water, which allures or alarms\nthe fish, and has the strange effect (but they were Chinese fish)\nof inducing them to leap over the boat. But a net placed over the\nboat from stem to stern intersects their progress, and they are\ncaught.\u201d--Fortune\u2019s _Travels in China_.\n\n[32] Str\u00f6m, in his description of S\u00f6ndm\u00f6r, relates that in the hard\nwinter of 1755, of thirty children born in the parish of Volden not one\nlived, solely because they were brought to church directly they were\nborn. But even in the present day in the register books (kirke-bog)\nnotices may be found, such as \u201cDied from being brought too early to\nchurch.\u201d\n\n[33] What a curious custom that was of the heathen Norwegian\ngentle-folk to select a friend to sprinkle their child with water, and\ngive it a name. Thus Sigurd Jarl baptized the infant of Thora, the wife\nof Harald Harfager, and called it Hacon, although this had nothing\nto do with Christianity, for this child was afterwards baptized by\nAthelstan, king of England. The heathen Vikings often pretended to take\nup Christianity, to renounce it again on the first opportunity. Some of\nthem allowed themselves to be baptized over and over again, merely for\nthe sake of the white garments. Others, who visited Christian lands for\nthe sake of traffic or as mercenary soldiers, used to let themselves be\nprimsegnet (marked with the sign of the cross) without being baptized.\nThus they were on a good footing with the foreign Christians, and also\nwith their heathen brethren at home. Many of those who were baptized\nin all sincerity quite misunderstood the meaning of the rite, thinking\nthat it would release them from evil spirits and gramary.\n\n[34] According to the newspapers, a great part of the capital itself\nhas just met with a like fate.","title":"The Oxonian in Thelemarken, volume 2 (of 2): or, Notes of travel in south-western Norway in the summers of 1856 and 1857. With glances at the legendary lore of that district.","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":61537}