LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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

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

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

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

•••••

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

•••••

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

•••••

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

•••••

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

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

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

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

Christiansand.

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

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

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

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

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

The Courtyard, Victoria Hotel, Christiania.

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

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

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

Christiania.

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

A Timber Shoot.

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

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

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

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

INGRIDS VISE.
RENDYR CHORUS.

Music by H. Kjerulf.

Words by Bjørnson.

Og Ræ-ven laa under Birke-rod bortved Lyn-get, bortved

Lyn-get, og Haren hoppede paa lette Fod o-ver Lyn-get, o-ver Lyn-get. “Det

er vel no-get til Sol-skins dag! det glitt-rer for og det

glitt-rer bag over Lyn-get, over Lyn-get!”

[Listen]

II.
THELEMARKEN.

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

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

Norwegian Carved Lintels.

Carved House in Thelemarken.

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

Carved Houses, Bru, Thelemarken.

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

Kongsberg: Thelemarken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Raft Boat: Thelemarken.

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

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

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

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

Hitterdal Church: Sunday Morning.

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

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

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

Porch at Hitterdal: Thelemarken.

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

Chair in Hitterdal Church.

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

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

Flatdal: Thelemarken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smoking the Cows: Thelemarken.

Jamsgaard Laave.

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

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

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

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

III.
HARDANGER.

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

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

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

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

Seljestad.

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

Wooden Bridge at Roldal.

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

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

Odde: Hardanger.

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

1. Skjæggedal Fos.

2. Buerbræ Glacier.

3. Folgefond.

4. Gröndal Laathe Fos, and other fosses.

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

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

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

Odde: Hardanger.

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

Skjæggedal Fos.

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

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

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

Buerbræ Glacier.

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

The Spring Dance: Hardanger.

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

IV.
BERGEN AND ARCHÆOLOGY.

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

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

The Market: Bergen.

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

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

Rosendal.