Eight English miles below this the Maan finds ample room and verge enough to expatiate in the deep Tindsö, which is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous lakes in Norway, being subject to frightfully sudden storms; while the precipitous cliffs that bound it, for the most part only afford foothold to a fly, or such like climbers. There is an old tale about this lake, illustrative of the dangers to which a clergyman is subject in the discharge of his duties. Many years ago, the parson of the parish had to cross over the lake to do duty in the “annex church” at Hovind. The weather was threatening; but his flock awaited him, and so he started, commending himself to God and his good angels. Long before he approached his destination, the wind had so increased in violence that the boatmen were overpowered, and the boat was dashed to pieces against the adamantine walls of the Haukanes Fjeld. All on board were lost but the priest, who was carried by the billows into a small cleft in the rock, far above the usual high-water mark. For three days he sat wedged in this hole, from whence there was no exit. On the fourth day, the winds and waves abated; and some boatmen, who were rowing by, as good fortune would have it, heard the faint cry for assistance which the captive gave, as he saw them from his “coin of vantage.” And so he was rescued from his terrible predicament; and the notch in the wall still goes by the name of the Prestehul, “Priest’s-hole.”
Bishop Selwyn, with his well-found yacht, sailing among the deep bays of New Zealand, confirming and stablishing the Maoris in the Christian faith, will have to wait a long time before he can meet with such an adventure as the Tindsö priest. But then you’ll say, in winter time it is all right, and the parson can dash along over the ice, defying the dangers of the deep and the bristling rocks. Not so, however; there are not unfrequently weak places in the ice, which look as strong as the rest, but which let in the unfortunate traveller. Not long ago, five men and a horse were thus engulphed. So in the Heimskringla Saga, King Harold and his retinue perish by falling through the ice on the Randsfjord, at a place where cattle-dung had caused it to thaw.
Giving up all thoughts of ascending the Gausta,—as I understand the chance of a view from it in this misty weather is very precarious,—I hire a horse from one Hans Ostensen Ingulfsland, to convey my luggage to Waage, on the Miösvand. Hans was ill, apparently of a deranged stomach and liver, and, with rueful aspect, consulted me on his case. All the medicine he had was what he called a probatum, in a small bottle. The probatum turned out to be a specific for the gravel, as I saw from a label on the flask; so I gave him what was more likely to suit his case, some blue pill and rhubarb.
Hans’ father used to entertain travellers, but his charges became so high that all his customers forsook him; and M. Doel, who appears to be in a fair way to imitate his predecessor, set up in “the public line.”
Hitherto the valley has been clear of cloud; and on arriving at Vaa, I stop to rest, and sketch the distant smoke of the Riukan ascending from its rocky cauldron towards heaven. Presently the mist, which had all the morning hidden the “comb” of Gausta, threw off a few flakes; these gradually extend and unite, and pour along the mountain-tops to my left, and in a few minutes reach to and absorb the smoke of Riukan, and hide it from view. Up boil the fogs, as if by magic, from all sides; and, like the image of Fame, in Virgil, the vapour rises from the depths of the valley, and reaches up to the sky. Doubtless it was the spirit of the place, wroth at my profane endeavour to represent her shrine on paper; and the sullen “moan” of the stream might, by an imaginative person, have been supposed to be the utterance of her complaint.
In the foreground, intently watching my operations as he sits upon a rock, is old Peer Peerson Vaa, who being over eighty, is past work, and having no children, has sold his Gaard to one Ole Knutzen, on the condition of having his liv-brod (life-bread)—i.e., being supported till his death. This is not an uncommon custom in Norway. He is “farbro” (uncle) to the man at Dœl.
Observe the simplicity of the language. So the Norsk for “aunt” is “moerbro,”—mother’s brother.
I here obtain a dollar or two of small change, with which I am ill provided. It is curious, by-the-bye, to see how one of these bonders looks at half-a-dozen small coins before he is able to reckon the amount. This is in consequence of the infrequency of money up the country.
As we ascend the Pass, I observe some dusky-looking birds, which turn out to be ringouzels. According to a Norwegian whom I consulted on the subject, they are the substitute, in a great measure, if not altogether, in this part of the country, for the
Ouzel cock, so black of hue,