As we left the church a characteristic sight presented itself. The churchyard was just the spot in which one would like to be buried—a beautiful freshly-mown sward, sloping down to the sea, and intersected by a couple of brooks brawling down from the hills, extended upwards to the copse of hazel, aspen, ash, and rowan trees that fringed the heights. Under some of these trees sat two or three maidens, looking as stiff as Norwegian peasant girls only can, when busked in their best, and before a crowd of people. Nor was a view of the placid fjord wanting. Look, some of the church-goers are already in their boats, the red bodices and white sleeves conspicuous from afar, while the dripping oars flash in the sun.
Before I took leave of my host and his agreeable family, I presented one of them, who was studying English, with a volume of Bulwer’s. The parting glass, of course, past round—a sacred institution, the Afskedsöl of the Sagas.
CHAPTER XV.
Up Steindalen—Thorsten Thormundson—Very near—Author’s guide gives him a piece of agreeable information—Crooked paths—Raune bottom—A great ant-hill—Author turns rainbow manufacturer—No one at home—The mill goblin helps author out of a dilemma—A tiny Husman—The dangers attending confirmation in Norway—The leper hospital at Bergen—A melancholy walk—Different forms of leprosy—The disease found to be hereditary—Terrible instances of its effects—Ethnological particulars respecting—The Bergen Museum—Delicate little monsters—Fairy pots—The best bookseller in Bergen—Character of the Danish language—Instance of Norwegian good-nature—New flames and old fiddles.
Passing the Östudfoss, I struck straight up Steindalen, purposing to pass a place called Teigen, and thence over to the Samnanger Fjord, on my road to Bergen. My hulking guide, Thorsten Thormundson, who, from his height, had been chosen as the front man of his regiment, was but a poor fellow notwithstanding. Having started later than we ought, we did not reach our destination before dark; and as there was not the smallest vestige of a path through the morasses, we had nearly walked over a cliff into a lake before I was aware of our danger. Luckily, we at last found a cot, and a boy conducted us to our destination.
After an uncomfortable night in a miserable hole of a cottage, I received the agreeable intelligence from my attendant, that he did not know the way any further, and wished to leave me. I informed him that he was quite welcome to do so, but if he did, he must go minus all pay. Upon this, the giant put on a very martial air, but seeing that I was not to be bullied, he prepared for the journey, employing a little maiden to show the way.
It was lucky for us that he did so, for the road was intricate beyond description. The old St. Giles’s rookery may serve as a comparison, for want of a better one. Being ahead, I was marching straight forward, when I was recalled by the shrill voice of the bare-footed lassie.
“On there,” she said, “was a precipice, over which Brat-foss poured. There was not foot-hold for a goat that way. We must try and get through the bog to the left, and so round by Raune bottom.”