Beyond the ferry there has been a recent fall of rocks from the cliffs above. In the cool recesses of the rocks grow numbers of strawberries and raspberries, which my man obligingly gathers and presents to me. A black and white woodpecker, with red head and rump, perches on a pine-tree close by.
A little above is the finest fall on the river, except that near Vigeland. All around the smooth scarped cliffs converge down to the water at a considerable angle, the cleavage being parallel to their surface.
At one spot my chatty little post-boy, who, boy as he was, rejoiced in a wife and child, stops to talk with a mighty tall fellow, one Björn Tvester, who offers to take me up some high mountain near to see a fine view. A woman close by, who is unfortunately absent on the hills, possesses an ancient silver cross, of great size and fine workmanship. This used, in former times, to be used by the bridegroom at a wedding.
A smiling plain now opens before us, in the centre of which stands the parish church. While I stop to enjoy the prospect, a crowd of men and women collect around me. One of the fair sex, who rejoiced in the name of Mari Björnsdatter, I endeavour to sketch, to her great delight.
“Stor mirakel!” (great miracle) shouted the peasants, looking over my shoulder. “Aldrig seet maken[10] (never saw the like)”!
“And what’s your name?” I asked of a red-headed urchin, of miserable appearance. The answer, “Thor,” made me smile, and produced a roar from the masculines, Folke, Orm, Od (a very odd name, indeed), Dreng, Sigbjörn, and a titter from the feminines ditto, all of whom saw the joke at once.
Putting up at the station-master’s at Rige, I sally out and meet with an intelligent fellow, Arne Bjugson by name, formerly a schoolmaster, now a pedlar. He tells me there is an ancient bridal dress at one of the houses, and he it was who put this on, and sat to Tidemann for his sketch of the Sætersdal Bridegroom.
We forthwith go to inspect it. The bridegroom’s jacket is of blue, over which came another of red. His knee-breeches are black, and crimped or plaited; his blue stockings were wound round with ribands; his hat was swathed in a white cloth, round which a silver chain was twisted. In his hand he held a naked sword; around his waist was a brass belt, and on his neck a silver chain with medals. The bride’s dress consisted of two black woollen petticoats, plaited or folded; above these a blue one, and over all a red one. Then came a black apron, and above that a white linen one, and round her waist three silver belts. Her jacket was black, with a small red collar, ornamented with a profusion of buckles, hooks, fibulas, and chains. On her head was a silver-gilt crown, and around her neck a pearl necklace, to which a medal, called “Agnus Dei,” was suspended.
Arne has read Snorro’s Chronicle, which he borrowed from the parson. Ivar Aasen, the author of several works on the old Norsk language, has been more than once up here examining into the dialect. Those interested in the sources of the English language, and in ascertaining how much of it is due to the old Norsk, have ample room for amusement and instruction here. Many English words, unknown in the modern Norwegian, are to be found in use in these secluded parts, though driven from the rest of the country, just in the same way as the Norsk language was talked at Bayeux a long time after it had become obsolete at Rouen and other parts of Normandy. Our “noon” reappears in “noni;” “game,” in “gama,” a word not known away from this. “To prate,” is “prata;” “to die,” is “doi;” “two,” is “twi,” not “to,” as elsewhere; indeed, all the numerals differ from those used elsewhere. The people pronounce “way,” “plough,” and “net,” just like an Englishman. To “neigh,” is “neja,” not “vrinska.” A stocking is “sock,” not “strömpe;” eg = edge; skafe = safe or cupboard; “kvik” corresponds in all its meanings to our word “quick.” The old Icelandic “gildr” is used as an eulogistic epithet, = excellent. Their word for “wheel” sounds like our English, and is not “eule,” as elsewhere; “stubbe” is our “stub,” or little bit; “I” is “oi,” not “Ieg;” “fir” is pronounced “fir;” “spon” has been already mentioned: “snow,” “mile,” “cross,” re-occur here, whereas elsewhere they differ from the English.
While we are engaged in these philological lucubrations a man comes up, a piece of whose lower-lip has gone, interfering with his speech. This occurred at a wedding. He and another had a trial of strength, in which he proved the strongest. The vanquished man, assisted by his two brothers, then set upon him, and bit him like a dog. As aforesaid, the people of the valley are ordinarily good-natured and peaceable enough; but let them only get at the ale or brandy, and they become horribly brutal and ferocious, and a slagsmal (fight) is sure to ensue. One method of attack on these occasions is by gouging the eye out, spone i ovgo (literally to spoon out the eye). Sometimes the combatants place some hard substance in the hand, as a stone or piece of wood. This they call “a hand-devil,” the “knuckle-duster” of English ruffians. At Omlid, several miles over the mountains to the east of this, the people even when sober are said to be anything but snil (good). So disastrous was the effect of drink at a bridal (i.e., bride-ale or wedding festival),[11] that the bride, it is said, frequently used to bring with her a funeral shirt for fear that she might have to carry home her husband dead. In any case she was provided with bandages wherewith to dress his wounds.