CHAPTER XI.
Off again—Shakspeare and Scandinavian literature—A fat peasant’s better half—A story about Michaelmas geese—Explanation of an old Norwegian almanack—A quest after the Fremmad man—A glimpse of death—Gunvar’s snuff-box—More nursery rhymes—A riddle of a silver ring—New discoveries of old parsimony—The Spirit of the Woods—Falcons at home—The etiquette of tobacco-chewing—Lullabies—A frank invitation—The outlaw pretty near the mark—Bjaräen—A valuable hint to travellers—Domestic etcetera—Early morning—Social magpies—An augury—An eagle’s eyrie—Meg Merrilies—Wanted an hydraulic press—A grumble at paving commissioners—A disappointment—An unpropitious station-master—Author keeps house in the wilderness—Practical theology—Story of a fox and a bear—Bridal stones—The Vatnedal lake—Waiting for the ferry—An unmistakable hint—A dilemma—New illustration of the wooden nutmeg truth—“Polly put the kettle on”—A friendly remark to Mr. Caxton—The real fountain of youth—Insectivora—The maiden’s lament.
Bidding adieu to the kind and hospitable Lehnsman and his spouse, whose courtesy and hospitality made up for the forbidding ways of Madame Rige, I turned my face up the valley. The carriage-road having now ceased, my luggage is transposed to the back of a stout horse, which, like the ancient Scottish wild cattle, was milk-white, with black muzzle. The straddle, or wooden saddle, which crosses his back, is called klöv-sal. Curiously enough, the Connemara peasants give the name of “cleve” to the receptacles slung on either side the ponies for the purpose of carrying peat, and through which the animal’s back cleaves like a wedge. A very fat man came puffing and panting up to my loft to fetch my gear.
“What!” said I, “are you going to march with me all that distance?” with an audible aside about his “larding the lean earth as he walks along.” The allusion to Falstaff he of course did not understand. His literature is older than Shakspeare; indeed the bard of Avon often borrowed from it. Whence comes his “Man in the moon with his dog and bush,” but from the fiction in the Northern mythology of Mâni (the moon), and the two children, Bil and Hiuki, whom she stole from earth. Scott’s Wayland Smith, too, he is nothing but Völund, the son of the Fin-king, who married a Valkyr by mistake, and used to practise the art of a goldsmith in Wolf-dale, and was hamstrung by the avaricious King Nidud, and forced to make trinkets for him on the desert isle of Saeverstad. Though it is only fair to say that the legend belonged also to the Anglo-Saxons, and indeed to most of the branches of the Gothic race. But we are forgetting our post-master. He was the first fat peasant I ever saw in this country.
“Nei, cors” (No, by the Rood). “I’m not equal to that. It’s nearly four old miles. My wife, a very snil kone (discreet woman), will schuss you.”
His better half accordingly appeared, clad in the dingy white woollen frock already described, reaching from the knee to the arm-holes, where is the waist. On this occasion, however, she had, for the purpose of expedition, put an extra girdle above her hips, making the brief gown briefer still, and herself less like a woman about to dance in a sack. Sending her on before, I sauntered along, stopping a second or two to examine the huge unhewn slab before the church door, with a cross and cypher on it, and the date 1639; to which stone some curious legend attaches, which I have forgotten. Passing Solomon’s house, and finding he had gone to the mountains, I left for him some flies, and a douceur, to the bewilderment of his son. At a house further up the valley I found a primstav two hundred years old, the owner of which perfectly understood the Runic symbols.
“That goose,” said he, “refers to Martinsmass, (Nov. 11). That’s the time when the geese are ready to kill.”
So that our derivation of Michaelmas goose-eating from the old story of Queen Elizabeth happening to have been eating that dish on the day of the news of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, is a myth. We got the custom from Norway, but the bird being fit to eat on the 29th September, Englishmen were too greedy to wait, and transferred to the feast of the archangel the dish appertaining to the Bishop of Tours.
That’s a lyster for Saint Lucia (13th Dec.); it means that they used to catch much fish against Yule. That knife means that it is time to slaughter the pigs for Yule. That horn is Yule-horn [the vehicle for conveying ale to the throats of the ancient Norskmen]. That’s Saint Knut (Jan. 7th). That’s his bell, to ring winter out. The sun comes back then in Thelemarken. Old folks used to put their hands behind their backs, take a wooden ale-bowl in their teeth, and throw it over their back; if it fell bottom upwards, the person would die in that year. That’s St. Brettiva, (Jan. 11), when all the leavings of Yule are eat up. You see the sign is a horse. I’ll tell you how that is. Once on a time a bonder in Thelemarken was driving out that day. The neighbour (nabo) asked him if he knew it was Saint Brettiva’s day. He answered—