The walk from our camp to Aak must have been about two miles. Mr. L. conversed with a young Norwegian gentleman who joined us, and we sauntered along with Captain C. The calm stillness of the Norwegian evening was very refreshing. By some chance our conversation turned upon ghost lore as one of our subjects. Each had our idea. Captain C. related one or two singular instances of undoubted occurrences. Wraiths, it has been said, may be accounted for by the wave of thought in distant manifestation. The body in one place and the spirit in another; voices as sounds seemingly distinct, sometimes heard through the wide distance between two souls inseparable. Before departure from the world, the spirit sometimes manifests itself to some loved friend. The wraith has accomplished its mission, and it is gone for ever. People who dwell with Nature seem peculiarly susceptible to such influences. In the regions of the mightiest works of our Creator’s hand, we find them naturally most prone to such impressions. Gipsies are not without their experiences on such subjects. More than one instance has found a place in our gipsy lore.
We have reached Aak, our discussion on a variety of subjects, ends in our finding ourself in a most comfortable room, hung round by photographs of Norwegian scenery, and seated at a small table, quaffing a glass of sparkling baiersk öl. The presence of English travellers was evident, from a marked attention to ventilation. A tidy pige, or waiting-girl, with quiet manner, and ready attention, attended to some travellers, who were taking their evening meal, at a long table near us. All was cleanliness and comfort at Aak.
Our stay at Aak was brief. We returned to our tents with Mr. L., who was full of information about his country. Those who are accustomed to our English climate, can scarcely realize the length of a Norwegian winter. It is very cold at Veblungsnœs, from about the middle of September to the middle of March. All that we now saw before us, so pleasant and smiling, would in a short time be covered with a white fleecy mantle of deep snow. Many scarcely venture out from September to March, and the cold winds sometimes produce on the face, not inured to continued exposure, what is called the Rose. It is a pink tinge upon the countenance, which in some is not altogether a blemish. Frost-bites and chilblains are of course the occasional result of so much cold. Frost-bites should be rubbed at once with snow. The oil from reindeer cheese is said to be a cure for frost-bites. Although the cold is intense at times, the atmosphere is dry and not unhealthy. If the Norwegian summer were twice the length, Norway would be a paradise.
The morning was windy, Noah’s tent was almost blown over. Our breakfast consisted of tea and bread and butter. Esmeralda was not well; Zachariah was still afflicted with a churie (gip., shut-knife) monomania. Two days’ inactivity, and extra good living, was evidently plunging our gipsies, into the depths of biliousness. It was in vain we had dosed Zachariah with brimstone and treacle, until he was a qualified inmate for Dotheboys’ Hall, and a fortnight with Wackford Squeers, would have done him an immense amount of good. Noah was always lively. A few hours’ rapid movement would restore all.
With all their waywardness, and restlessness of spirit, we had the elements for rapid action, and a physical energy, with which to push through any obstacle. Veblungsnœs, it was determined, should be our Ultima Thule, and striking our tents on Monday morning, we should seek new scenes in the wild Norwegian fjelds. Still wandering south—still on our homewards route, our little band of hardy nomads, would have to brace themselves to fresh exertion. What a vast expanse of mountain, glen and forest lay before us, which we must traverse, before we again reached the sea.
At half-past nine o’clock Esmeralda was ready to accompany me to Veblungsnœs. She looked well in her blue dress, plaid braid, and silver buttons, and her heavy boots were blacked and shining, specially for the visit. As we entered the avenue of trees all was quiet and repose. A Sunday in England could not have been more calm, and free from busy turmoil and bustle. The town of Veblungsnœs seemed to have a perpetual Sunday, for it was the same on week days; there was nothing dull, or dreary about the place, yet there was nothing to see in it; it possessed an indefinable charm, arising out of its attempt at nothing. We left it as we found it, to be remembered with pleasure.
Esmeralda had been promised to see the telegraphic apparatus. Our word to our gipsies was always relied upon by them; if it was said to them, it was done. Mr. L. was ready to receive us, and the apparatus was explained, and Esmeralda was electrified. With a present of a quantity of strawberries from Mr. L. she departed for our camp, whilst Mr. L. arranged for our departure in a boat to see the “Heen Kirke,” on the Isfjord.
The Isfjord is a fine expanse of water. Our two oarsmen were ready, strong hardy men, chewing tobacco without intermission, and spitting perpetually. Their pallor of countenance may have been produced by immoderate chewing. The yacht, “Claymore,” was resting at anchor; the owners of the craft were enjoying a sporting tour. There is a great enjoyment of independence in a yacht cruise. Norway is admirably adapted for yachting; but our time was limited, and getting the wind, our sail was hoisted, and we soon left Veblungsnœs in the distance. Gentle slopes rise from the margin of the Fjord for a short distance, dominated by lofty steeps and rising hills; here and there small log houses, being the residences of the peasant owners, come into view. The small property round each, is their farm.
The cost of an ordinary sized farm on the shores of the Fjord, would average about 600 to 700 dollars, or about £157. 10s. English money, according to the size of the farm. Few attempts are ever made to give to the Bondegaard, the picturesque appearance of the Swiss cottage. With very little more expense and labour, the Norwegian peasant’s cottage, might be made exceedingly pretty, and ornamental.
The “Heen Kirke” had no unusual attraction in itself; one Norwegian church is so like another. No old monuments to please the antiquarian taste; no mediæval tombs; no brasses, Norman arches, Saxon doorways, and decorated windows; no corbels, bosses, and grotesque imagery of ancient stone sculpture; no tesselated pavement, and richly ornamented cloisters, dark with age, and dim with poetic light. No peel of bells, and massive tower covered with ivy, resorted to by owls, and jackdaws. No ecclesiastical library of black-lettered books, curiously and substantially bound, in dark and dusty covers, crammed into shelves, and forgotten in some corner of the vestry. The worm-eaten oak chest was wanting also, containing well-thumbed registers and sacramental plate, secured by three large locks, one for the vicar and one for each of the churchwardens. The Norman stone font, with elaborate carving was absent. The crypt and sedilia,[68] were not to be found, and a chained Bible we did not see.[69] Yet, withal, the people are earnest in their prayer, their ways are those of peace, and their pastors appear to hold the affections of their flock.