A very fine old vestment is still worn for the communion; it is richly brocaded, with a large purple cross on the back, and in the centre of this is a brass crucifix. The verger said it was a pity to have a new one until this was worn out. It certainly wears well, for it has been in constant use ever since the Reformation. The great feature, however, has yet to be noticed. A curious instrument is used as a persuader during the service: it consists of a pole, painted red, about eight feet long, with a knob at each end. On inquiring the use of this instrument and for what ceremonial, the verger, with surprise at our ignorance, said, “To wake the sleepers.” How? “Here, sirs,” continued he, placing his hand on his waistcoat, as indicative of the best place to tilt at effectually. The reader will be glad to know that the knobs did not betray much sign of wear.
We must now return to the station, which is associated with greyling in the river, and wood-carving executed during the winter months in the farmhouses—spoons, bellows, tankards, mangel brats, and culinary implements. It was our good fortune to meet at Mølmen a delightful Austrian—his grey and green jacket informed us of that fact—but his general information was an oasis for travellers. A great botanist, it was delightful to go out with him, especially as he was, at that moment, perfectly mad about saxifrages and the flora of Norway. Then, again, “flies.” He had been up the North Cape, to the Namsen and other large rivers, and some one had given him a few Namsen “Butcher’s” salmon flies of immense size. These he showed to us; and we, finding him so interested, asked him if he would like to see our collection of natural flies. “Certainly.” The flies we exhibited were the mosquitoes we had shut up between the leaves of note-books when the flies had been thickest in our tents on a warm evening. “Ah!” exclaimed our Austrian, “ten tousand of dose fellows did I swallow at the North Cape, and they bite all the way going down.” Happily, however, he had survived. We also met here a distinguished Prussian—large forefinger ring, très Prussien—whose favourite exercise at the festive board astonished us. Mountain strawberries at Mølmen are a treat, and at dinner we had some. Our aristocratic foreigner plunged them into a tumbler of sparkling wine, but alas! how did he extract them? The Count must have been in a lancer regiment, for with a tent-peg action he tried to pig-stick each strawberry and raise it to his mouth with his toothpick, persevering until the tumbler was emptied, and the last strawberry pierced and entombed.
A Norwegian Salmon Stage.
In passing along the shores of the fjords a kind of stage may be seen occasionally, which would give the casual observer an idea of preparations for pile-driving; but the object of this construction is for quite a different purpose. It is one of the dreadful means used by the Norwegian farmers to obtain salmon. The system is this:—Netting.—A man sits in the perch-box; the net is laid round to the buoys as indicated in the previous illustration, and, as soon as the fisherman (if he may be designated by that name) sees a salmon underneath and within his net limit, he hauls in, and generally gets him. The salmon, being in the habit of returning to the same river or fos, are sometimes the victims of an inquiring mind in the following manner:—The Norwegian whitens the face of the rock, or places a light plank so that the fish’s attention may be attracted, and, whilst making up his mind as to whether it may be right or wrong, his fate is sealed, and he will soon be hung up in the farmer’s house, with two sticks across his body. After it has been rubbed with sugar and smoked in juniper fumes it is certainly a goodly adjunct to a breakfast; but when the weary traveller finds only smoked salmon, he cannot help thinking of the days when he was young, and had fresh meat regularly.
Hardanger.
When coming down from the Haukelid Pass out of Sæterdal to the Hardanger, we had not time or space to refer to a very beautiful passage between the two, which we will now notice. We came from Haukelid a little gloomy; we had seen a corrie which had been the scene of a reindeer slaughter, or Glencoe, the result of misplaced generosity on the part of an Englishman to a Norwegian. The former had given the latter a double-barrelled breech-loading rifle, with a good battue supply of cartridges. The consequence was that the local Nimrod, assisted by a confederate, drove a herd of reindeer into a cul-de-sac corrie, and then shot down more than twenty. This was worse than the friend who gave his river watcher a salmon rod and flies; the elve-wakker, or keeper, fished hard with fly and worm, and with much glee wrote to his lord and master in England that he had caught “plenty salmons, or stor lax,” and the river would soon be ready for him, but he would like two new tops brought out for the rod so kindly given to him.
Journeying from Haukelid, we came down to Roldal, where the pass combines to produce a scene of great grandeur. The old wooden bridge, the blustering torrent falling with ponderous leap down into a chasm below, the serenity and peace of the distant snow range, and the placid lake far, far below, formed a combination which causes regret that it can never be adequately depicted on paper. The scenery is immensely grand, the living proportionately sparse and meagre. It is the old story, the quotation of Bennett’s Guide-book—“Magnificent waterfall at back; only two wooden spoons at this station.”
A tremendous zigzag is being cut by the Government in connection with a road which is ultimately intended to be opened over the pass. From the top of this zigzag a very commanding view is obtained of the valley of Seljestad and the Folgefond—an immense expanse of snow. We were very tired on arriving at Seljestad, and could get nothing but a recorked bottle of beer, which must have been put back several times on being declined by previous travellers. There was nothing to eat or drink; but such a blakken, or Norwegian pony, was put into No. 3 carriole, with the proprietor up as skyds. Having gone about five miles, the owner thought that the animal was not showing what he could do, or even up to his fair average; so, taking the rope reins, he stood up at the back of the carriage, grunted at him, and with deep growlings of “Elephanta!” sent him flying at a tremendous pace downhill, and, when far down the valley, we flew along the road through the spoondrift of two fine falls. The owner explained that the pony hated being called an elephant, and always went better when a little abused.