A dreary station--Strange bed-fellows--Broadsides--Comfortable
proverb--Skarp England--Interesting particulars--A hospitable
Norwegian Foged--Foster-children--The great bear-hunter--A
terrible Bruin--Forty winks--The great Vennefoss--A temperance
lamentation--More bear talk--Grey legs--Monosyllabic
conversation--Trout fished from the briny deep--A warning to
the beaux of St. James’s-street--Thieves’ cave--A novelette for
the Adelphi.
I stop for the night at the dreary station of Homsmoen. By a singular
economy in household furniture, the cornice of the uncurtained
state-bed is made to serve as a shelf, and all the crockery, together
with the other household gods or goods of the establishment, are
perched thereon, threatening to fall upon me if I made the slightest
movement, so that my feelings, and those of Damocles, must have been
not unlike; and when I did get to sleep, my slumbers were suddenly
disturbed by the creeping of a mouse or rat, not “behind the arras,”
for the wooden walls were bare, but under my pillow. Gracious
goodness! is it my destiny then to fall a prey to these wretches?
Notwithstanding, I soon dozed off to sleep again, muttering to myself
something about “Coctilibus muris,” and “dead for a ducat.”
In the morning, when the peasant-wife brings me coffee, I tell her of
the muscipular disturbances of the past night. She replies, with much
_sang froid_, “O ja, de pleie at holde sig da” (Oh yes, they are in the
habit of being there), _i.e._, in the loose bed-straw.
While sipping my coffee, I read a printed address hung upon the
wall, wherein “a simple Norwegian, of humble estate,” urges his
countrymen not to drink brandy. A second notice is an explanation of
infant baptism. This is evidently to counteract the doctrines of the
clergyman Lammers, who, as I have mentioned elsewhere, has founded an
antipædobaptist sect. Indeed, I see in the papers advertisements of
half-a-dozen works that have lately appeared on the subject. Another
specimen of this wall-literature was a collection of Norwegian
proverbs, one of which might perhaps serve to reconcile an explorer in
this country to indifferent accommodation. “The poor man’s house is his
palace.” Another proverb rebuked pride, in the following manner:--“Dust
is still dust, although it rise to heaven.”
Next day we pass a solitary farmstead, which my attendant informs me is
called Skarp England (_i.e._, scanty, not deep-soiled, meadow-land).
Were it not for those Angles, the generally reputed godfathers of
England, one would almost be inclined to derive the name of our country
from that green, meadow (eng) like appearance which must have caught
the attention of the immigrant Jutes and Saxons. At least, such is the
surmise of Professor Radix.
“And what road is that?” I asked, pointing to a very unmacadamized
byway through the forest.
“It is called Prest-vei (the Priest’s-way), because that is the road
the clergyman has to take to get to one of his distant churches.”
“Gee up!” said I to the horse, a young one, and unused to his work,
adding a slight flip with the whip (Svöbe), a compliment which the
colt returned by lashing out with his heels.
“Hilloa, Erik! this won’t do; it’s quite dangerous.”
“Oh no, he has no back shoes; he won’t hurt you--except,” he afterwards
added, “out of fun he should happen to strike a little higher.”
The ill-omened shriek of a couple of jays which crossed the road
diverted my attention, and I asked their Norwegian name, which I found
to be “skov-shur” (wood-magpie) in these parts.
As we skirt the western bank of the Kile Fjord, a fresh-water lake,
a dozen miles long, and abounding in fish (meget fiskerig), the man
points to me a spot on the further shore where the Torrisdal River,
after flowing through the lake, debouches by a succession of falls in
its course to Vigeland and the sea at Christiansand.
At every station the question is, “Are you going up to the copper
works?” These are at Valle, a long way up the valley. They have
been discontinued some years, but, it is said, are now likely to be
re-opened.
At Ketilsaa I am recommended to call on the Foged of the district,
a fine, hearty sexagenarian, who gave me much valuable information
respecting this singular valley and its inhabitants; besides which,
what I especially valued under the circumstances, he set before me
capital home-brewed beer, port wine, Trondjem’s aquavit, not to
mention speil aeg (poached eggs) and bear ham. Bear flesh is the best
_travel_ of all, say the Greenlanders, so I did not spare the last. The
superstitions and tales about Huldra and fairies (here called jügere)
are, the Foged tells me, dying out hereabout, though not higher up the
valley.
His foster-son,[4] a jolly-looking gentleman, sends off a messenger
to see if his own horse is near at hand, in order that I may not be
detained by waiting for one at the neighbouring station, Fahret. But
the pony is somewhere in the forest, so that his benevolent designs
cannot be realized. Altogether, I have never visited any house in
Norway where intelligence, manliness, and good-nature seemed so
thoroughly at home as at the Foged’s.
The station-master, Ole Gundarson Fahret, manages to get me a relay in
one hour; in the interval we have a palaver.
“There was once an Englishman here,” said he, “who went out
bear-hunting with the greatest bear-shooter of these parts, Nils Olsen
Breistöl; but they did not happen on one. Breistöl has shot fifteen
bears.”
“How does he manage to find them in the trackless forest?”
“Why he is continually about, and he knows of a great many bears’
winter-lairs (Björn-hi); and when the bear is asleep, he goes and pokes
him out.”
“But is it not dangerous?”
“Sometimes. There was a great bear who was well known for fifty miles
round, for he was as grey as a wolf, and lame of one leg, having
been injured, it was thought, in a fight with a stallion. He killed
a number of horses; and great rewards were offered to the killer of
him. The people in Mandal, to the west, offered thirty dollars; he had
been very destructive down there. Well, Breistöl found out where he
lay one winter, and went up with another man. Out he comes, and tries
to make off. They are always ræd (frightened) at first, when they are
surprised in their lair. But Breistöl sent a ball into him (this Norsk
Mudjekeewis, by-the-bye, makes his own rifles), and the bear stopped
short, and rushed at him. Just at this moment, however, he got another
bullet from the other man, which stopped him. After waiting for a
moment, he turned round, and charged at the new aggressor, who dodged
behind a tree; meanwhile, Breistöl had loaded, and gave him another
ball; and so they kept firing and dodging; and it actually took fifteen
balls to kill him, he was so big and strong. The last time they fired,
they came close to him, and shot two bullets into his head, only making
one hole; then he died. The usual reward from the Government is five
dollars, but Breistöl got fifteen. The Mandal people, when they heard
the great grey bear was dead, gave him nothing. Fand (fiend)! but he
was immensely big (uhyr stor), so fat and fleshy.”
“And how long does the bear sleep in winter?” I inquired.
“He goes in about Sanct Michael’s-tid, and comes out at the beginning
of April.”
“And how many bears are there in one hole?”
“Only one; unless the female has young late in the autumn. A man in
these parts once found an old he-bear (Manden), with a she-bear, and
three young cubs, all in one hole. I think there are as many bears
as ever there were in the country. There was a lad up in the forest,
five years ago; a bear struck at him, but missed him, only getting
his cap, which stuck on the end of his claws. This seemed to frighten
the brute, and he made off. The little boy didn’t know what a danger
he had escaped; he began to cry for the loss of his cap, and wanted
to go after it. Now that did not happen by chance. V Herre Gud har
Hannd i slig (God our master has a hand in such like things). We have a
proverb, that the bear has ten men’s strength, and the wit of twelve;
but that’s neither here nor there. Björnen kan vaere meget staerk, men
han faa ikke Magt at draebe mennesker, Mnaar Han ikke tillade det. (The
bear may be very strong, but he has not the power to kill men unless He
permits it.”)
In which proper sentiment I of course acquiesced, and took leave of the
intelligent Schusskaffer.
My attendant on the next stage, Ole Michelsen Vennefoss, derived his
last name from the great cataract on the Otterelv, near which he lives.
It is now choked up with timber. But all this, he tells me, will move
in the autumn, when the water rises; although, in the north of the
country, the rivers at that time get smaller and smaller, and, in
winter time, with the ice that covers them, occupy but a small part of
the accustomed bed.
A few years ago, a friend of his had a narrow escape at these falls:
the boat he was in turned over just above the descent, and he
disappeared from view; down hurried the boat, and providentially was
not smashed to pieces. At the bottom of the fall it caught against a
rock, and righted again, and up bobbed the drowned man, having been
under the boat all the time. His friends managed to save him.
On the road we overtake a man driving, who offers me schnaps in an
excited manner.
“Ah,” said Ole, mournfully, “he has been to the By, and bought some
brantviin; they never can resist the temptation. When he gets home,
there will be a Selskab (party). People for miles round know where he
has been, and they will come and hear the news, and drink themselves
drunk.”
Ole is one of the so-called Lesere, or Norwegian Methodists, disciples
of Hauge, whose son is the clergyman of a parish near here. They may
often be detected by their drawling way of speaking.
“Well, Ole,” said I, “did you ever see any of these bears they talk so
much about?”
“Yes, that I have. I saw the old lame bear that Breistöl shot. I was
up at the stöl (châlet) four years ago come next week, with my two
sisters. We were sitting outside the building, just about this time of
the evening, when it was getting dusk; all of a sudden, the horse came
galloping to us as hard as ever he could tear. I knew at once it was a
bear; and, sure enough, close behind him, came the beast rushing out of
the wood. We all raised a great noise and shouting, on which the bear
stopped, and ran away. Poor blacky had a narrow escape; he bears the
marks of the bear’s claws on his hind quarters. I could put my four
fingers in them.”
Quite so, hummed I--
The sable score of fingers four
Remain on that _horse_ impressed.
“But what do the bears eat, when they can’t get cattle?”
“Grass, and berries, and ants (myren).”
“But don’t the ants sting him?”
“Oh! no; no such thing. A friend of mine saw a bear come to one of
those great ant-hills you have passed in the woods. He put out his
tongue, and laid it on the ant-hill till it was covered with ants, and
then slipped it back into his mouth. They can’t hurt him, his tongue
is too thick-skinned for that.”
“Does the bear eat anything in winter?”
“Nothing, I believe. I have seen one or two that were killed then;
their stomach was as empty as empty--wanted no cleaning at all. I think
that’s the reason they are such cowards then. I have always more pluck
when my stomach is full. Hav’n’t you?”
It struck me that there are many others besides the artless Norwegian
who, if they chose, must confess to a similar weakness.
“But the wolves (ulven) don’t go to sleep in winter; what do they eat?”
“Ulven?--what’s that?”
“I mean Graa-been (grey-legs).”
“Ah! you mean Skrüb.[5] In winter they steal what they can, and, when
hard pressed, they devour a particular sort of clay. That’s well
known; it’s plain to see from their skarn (dung.)”
Ole further tells me that a pair of eagles build in a tall tree about a
mile from his house. The young ones have just flown; he had not time
to take them, although there is a reward of half-a-dollar a-head. Fancy
a native of the British Isles suffering an eagle to hatch, and fly off
with its brood in quiet.
“Hvor skal de ligge inat?” (where shall you lie to-night?) he inquired,
as we proceeded.
“I don’t think I shall go further than Guldsmedoen, to-night,” I
replied.
“There is no accommodation at all at the station,” he said; “but at
Senum, close by, you can get a night’s lodging.”
It was dark when we arrived at Senum, which lay down a break-neck
side-path, where the man had to lead the horse. On our tapping at the
door, a female popped her head out of a window, but said nothing. After
a pause, my man says “Quells,” literally, whiling, or resting-time.
This was an abbreviation for “godt quell” (good evening). “Quells” was
the monosyllabic reply of the still small voice at the porthole.
“Tak for senast” (thanks for the last), was my guide’s next observation.
“Tak for senast,” the other responded from above.
The ice being now somewhat broken, the treble of “the two voices”
inquired--
“What man is that with you?”
“A foreigner, who wants a night’s lodging.”
Before long, the farmer and his wife were busy upstairs preparing a
couch for me, with the greatest possible goodwill; nor would they
hear of Ole returning home that night, so he, too, obtained sleeping
quarters somewhere in the establishment.
I find, what the darkness had prevented me from seeing, that this house
is situated at the southern end of the Aarfjord, a lake of nearly forty
miles in length. Mine host has this evening caught a lot of fine trout
in the lake with the nets. They are already in salt--everything is
salted in this country--but I order two or three fat fellows out of the
brine, and into some fresh water against the morning, when they prove
excellent. So red and fat! The people here say they are better than
salmon.
Rain being the order of the next day, I post up my journal. In the
afternoon I resume my journey by the road on the further side of the
lake. Until very lately a carriage road was unknown here. The Fogderi,
or Bailewick, in which we now are, is called Robygd: a reminiscence,
it is said, of the days not long since over, when the sole means of
locomotion up the valley (bygd) was to row (roe). The vehicle being a
common cart, with no seat, a bag is stuffed with heather for me to sit
on; and this acts as a buffer to break the force of the bumps which the
new-made road and the springless cart kept giving each other, while,
in reality, it was I that came in for the brunt of the pommelling. The
Norwegian driver sat on the hard edge of the cart, regardless of the
shocks, and as tough apparently as the birch-wood of which the latter
was composed. It won’t do for a person who is at all _made-up_ to risk
a journey in Sætersdal: he would infallibly go to pieces, and the
false teeth be strewed about the path after the manner of those of the
serpent or dragon sown by Jason on the Champ de Mars. Armed men rose
from the earth on that occasion, and something of the kind took place
now. Don’t start, reader, it was only in story.
“Look at that hole,” said my attendant, pointing to an opening half-way
up the limestone cliff, surrounded by trees and bushes. “That is
the----”
“Cave of the Dragon?” interrupted I, abstractedly.
“The Tyve Helle (thieves’ cave), which goes in one hundred feet deep.
For a long time they were the terror of all Sætersdal. The only way
to the platform in front of the cave was by a ladder. One of their
band, who pretended to be a Tulling (idiot), used to go begging at the
farm-houses, and spying how the ground lay.
“On one occasion they carried off along with some cattle the girl who
tended them. Poor soul! she could not escape, they kept such a sharp
watch on her. The captain of the band meanwhile wanted to marry her;
she pretended to like the idea, and the day before that fixed for
the wedding asked leave just to go down to the farm where she used
to live and steal the silver Brudestads (bridal ornaments), which
were kept there. The thieves gave her leave;--they could dispense
with the parson, but not with this. But first they made her swear she
would not speak to a soul at the house. At midnight, Asjer, as she was
called, arrived at her former home, to the astonishment of the good
folks. She at once proceeded to take a piece of white linen, a scrap
of red home-spun cloth, and a pair of shears. This done, she went to
the chimney-corner and told the pinewood-beam, ‘I have been stolen by
robbers; they live in a cave in the forest, I will cut little bits
of red cloth on the road to it; to-morrow the captain marries me.
To-night, when they are all drunk and asleep, I will hang out the piece
of white cloth.’ Without exchanging a word with the inmates, she then
set off back. The master of the house and a few friends collected, and
followed her track. At night-fall they saw the flag waved from the
mouth of the cave. In they rushed upon the thieves, who, unable to
escape, threw themselves over the precipice. The captain, suspecting
her to be the author of the surprise, seized her by the apron as he
dashed over the ledge, determined that she should die with him. But
the leader of the bonders, a ready-witted fellow, cut her apron-strings
with his knife, just in the nick of time, so that she was saved; and
the robber, in his fall, took nothing with him but her apron.”