A wolf trap--The heather--Game and game-preserves--An
optical delusion--Sumptuous entertainment--Visit to a
Norwegian store-room--Petticoats--Curious picture of
the Crucifixion--Fjord scenery--How the priest Brun was
lost--A Sætersdal manse--Frightfully hospitable--Eider-down
quilts--Costume of a Norwegian waiting-maid--The tartan in
Norway--An ethnological inquiry--Personal characteristics--The
sect of the Haugians--Nomad life in the far Norwegian
valleys--Trug--Memorials of the Vikings--Female Bruin in a
rage--How bears dispose of intruders--Mercantile marine of
Norway--The Bad-hus--How to cook brigands--Winter clothing.
Close by Langerack we pass a wolf-trap (baas), formed on the principle
of our box-trap, for catching rats, only that the material is thick
pine-boles fastened side by side. More than one wolf and lynx have been
caged here.
The heather still continues plentiful; I particularly note this, as in
the more northerly parts of the country, _e.g._, about Jerkin, this
beautiful vestiture of the rocks and moors is seldom seen, except in
very little bits. What a pity that none of our British grouse proper
(_Tetrao Scoticus_) return the visit of the Norwegian ptarmigan to
Scotland, and found a colony in these parts; they would escape at
all events those systematic traffickers in ornithological blood, by
whom these unfortunates are bought and sold as per advertisement.
Blackcock and capercailzie, as usual, are to be found in the lower
woods, and ptarmigan higher up. About here there are no trees of large
size remaining; the best have long since been cut down and floated
to the sea. It would do a nurseryman’s heart good to see the groups
of hardy little firs, self-sown, sprouting up in every crevice with
an exuberance of health and strength, and asserting their right to a
hearing among the soughing branches of their taller neighbours, who
rise patronizingly above them. The seed falling upon stony ground
does not fail to come up, notwithstanding, and bring forth fruit a
hundred-fold and more.
The valley here, which has been opening ever since I left Vennefoss,
continues to improve in looks; it is now almost filled by the Fjord,
and appears to come to an end some distance higher up, by the
intervention of a block of mountains; but if there be any truth in
the map, this is an optical delusion, the valley running up direct
northward, nearly one hundred and fifty miles from Christiansand, and
reaching a height at Bykle of nearly two thousand feet above the sea.
At the clean and comfortable station of Langerack I light upon a
treasure in the shape of a dozen or two of hens’ eggs; very small
indeed, it is true, as they were not quite so big as a bantam’s. Six
of these I immediately take, and an old lady, with exceedingly short
petticoats, commences frying them, while I grind the coffee which she
has just roasted.
After a goodly entertainment, for part of which I was indebted to my
own wallet, I go with her to the Stabur, or store-room, where, with
evident pride and pleasure, she shows me all her valuables; conspicuous
among these was a full set of bridal costume, minus the crown, which
was let out. The bridal belt was of yellow leather, and covered with
silver-gilt ornaments, all of the same pattern, to each of which is
suspended a small bracteate of the same metal, which jingles with every
step of the bride. What particularly attracted my attention were the
three woollen petticoats worn by the bride one over the other. The
first is of a dingy white colour, and is, in fact, the same as the
every-day dress of the females. The second is of blue cloth, with red
and green stripes round the bottom. The third, which is worn outermost,
is of scarlet, with gold and green edging. Of course if these were all
of the same length the under-ones would not be visible; and thus the
object of wearing such a heap of clothes--love of display--would be
defeated; so, while the undermost is long, the next is less so, and
the next shorter still. Each one is very heavy, so the weight of the
three together must be great indeed. The whole reminds one of harlequin
at a country fair. But, while he comes on unwieldily and shabbily
dressed, and as he takes off one coat and waistcoat after another grows
smarter and smarter, and at last fines down into a gay harlequin, the
Norwegian bride, by a contrary process, grows smarter and smarter with
each article of clothing that she assumes.
The most remarkable thing about these bridal petticoats is the skirt
behind, which is divided by plaits like the flutings of a Doric column;
while these, towards the bottom or base bulge out into two or three
rounded folds, which stick out considerably from the person. Hear this,
ye Miss Weazels, who condemn crinoline as a new-fangled institution,
whereas in fact the idea is evidently taken from the primæval customs
of Sætersdal. The support of this dead weight of clothing are not,
as might be expected, the hips, for the whole system of integuments
comes right up over the bosom, and is upheld by a couple of very short
braces or shoulder-straps. A jacket under these circumstances is almost
superfluous. It is of blue cloth with gold edging, and only reaches
down to the arm-holes.
These vestments are no doubt of very ancient cut. In the district of
Lom another sort of dress was once the fashion. The coat was of white
wadmel, with dark coloured embroidery, and silver buttons as big as
a dollar. The collar stood up. The waistcoat was scarlet, and also
embroidered. White knee-breeches of wash-leather, garters of coloured
thread, and shoes adorned with large silver buckles, set off the lower
man. This dress went out at the beginning of the century. In Romerike,
and elsewhere, there was on the back of the coat a quaint piece of
embroidery pointing up like the spire of a church, and green, red, or
blue, according to the parish of the wearer. At the public masquerades
in Christiania, these dresses may still be seen.
But I had forgotten the old lady in the contemplation of the wardrobe.
She appears to think she shall make me understand her jargon better
by shouting in my ears--a common mistake--and while she does so, she
skips about the chamber with all the agility of the old she-goat before
the door. The proverb says, “Need makes the old wife run,” but she ran
without any apparent cause. Finally, in her enthusiasm, she goes the
length of putting one of these petticoats on--don’t be alarmed, fair
reader--_over_ her own, to show me how it looks. Besides the above
state apparel, mutton and pork-hams, with other comestibles, find a
secure place in the store-room.
In the sitting-room of the house is a remarkable picture of our Saviour
on the cross, with various quaint devices round it. It is known to
be more than three hundred years old, and no doubt dates from the
Roman Catholic times. Like most of the peasants, who are exceedingly
tenacious of these “Old-sager” (old-world articles), the master of the
house won’t part with the picture for any consideration.
As a boat is procurable, I determine to vary the mode of travelling by
going by water to the station ----, and the more so as this will enable
me to try for a trout while I am resting my shaken limbs. There being
no wind to ruffle the water, I only took one or two trout. A man on the
lake, who was trailing a rough-looking fly, was not a little astonished
at my artificial minnow. The Fjord is very fine. Pretty bays, nestling
under the bare lofty mountains, and here and there a beach of yellow
sand, fringing a grassy slope, while behind these, Scotch fir, birch,
and aspen throw their shadows over the water.
“You see that odde (point),” says my old waterman; “that is Lobdal
point. It was just there that Priest Brun had the misfortune to be
lost, twenty years ago come Yule. He had been preaching down below, at
one of his four churches, and was sleighing home again on the ice. The
Glocker (precentor) was driving behind him, when he saw him suddenly
disappear, horse and all. It was a weak place in the ice, and, there
being snee-dicke (snow-thickness) at the time, the priest had not seen
any symptoms of danger. Poor man, I knew him well; he was a very good
person. He never received Christian burial, for his body was never
found.” Such are the incidents that checquer the life of a Norwegian
parson.
It was so nearly dark when we arrived at ----, that we had a difficulty
in finding the landing-place, to which, however, we were guided by
something that looked like a house in the gloaming.
“And where am I to lodge?” asked I of the boatman. “Is the station far
off?”
“Yes, a good distance. You had best lie at Priest ----’s, there.”
“But I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“That does not matter the least. He is forfaerdelig gjestfri
(frightfully hospitable) og meget snil (and very good).”
So I make bold to grope my way to the house, and, finding the door,
tap at it. It is opened by a short, good-humoured looking person, the
clergyman himself, who quiets the big dog that I had kept at bay with
my fishing-rod, asks me who I am, and bids me come in and be welcome,
as if he had known me all the days of my life. Few minutes elapse
before I am eating cold meat and drinking ale; during the repast
chatting with my host on all sorts of matters. Supper ended, he shows
me to the best chamber, or stranger’s room, where I am soon reposing
luxuriously under an eider-down coverlet. This I kicked off in my
slumbers, it being evidently too hot for an Englishman in summer time,
even in Norway. What delightful things these eider-downs must be in the
cold of a northern winter.
A young female servant, Helvig by name, brings my boots in the morning.
She was clad in the working-day dress of the country maidens. To begin
with the beginning, or her head. It is covered with a coloured cotton
couvrechef. Her masculine chemise is fastened at the throat by two
enormous studs of silver filigree, bullet shaped, and is, below this,
further confined by a silver brooch (Norwegicè “ring”), shaped like a
heart. Her petticoat, which covers very little of her black worsted
stockings, makes up for its shortcomings in that direction, by reaching
right up above her bosom. It is of a dingy white wool, and is edged
with three broad stripes of black. On Sunday her petticoat is black,
with red or blue edging.
She brings me her tartan of red wool with white stripes for my
inspection. It is called “kjell,” a word which occurs in the old ballad
of “The Gay Goss Hawk.”
Then up and got her seven sisters,
And sewed to her a kell.
There it means pall, but the Norwegian word is also used of any
coverlet. The maidens wear it just like a Parisian lady would her
shawl, _i.e._, below the shoulders, and tight over the elbows. The
married women, however, carry it like the Scotch plaid, over one
shoulder and under the other arm, with their baby in the kolpos, or
sinus, in front.
This article of dress, which is sometimes white, striped with red--the
stripes being most frequent at the ends--and also the above manner of
wearing it, are thought to corroborate the tradition that these people
are a Scotch colony. The language, too, contains many words not known
elsewhere in Norway, but used in England. Instead of “skee,” they say
“spon,” which is nothing but the Icelandic “spónn,” and our “spoon.”
In the words kniv (knife), and knap (button), the k is silent before
n; whereas, elsewhere in Norway, it is pronounced. L, too, is silent
before d, as with us; “skulde” (should) being pronounced “skud,” or
“shud.” The common word for a river in Norway is “elv;” here it is
“aas,” pronounced “ose,” which is nothing but the frequent “ooze” of
England, meaning, in fact, “a stream generally.”
“What sort of people are the peasants about here?” I asked of the
priest.
“They have many peculiarities. Formerly, they were looked upon by
the rest of Norway as a kind of Abderites, stupid fellows; but they
are not so much stupid, far from it, as quaint and comical. Indeed,
their dress makes them look odd and simple. You must know that ten
years ago the only road up the valley was by water, and about the only
travellers the priest and a merchant or two. These Westland people
are very different from the Eastlanders; for, whereas the latter are
more ‘alvorlig’ (serious), and ‘modig’ (plucky), these are more ‘blid’
(gentle), more ‘dorsk’ and ‘doven’ (lazy and indolent), and fond of
sleeping three times a day. Formerly they were inveterate fatalists, so
much so that for a long time they would not hear of going to a doctor,
if they were ill, or an accident happened. They used also to believe in
Trolls (fairies), but that is fast exploding hereabouts. Yet they are
still impressed with a belief in ‘giengângere’ (wraiths), and that the
powers of evil are supernaturally at work around us. This makes them so
fearful of going out after dark. Of late years a great change has been
wrought among many of them, since the sect of the Lesere, or Haugians,
began to prevail. They have forsworn Snorro Sturleson’s Chronicle and
the historical Sagas of the country, which the Norwegian bonder used
to be fond of reading, and in their cottages you will find nothing but
the Bible and books of devotion. To read anything else they consider
sinful, as being liable to turn away their minds from spiritual
objects.”
“And do you think that, practically, they are better Christians?”
“Undoubtedly some of them are God-fearing persons, while others only
adopt this tone from motives of self-interest.”
“How comes it that there are so few people about?”
“Ah! I must tell you. There is one remarkable custom in the
valley--indeed, it is not impossible that it derives its name,
Sætersdal (Valley of Sæters), from it.[6] During the summer the sæter
is not inhabited by a single girl with her cows, as elsewhere in
Norway, but by the whole of the farmer’s family. At such times I have
no parishioners. They are all off. For the last three Sundays I have
had no service. Each farmer possesses two or three of these sæters or
stöls, and when they have cut the grass, and the cattle has eaten up
the alpine shrubs at one spot, they move to another. It is a regular
nomadic life as long as it lasts, which is the best part of the summer.
“In the winter, the hay made in the summer is brought down from the
mountain on sledges. The snow being very deep, the ponies would
sink in but for a contrivance called ‘trug,’ which is peculiar to
these parts of Norway. Here is one,” said he, as Helvig, with great
alacrity, brought in the apparatus in question. It was a strong hoop
of birch-wood, about a foot in diameter. From its sides ran four iron
chains, of two or three links each, to a ring in the centre. Attached
to the hoop was some wicker-work. Into this basket the pony’s foot is
inserted, and the wicker secured to the fetlock, while the shoe rests
on the iron ring and chains. Armed with this anti-sinking machine, the
horse keeps on the surface, and can travel with tolerable expedition.
Men wear a similar contrivance, but smaller.
“Are there any bauta-stones, or such-like reminiscences of olden times
in this part of the valley?”
“Very few. From its secluded position it never was of any great
historical note. It is near the sea that the Vikings were most at home,
and left behind them memorials. Here is an old cross-bow and an axe,
such as the bonders used to carry.”
These axes were called “hand-axes,” from the fact that, when not
otherwise used, the wearer took the iron in his hand, and used the
weapon as a walking-stick. Sometimes they were even taken to church
(see _Oxonian in Norway_, 2nd edition, p. 336). This one had the date
1651 inscribed upon it, and, together with the handle, was adorned with
figuring. In the passage I also saw a halbert and a spear, and a round
spoon, on which was inscribed the date 1614, and the legend, “Mit haab
til Gud” (My hope in God).
“Have you a good breed of cattle here?”
“Not particularly. We get all ours from Fyrrisdal, four Norsk miles to
the east of this. The best ‘qvaeg-răcĕ’ in all Norway is to be found
there.”
“I see all your horses are stallions. They must be very troublesome. I
drove two or three marked with severe bites.”
“That may be; but the bonders here, most of whom have only one horse,
find them answer their purpose best. The stallion is never off his
feed, even after the hardest work, and will eat anything. Besides
which, he is much more enduring, and can manage to drive off a wolf,
provided he is not hobbled.”
“Are there many bears about this summer?”
“Yes, indeed. A man called Herjus, of Hyllestad, which you will pass,
has been some weeks in our doctor’s hands from wounds received from
a bear. He and another were in the forest, when they fell in with a
young bear, which immediately climbed up a tree. The other man went to
cut a stick, while Herjus threw stones at the cub. Suddenly he hears
a terrific growl, and at the same moment receives a tremendous blow
on the head. It was the female bear, who, like all female bears in a
passion, had walked up to him, biped fashion, and, with a ‘take that
for meddling with my bairn,’ felled him to the ground. Over him,”
continued the parson, “fell the bear, so blinded with rage, that she
struck two or three blows beyond him. His companion had made a clean
pair of heels of it. The bear next seized the unfortunate wight in
her arms, and dragged him to a precipice for the purpose of hurling
him over. Herjus at once feigned to be dead, that he might not become
so. The bear perceiving this, and thinking it no use to give herself
any more trouble about a dead man, left him. Fearful lest she should
return, he scrambled down the steep, and got over a stream below. It
is said that the bears, like witches, don’t like to cross a running
stream; that was the reason of his movement. It was lucky he did so,
for no sooner was he over than the bear came back to see that all was
right, and perceived that she had been hoaxed, but did not attempt to
follow.”
“But do the bears really drag people over precipices?”[7]
“It is said so. Near Stavanger a poor fellow was attacked by a bear,
who skinned his face from scalp to chin, and then dragged him through
the trees to a precipice. At this horrible instant the poor wretch
clutched a tree, and hung to it with such desperation, that the bear,
who heard help coming, left him, and retreated. The king has given him
a pension of thirty-five dollars a-year.”
“And the wolves?” asked I.
“There are plenty of them. I caught one not long ago with strychnine.
The doctor, who has lately left, caught a great many one winter.
Brun, my predecessor, who was drowned, took seven wolves in one night
with poison, close by the parsonage. They are also taken in the baas
(_i.e._, such a trap as I described above). Some winters there are very
few, while at other times they abound. A fjeld-frass (glutton) was
not long ago taken in a trap. We have also lynxes of two sorts--the
katte-gaupe (cat-lynx), which is yellow, with dark spots; and the
skrübb-gaupe (wolf-lynx), which is wolf-coloured.”
The church, like all modern Norwegian churches, is neat, but nothing
more. Its very ancient predecessor, which was pulled down a short time
ago, abounded, like most of those built in Roman Catholic times, with
beautiful wood-carving. Near the church is a fine sycamore, two hundred
years old, and three picturesque weeping birches. Oaks, I find, ceased
at Guldsmedoen.
“Ah!” said the priest, in the course of conversation, “this is a
marvellous country, when you consider its peculiar nature--more barren
rock by far than anything else. And yet our opkomst (progress) is
wonderful since we became a free nation. With a population of less than
a million and a half, we have a mercantile marine second only to that
of England. We have as much freedom as is consistent with safety; the
taxes are light, and the overplus, after paying the expenses of the
Government, is devoted to internal improvements. None of it goes to
Sweden, as it did formerly to Denmark; it is all spent on the country.
Yes, sir, everything thrives better in a free country; the air is
healthier, the very trees grow better.”
Sentiments like these, which are breathed by every Norskman, of course
found a cordial response from an Englishman. I only hope that Norway
will be suffered to go on progressing uninterruptedly.
Never having seen the interior of what is called the Bad-hus
(bath-house), I go with my host to see this regular appendage to all
country-houses. The traveller in Norway has no doubt often seen at some
distance from the main house a log-hut, round the door of which the
logs are blackened by smoke. This is the bad-hus. The millstones in
this country are so indifferent, that it is found necessary to bake the
corn previous to grinding it. It is thus performed. In the centre of
the log-house, which is nearly air-proof, is a huge stone oven heaped
over with large stones. Near the roof within are shelves on which the
grain is placed; a wood fire is then lit in the oven, the door of the
but is closed, and the temperature inside soon becomes nearly equal to
that of the oven itself, and the corn speedily dries.
It is said that this name, “bad-hus,” is derived from a custom which
formerly prevailed among the people of using this receptacle in
winter time as a kind of hot-air bath. The peasant, also, put it to
another use. Not being the cleanliest people in the world, their
bed-clothes become at times densely inhabited. When the colony becomes
overstocked, the clothes are brought hither, and a short spell of the
infernal temperature proves too much for the small animals, as they
are not blessed with the heat-enduring capabilities of the cricket or
salamander. In fact, the clothes become literally too hot to hold them,
and they share the fate of Higginbottom.
This reminds me of an old tale concerning one Staale, of Aasheim, not
very far from here. This man had murdered his brother about two hundred
and fifty years ago. His life was spared on condition that he would
rid the country of seven outlaws who harried the country and defied
every attempt to take them. Staale, who was a daredevil villain, having
discovered their retreat, went thither in rags, and showing them that
he was a bird of similar plumage, proposed forgathering with them. The
robbers were charmed at the idea of such an accession to their number.
Meanwhile, Staale complained that his rags were full of parasites, and
at his request a huge kettle was hung over the fire for the purpose of
boiling the creatures out. As soon as the water boiled Staale dashed
the fluid into the faces of the robbers who lay asleep on the floor,
not expecting so warm a reception. Thus reduced, for the moment at
least, to a condition like that of that precious brigand, Polyphemus,
they fell an easy prey to Staale, who dashed their brains out with a
crow-bar. He was, however, near being overmastered by an old woman who
ministered to the wants of the robbers, like the delicate Leonarda in
_Gil Blas_, and had escaped the baptism that had been administered to
the rest. After a hard struggle, however, he overcame the virago, and
thus obtained his life and freedom, which had been forfeited for his
misdeeds.
In the bad-hus were also suspended the winter cloak of his Reverence,
composed of six beautiful wolf-skins; the sledge-apron, made of a
huge black bear-skin, with the fur leggings and gloves, also used to
keep out the cold in driving. These articles are generally hung up in
another part of the premises, the ammoniacal vapours of which are much
disliked and avoided by moths and other fur-destroyers.