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--
Brett me here, brett me there,
I’ll brett (bring) home a load of hay, I swear.
The horse stumbled, and broke its foot; that’s the reason why the day
is marked with a horse in Thelemarken.
“That’s St. Blasius (Feb. 3), marked with a ship. If it blows (bläse)
on that day, it will blow all the year through. That’s a very
particular day. We must not use any implement that goes round on it,
such as a mill, or a spindle, else the cattle would get a swimming in
the head (Sviva).
“That’s St. Peter’s key (Feb. 22). Ship-folks begin to get their boats
ready then. As the weather is that day it will be forty days after.
“That,” continued this learned decipherer of Runes, “is St. Matthias
(24th Feb.) If it’s cold that day, it will get milder, and _vice
versâ_; and therefore the saying is, St. Matthias bursts the ice; if
there is no ice, he makes ice. The fox darn’t go on the ice that day
for fear it should break.
“That’s a mattock (hakke) for St. Magnus (16th April). We begin then to
turn up the soil.
“That’s St. Marcus (25th April). That’s Stor Gangdag (great
procession-day). The other gang-days are Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday
before Ascension.”
“And why are they called Gang-days?”
“Because a procession used to go round the fields, and the priest, at
their head, held mass, to drive away all evil spirits.”
Here, then, we see the origin of our beating the bounds. Although,
perhaps, the custom may be traced to some ceremonial in honour of Odin
akin to the Ambarvalia at Rome in honour of Ceres. According to an old
tradition, however, it originated thus. There was, many years ago,
a great drought in Norway about this period of the year. A general
procession-day was ordered in consequence, together with a fast, which
was kept so strictly, that the cattle were muzzled, and the babe in
the cradle kept from the breast. Just before the folks went to church
it was as dry as ever, but when they came out, it was raining hard. We
Christians ring the “passing bell” on the death of anybody, but are
perhaps not aware that it began in northern superstition. Sprites, as
we have mentioned elsewhere, can’t bear bells--one of them was once
heard lamenting in Denmark that he could stay no longer in the country
on account of the din of the church bells. So, to scare away the evil
spirits, and let the departing soul have a quiet passage, the sexton
tolls the bell.
“That’s Gowk’s-mass (May 1); you see the gowk (cuckoo) in the tree.
That’s a great bird that. They used to say--
North, corpse-gowk, south, sow-gowk,
West, will-gowk, east, woogowk.”
“What’s the meaning of that?”
“Why, if you heard the cuckoo first in the north, the same year you
would be a corpse; if in the south, you would have luck in sowing; if
in the west, your will would be accomplished; if in the east, you would
have luck in wooing.
“That’s Bjornevaak (bear’s waking day) May 22. You see it’s a bear.
They say the bear leaves his ‘hi’ that day. On midwinter (Jan. 12) he
gave himself a turn round.[23]
“That’s Saint Sunniva, Bergen’s Saint[24] (July 8).
“That’s Olsok (St. Olaf’s day), July 29, marked with an axe. The bonder
must not mow that day, or there will come vermin on the cattle.
“That’s Laurentius’ day, marked with a gridiron.
“That’s Kverne Knurran, marked with a millstone, Sept. 1. If it’s dry
that day the millers will come to want water.
“That’s vet-naet (winter-night), Oct. 14, when the year began. That’s a
glove,[25] to show cold weather is coming. There’s an old Runic rhyme
about that, where Winter says:--
On winter-night for me look out,
On Fyribod (Oct. 28) I come, without doubt;
If I delay till Hallow e’en,
Then I bow down the fir-tree green.”
The “Tale of the Calendar”[26] was, however, now interrupted by a tap
at the window, and a man screams out--
“Where is the Fremmad man? where is the Fremmad man?”
“The stranger is here in the house,” was the reply.
And in came a man, who had evidently just dressed in his best, with
something very like death written in his sunken cheeks, starting eyes,
and sharpened features.
“Can you tell me what is good for so and so?” he asked. “Oh! what pain
I endure.”
The poor fellow was clearly suffering from the stone, and there was no
doctor within a great many days’ journey. His doom was evidently sealed.
Further up the valley, a fierce thunder-storm coming on, I entered
one of the smoke-houses above described, where an old lady, Gunvor
Thorsdatter, bid me welcome. She offered me her mull of home-dried
sneeshing--it was rather a curious affair, being shaped like a
swan’s-egg pear, and sprigged all over with silver. A very small
aperture, stopped by a cork, was the only way of getting at the
precious dust. Gunvor was above eighty, but in full possession of her
faculties, and I judged her therefore not an unlikely person to have
some old stories.
“What do you sing to the babies when you want to make them sleep?”
“I don’t know. All sorts of things.”
“Well, will you repeat me one?”
She looked hard at me for a moment, and suddenly all the deep furrows
across her countenance puckered up and became contorted, just like a
ploughed field when the harrow has passed over it. A stifled giggle
next escaped her through her _erkos odontôn_, which was still white,
and without gaps. A slight suspicion that I was making fun of her I at
once removed from her mind; then, looking carefully round, and seeing
that there was nobody else by, she croaked out, in a sort of monotonous
melody, the following, which I give literally in English:--
Row, row to Engeland,
To buy my babe a pearlen-band,
New breeches and new shoes,
So to its mother baby goes.
This sounds like our--
“To market, to market, to buy a plum-bun.”
Another, the first lines of which remind one of our--
Rockabye, babye, thy cradle is green,
Father’s a nobleman, mother’s a queen.
Tippi, Tippi, Tua (evidently our “Dibity, Dibity, Do”),
Mother was a frua (lady),
Father was of gentle blood,
Brother was a minstrel good;
His bow so quick he drew,
The strings snapt in two.
Longer do not play
On your strings, I pray:
Strings they cost money,
Money in the purse,
Purse in the kist,
Kist in the safe,
Safe is in the boat,
Boat on board the ship,
Ship it lies in Amsterdam,
What’s the skipper’s name?
His name is called Helje;
Have you aught to sell me?
Apples and onions, onions and apples,
Pretty maidens come and buy.
This species of accumulated jingle is called “Reglar,” and reminds us
of “The House that Jack built.”
Another, sung by a woman with a child on her knee:--
Ride along, ride a cock-horse,
So, with the legs across;
Horse his name is apple-grey[27] (abel-graa),
Little boy rides away.
Where shall little boy ride to?
To the king’s court to woo;
At the king’s court,
They’re all gone out,
All but little dogs twain,
Fastened with a chain:
Their chains they do gnaw,
And say “Wau, wau, wau.”
“Very good,” said I. “Many thanks. Have you any gaade (riddles)?”
Upon which, the old lady immediately repeated this:--
Sister sent to sister her’n,
Southwards over the sea,
With its bottom out, a silver churn,
Guess now what that can be.
_Answer._ A silver ring.
Before parting with her, I begged the old lady to accept a small
coin in return for her rhymes, which she said she had heard from her
grandmother; but this she indignantly refused to accept, begging me at
the same time, as she saw a man approaching, not to say a word about
what she had been telling me. The fact is, as has been observed by
the Norwegians themselves, that the peasants fancy that nobody would
inquire about these matters unless for the sake of ridiculing them,
of which they have a great horror. Although they retain these rhymes
themselves, they imagine that other people must look upon them as
useless nonsense.
The man who approached the cottage brought with him a tiny axe, a
couple of inches long, which he had dug up in the neighbourhood.
Its use I could not conceive, unless, perhaps, it was the miniature
representation of some old warrior’s axe, which the survivors were too
knowing and parsimonious to bury with the corpse, and so they put in
this sham. That the ancient Scandinavians were addicted to this thrift
is well known. In Copenhagen, as we have already seen, facsimiles, on
a very small scale, of bracelets, &c. which have been found in barrows,
are still preserved. This peasant had likewise a bear-skin for sale.
The bear he shot last spring, and the meat was bought by the priest.
The storm being over, I walked on through the forest alone, my female
guide being by this time, no doubt, many miles in advance. All houses
had ceased, but, fortunately, there was but one path, so that I could
not lose my way. How still the wood was! There was not a breath of
wind after the rain, so that I could distinctly hear the sullen
booming of the river, now some distance off. As I stopped to pick some
cloud-berries, which grew in profusion, I heard a distant scream. It
was some falcons at a vast height on the cliff above, which I at first
thought were only motes in my eyes. With my glass I could detect two or
three pairs. They had young ones in the rock, which they were teaching
to fly, and were alternately chiding them and coaxing them. No wonder
the young ones are afraid to make a start of it. If I were in their
places I should feel considerable reluctance about making a first
flight.
At length I spied a cottage to the right in the opening of a lateral
valley. Hereabout, I had heard, were some old bauta stones; but an
intelligent girl who came up, told me a peasant had carried them off
to make a wall. This girl, who wore two silver brooches on her bosom,
besides large globular collar-studs and gilt studs to her wristbands,
asked me if I would not come and have a mjelk drikke (drink of milk).
Jorand Tarjeisdatter was all the time busily engaged in chewing harpix
(the resinous exudation of the fir-tree); presently, on another older
woman coming in, she pulled out the quid, and gave it to the new-comer,
who forthwith put it into her own mouth. But after all this is no worse
than Dr. Livingstone drinking water which had been sucked up from the
ground by Bechuana nymphs, and spit out by them into a vessel for the
purpose.
Jorand was nice-looking, and had a sweet voice, and without the least
hesitation she immediately sang me one or two lullabies, _e.g._--
Upon the lea there stands a little cup
Full of ale and wine,
So dance my lady up.
Upon the lea there stands a little can
Full of ale and wine,
So dance my lady down.
She then chanted the following:--
Hasten, hasten, then my goats
Along the northern heights,
Homewards over rocky fell,
Tange,[28] Teine, Bear-the-bell,
Dros also Duri,
Silver also Fruri,
Ole also Snaddi,
Now we’ve got the goats all,
Come hither buck and come hither dun,
Come hither speckled one,
Young goats and brown goats come along,
That’s the end of my good song,
Fal lal lal la.
Another.
Baby, rest thee in thy bed,
Mother she’s spinning blue thread,
Brother’s blowing on a buck’s horn,
Sister thine is grinding corn,
And father is beating a drum.
She then started off with a stave full of satirical allusions to the
swains of the neighbourhood, showing how Od was braw, and Ola a stour
prater (stor Pratar), Torgrim a fop, and Tarjei a Gasconader--
But Björn from all he bore the bell,
So merry he, and could “stave” so well.
The whole reminded me of the catalogue in the glee of “Dame Durden.”
“But how long will you stop with us? If you’ll wait till Sunday,
we’ll have a selskab (party). Some of the men will come home from the
mountains, and then you shall hear us stave properly.”
She seemed much disappointed when I told her I must be off there and
then, my luggage was already miles ahead.
Leaving her with thanks, I made a detour of a couple of miles into the
side valley, to see a very ancient gaard, to which a story attaches.
Roynestad, as it was called, was built of immense logs, some as much
as three feet thick;[29] on one of which several bullet marks were
visible. Here once dwelt a fellow bearing the same names as the
murderer of the priest at Valle, viz., Wund Osmund. He had served
in the wars, and seen much of foreign lands. For some reason he
incurred the displeasure of the authorities, and fled for refuge to
his mountain home. A party of officials came to seize him. When he saw
them approaching, he took aim with his cross-bow at a maalestock (pole
for land-measuring), which he had placed in the meadow in front of his
house, and sent three or four shafts into it.
Cloudesley with a bearing arrow
Clave the wand in two.
The Dogberries were alarmed, and, after discharging a few bullets,
turned tail.
There were in the loft some curious reminiscences of this daring
fellow, _e.g._, an ancient sword, and some old tapestry, or rather
canvas painted over with some historical subject, which I could
not make out. In ancient times the interior of the houses was often
decorated with hangings of this kind (upstad, aaklæd). But what I
chiefly wanted to see was a genuine old Pagan idol, which had been
preserved on the spot many hundred years. But “Faxe,” I found, was not
long ago split up for fuel. The real meaning of “faxe” is horse with
uncut mane, so that it was most likely connected with the worship of
Odin.
Regaining my old road, by a short cut, which fortunately did not turn
out a longer way, I plodded on to Bjaräen, a lonely house in the
forest. Here I found my excellent conductress, who, alarmed at my
non-appearance, had halted, and it being now dusk, further advance
to-night was not to be thought of.
Those horrible cupboards, or berths, fixed against the wall, how I
dreaded getting into one of them! A stout, red-cheeked lass, the
daughter of the house, was fortunately at home, and posted up the hill
for some distance, returning with a regular hay-cock on her back, which
improved matters. But before I bestowed myself thereon, I took care to
place under the coverlet a branch of Pors, which I had cut in the bog.
It did for me what the aureus ramus did, if I remember rightly, for
Æneas, gained me access to the realms of sleep. The fleas, it is true,
mustered strong, and moved vigorously to the attack, but the scent of
the shrub seemed to take away their appetite for blood, and I remained
unmolested.
The stout lass brought me a slop-basin to wash in next morning, and
instead of a towel, an article apparently not known in these parts, a
clean chemise of her own. The house could not, by-the-bye, boast of any
knives and forks. No sugar was to be had, and the milk, which was about
three months old, was so sharp that it seemed to get into my head,
certainly into my nose.
Next morning, after some miles walk through uninterrupted solitudes, I
found myself on the shores of a placid lake, from which the mist was
just lifting up its heavy white wings. As I stood for a moment to look,
a large fly descended on the smooth water, and was immediately gobbled
up by a trout. Over head, half hidden in the mist, were perpendicular
white precipices, stained with streaks of black, which returned my
halloo with prompt defiance. Between their base and the lake vast
stone blocks were strewed around, and yet close by I now discovered a
farm-house exposed to a similar fall.
On fair Loch Ranza shone the early day,
Soft wreaths of cottage smoke are upward curled
From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay
And circling mountains sever from the world.
That’s a very proper quotation, no doubt, but the smoke must be left
out. The farm was deserted; not a soul at home, the family having gone
up to the mountain pasture. We must, however, except a couple of sad
and solitary magpies, which, as we drew near, uttered some violent
interjections, and jumped down from the house-top, where they had been
pruning themselves in the morning sun. They must be much in want of
company, for they followed our steps for some distance, and then left
us with a peculiar cry. Would that I had been an ancient augur to have
known what that last observation of theirs was!
The path now wound up the noted Bykle Sti, or ladder of Bykle, which
is partly blasted out of the rocks, and partly laid on galleries of
fir logs. Formerly, this place was very dangerous to the traveller.
Here the river, which has been flowing at no great distance from us
all the way, comes out of a lake. From a considerable height I gaze
down below, and see it gurgling and then circling with oily smoothness
through a series of black pits scooped out in the foundation rocks of
this fine defile. Opposite me is a huge precipice, whence the screams
that are borne ever and anon upon my ear, proclaim the vicinity of an
eagle’s eyrie. Below, the river widens again, and I see a number of
logs slumbering heads and tails on its shores. We are now more than two
thousand feet above the sea, but shall have to descend again to the
lake, and cross it, as the road soon terminates entirely.
The ferry-boat was large and flat-bottomed, but all the efforts of my
attendant and myself failed to launch it. At this moment a sort of Meg
Merrilies, clad in grey frieze, with hair to match, streaming over her
shoulders, made her appearance.
“Come and help us!”
“It’s no use. The boat’s fast; the water has fallen from the dry
weather, and old Erik himself can’t move it.”
“Well, let us try. You take one oar, and Thora the other, and I’ll go
and haul in front.”
The two women used their oars like levers, when suddenly, Oh,
horror!--snap went one of them. Tearing up a plank, which was nailed
over the gunwale as a seat, I placed it as a launching way for the
leviathan. This helped us wonderfully, and at last the unwieldly
machine floated. The Danish Count would have flung “Trahuntque siccas
machinæ carinas” in our faces, but he would have had to alter the
epithet, as the boat was thoroughly water-logged. So much so, that when
the horse and effects and we three were on board, it leaked very fast.
The women took the oars, the broken one being mended by the garters of
Meg Merrilies. The water rose in the boat much quicker than I liked,
and I could not help envying a couple of great Northern divers, which
my glass showed me floating corkily on the smooth water--fortunately it
was so--if the truth were known they doubtless looked upon us with a
mixture of commiseration and contempt.
When we arrived safely on the other side, which was distant about
half-a-mile, I gave our help-in-need sixpence. She was perfectly amazed
at my liberality.
“Du er a snil karro du.” (You’re a good fellow, you are.)
She was, she told me, the mother of fourteen children. Her pluck and
sagacity were considerable. Now, will it be believed, that this awkward
passage might altogether be avoided if the precipice were blasted for
two or three score yards, so as to allow of the path winding round it.
As it is, a traveller might arrive here, and if the boat were on the
other side, might wait for a whole day or more, as nobody could hear or
see him, and no human habitation is near.
As we rose the hill to Bykle, I saw two or three species of mushrooms,
one of which, of a bright Seville-orange colour, with white
imposthumes, I found to be edible. Visions of a comfortable place to
put my head into smiled upon me, as I saw a church-spire rising up the
mountain, and a gaard, the station-house, not far from it. But alas! I
was doomed to be disappointed--all the family were at the Stöl, and the
doors and windows fastened. A man fortunately appeared presently, whom
I persuaded for a consideration to go and fetch the landlord. My guide
meantime departed, as she was anxious to get half home before night.
Meantime I lay on some timbers, and went to sleep. Out of this I was
awakened by a sharp sort of chuckle close to my ear, and on raising
myself I found that two magpies had bitten a hole into the sack, and
were getting at my biscuits and cheese. It was with some difficulty
that I drove off these impudent Gazza-ladras: and as soon as I went to
sleep again, they recommenced operations. In three hours the messenger
returned with the intelligence that the station-master would not come;
the road stopped here, and he was not bound to schuss people Nordover
(to the North).
There was nothing for it but to go up the mountain, and wade through
the morasses to see the fellow. Fortunately I found an adjoining stöl,
where dwelt another peasant, Tarald (Anglicè Thorold) Mostue, whom I
persuaded to come down and open his house for the shelter of myself
and luggage. He brought down with him some fresh milk, the first I had
tasted since leaving Christiansand. After lighting for me a fire, and
making up a bed, he returned to his châlet, promising to return by six
A.M. with a horse, and schuss me to Vatnedal. Here, then, I was all
alone, but I managed to make myself comfortable, and slept well under
the shadow of my own fig-tree--I mean the branch of Pors--secure from
the fleas and bugs! Tarald appeared in the morning, and off we started.
He was, I found, one of the Lesere or Norwegian methodists.
“Do they bann (banne = the Scotch ‘ban’) much in the country you come
from?” inquired he, as we jumped over the dark peat-hags, planting our
feet on the white stones, which afforded a precarious help through them.
“I fear some of them do.”
“But I’ve not heard you curse.”
“No; I don’t think it right.”
“Where does the Pope (Pave) live?”
“At Rome.”
“They call it the great ---- of Babylon, don’t they? Is Babylon far
from Rome?”
“It does not exist now. It was destroyed for the wickedness of its
inhabitants, and according to the prophecy it has become something like
this spot here, a possession for the cormorant and the bittern, and
pools of water.”
“Ah! I had forgotten about that; I know the New Testament very well,
but not the Old.”
Tarald had also something to say about Luther’s Postils; but like most
of these Lesere, he had no relish for a good story or legend. He had
a cock-and-a-bull story--excuse the confusion of ideas--of a bear and
a fox, but it was so rigmarole and pointless, that it reminded me of
Albert Smith’s engineer’s story. The real tale is as follows. I picked
it up elsewhere:--Once on a time, when the beasts could talk, a fox and
a bear agreed to live together and have all things in common. So they
got a bit of ground, and arranged, so that one year the bear should
get the tops and the fox the bottoms of the crop, and another year
the bear the bottoms and the fox the tops. The first year they sowed
turnips, and, according to agreement, the bear got the tops and the fox
the bottoms. The bear did not much like this, but the fox showed him
clearly that there was no injustice done, as it was just as they had
agreed. Next year, too, said he, the bear would have the advantage, for
he would get the bottoms and the fox the tops. In the spring the fox
said he was tired of turnips. “What said the bear to some other crop?”
“Well and good,” answered the bear. So they planted rye. At harvest
the fox got all the grain, and the bear the roots, which put him in a
dreadful rage, for, being thick-witted, he had not foreseen the hoax.
At last he was pacified, and they now agreed to buy a keg of butter
for the winter. The fox, as usual, was up to his tricks, and used to
steal the butter at night, while Bruin slept. The bear observed that
the butter was diminishing daily, and taxed the fox. The fox replied
boldly--“We can easily find out the thief; for directly we wake in the
morning we’ll examine each other, and see whether either of us has
any butter smeared about him.” In the morning the bear was all over
butter; it regularly dropped off him. How fierce he got! the fox was so
afraid, that he ran off into the wood, the bear after him. The fox hid
under a birch-tree root, but bruin was not to be done, and scratched
and scratched till he got hold of the fox’s foot. “Don’t take hold of
the birch-root, take hold of the fox’s foot,” said Reynard, tauntingly.
So the bear thought it was only a root he had hold of, and let the foot
go, and began scratching again. “Oh! now do spare me,” whispered the
fox; “I’ll show you a bees’-nest, which I saw in an old birch. I know
you like honey.” This softened the bear, for he was desperately fond
of honey. So they went both of them together into the wood, and the
fox showed the bear a great tree-bole, split down the middle, with the
wedge still sticking in it. “It’s in there,” said the fox. “Just you
squeeze into the crack, and press as hard as you can, and I’ll strike
the wedge, and then the log will split.” The trustful bear squeezed
himself in accordingly, and pushed as hard as ever he could. Reynard
knocked out the block, the tree closed, and poor Bruin was fast.
Presently the man came back who had been hewing the tree, and directly
he spied the bear, he took his axe and split open his skull; and--so
there is no more to tell.
On the bare, rocky pass which separates Sætersdal from Vatnedal were
several stones, placed in a line, a yard or two apart from each other.
“Those are the Bridal Stones,” observed Tarald. “A great many years ago
there was no priest on the Bykle side (I suppose this was after the
murder by Wund Osmond, the Lehnsman), and a couple that wanted to wed
came all the way over here to be married. Those stones they set up in
memory of the event. On this stone sat the bridegroom, and on that the
bride.”
The mountain pink (Lycnis viscaria) occurs on most of these stony
plateaus. I also met with a mighty gentian, with purplish brown flower,
emitting a rich aromatic odour, the root of which is of an excessively
bitter taste, and is gathered for medicinal purposes.
A mile or two beyond this we stood in a rocky gorge, from which we had
a glorious view of the Vatnedal lake, and another beyond it several
hundred feet below us. After a very precipitous descent, on the edge
of which stood several blocks, placed as near as they could be without
rolling over, we skirted the lake through birch-grove and bog till we
got opposite a house visible on the further shore. At this a boat was
kept, but it was very uncertain whether anybody was at home. Leaving
Tarald to make signals, I was speedily enticing some trout at a spot
where a snow-stream rushed into the lake. At last Tarald cried out--
“All right, there are folk; I see a woman.” And sure enough, after a
space, I could discern a boat approaching. A brisk and lively woman
was the propelling power. We were soon on the bosom of the deep--the
two men, the woman, and the horse, all, in spite of my protestations,
consigned to a flat-bottomed leaky punt, though the wind was blowing
high. The horse became uneasy, and swayed about, and, being larger
than usual, he gave promise of turning the boat upside-down before
very long. I immediately unlaced my boots, and pulled off my coat. The
Norwegians seemed at this to awake to a sense of danger, and rowed
back to the shore; the horse was landed and hobbled when he forthwith
began cropping the herbage. We then made a safe passage. Unfortunately,
Helge’s husband, whom I had counted on to help me on my journey,
had started with his horse the day before to buy corn at Suledal,
thirty-five miles off.
In this dilemma, I begged Tarald to take pity on me, or I might be
hopelessly stopped for some days. The “Leser” was like “a certain
Levite.” He had been complaining all day of fatigue. He felt so ill, he
said, he could hardly get along. I had even given him some medicine.
In spite, however, of his praiseworthy antipathy to swearing, and the
nasal twang with which he poured out some of his moral reflections, I
had felt some misgivings about the sincerity of his professions; for
he had begged me to write to the Foged, and complain of the absence of
the station-master at Bykle, that he might be turned out, and he get
his place. And, sure enough, I found him to be a wooden nutmeg with
none of the real spice of what he professed to be about him. No sooner
did he finger the dollars, than his fatigue and indisposition suddenly
left him, and he started off home with great alacrity, reminding me of
those cripples in Victor Hugo’s _Hunchback of Notre Dame_, who, from
being hardly able to crawl, suddenly became all life and motion.
“Truly,” mused I, “these Lesere are all moonshine. They profess to be
a peculiar people, but are by no means zealous of good works. But this
lies in the nature of things. Which is the best article, the cloth
stiffened and puffed up with starch and ‘Devil’s dust,’ or the rough
Tweed, which makes no pretence to show whatever, but, nevertheless,
does duty admirably well against wind and weather?” But enough of the
thin-lipped, Pharisaical Tarald.
There was a beaminess about the hard-favoured countenance of Helge
Tarjeisdatter Vatnedal, together with a _brusque_ out-and-out
readiness of word and deed, that jumped with my humour. The fair Tori
too, her daughter, with her good-tempered blue eyes and mouth, and
comfortable-looking figure, swept up the floor, and split some pine
stumps with an axe, and lit the fire, and acted “Polly put the kettle
on” with such an evident resolve to make me at home, that the prospect
of being delayed in such quarters looked much less formidable. The two
women had netted some gorgeous trout that afternoon, and I was soon
discussing them.
“We must go now,” said Helge.
“Where to?”
“To the stöl. We are all up there now. It was only by chance we came
down here to-day. Will you go with us, or will you stop here? You will
be all alone.”
“Never mind; I’ll stop here.”
“Very good. We know of a man living a long way off on the other lake.
We’ll send a messenger to him by sunrise, and see if he can schuss you.
In the morning we’ll come back and let you know.”
My supper finished, by the fast waning light I began reading a bit of
Bulwer’s _Caxtons_. The passage I came upon was Augustine’s recipe
for satiety or _ennui_--viz., a course of reading of legendary
out-of-the-way travel. But I can give Mr. Caxton a better nostrum
still--To do the thing yourself instead of reading of it being done. In
the Museum at Berlin there is a picture called the Fountain of Youth.
On the left-hand side you see old and infirm people approaching,
or being brought to the water. Before they have got well through
the stream, their aspect changes; and arrived on the other bank,
they are all rejuvenescence and frolic. To my mind this is not a bad
emblem of the change that comes over the traveller who passes out of
a world of intense over-civilization into a country like this. How
delightful to be able to dress, and eat, and do as one likes, to have
escaped for a season, at least, from the tittle-tattle, the uneasy
study of appearances, the “what will Mr. So-and-so think?” the fuss
and botheration of crowded cities, with I don’t know how many of the
population thinking of nothing but getting 10 per cent. for their
money. Sitting alone in the gloaming, under the shadow of the great
mountains, with the darkling lake in front, now once more tranquil,
and lulled again like a babe that has cried itself to sleep--the sound
of the distant waterfalls booming on the ear--a star or two twinkling
faintly in the sky--I might have set my fancy going to a considerable
extent.
But bed, with its realities, recalled my wandering thoughts. That was
the hour of trial! A person, who ought to know something about these
matters, apostrophized sleep as being fond of smoky cribs, and uneasy
pallets, and delighting in the hushing buzz of night flies. I had all
these to perfection, the flies especially, quite a plague of them.
But nature’s soft nurse would not visit me. The fact was, I had lost
my branch, and the “insectivora” of all descriptions, as a learned
farmer of my acquaintance phrased it, roved about like free companions,
ravaging at will. Knocked up was I completely the next morning, when at
six o’clock the women returned with the welcome intelligence that one
Ketil of the Bog was bound for that Goshen, Suledal, to buy corn, and
would be my guide.
“I am so weary,” said I; “I have not slept a wink.”
With looks full of compassion, the women observed--“We thought you
wouldn’t. We knew you would be afraid. That kept you awake, no doubt.”
Whether they meant fear of the fairies or of freebooters, they did not
say. My assurance to the contrary availed but little to convince them.
No solitary traveller in Norway at the present day need fear robbery or
violence. The women soon shouldered my effects, not permitting me to
carry anything, and we started through morass, and brake, and rocks,
for the shieling of Ketil of the Bog.
At one spot where we rested, the fair Tori chanted me the following
strain, which is based on a national legend, the great antiquity of
which is testified by the alliterative metre of the original. It refers
to a girl who had been carried off by robbers.
Tirreli, Tirreli Tove,
Twelve men met in the grove;
Twelve men mustered they,
Twelve brands bore they.
The goatherd they did bang,
The little dog they did hang,
The stour steer they did slay,
And hung the bell upon a spray,
And now they will murder me,
Far away on the wooded lea.