NO DEER WAS KILLED.”

[Illustration: _Easing down the Patriarch._]

• • • • •

It would be well here to say a few words respecting the tents and their

arrangement.

A regular _tente abri_ carries two very well. Of course there are

more room and comfort for a single inhabitant; still, for general

travelling, in which luggage may only too truly be described as

_impedimenta_, the tent referred to may be used. Every morning, if the

weather permits, the waterproof sheet and cork bed should be laid out

to dry, and the skins also. The trench round the tent must be well

looked to, the lines tightened, and the ponies tethered, as it is

rather disagreeable to be awakened about two A.M. by a storm

of rain and wind, and to discover your pony, with his linked fore-legs

well tangled in tent lines, doing his best to pull down the whole

concern on the heads of the occupants. Far more delightful is it to be

aroused on a bright, crisp, and fresh summer morning, when, if near a

_sæter_, the cause of it may be the jodelling of a _pige_ in charge

of the cows—Swiss as to character of song, exceedingly Norske as she

calls to them to follow. In the country districts animals follow more

frequently than they are driven. Kindliness is the rural, coercion the

town influence.

[Illustration: _The Grallock._]

Many of our readers will notice that under the initial letter at

the commencement of this chapter, the powder-flask and general

arrangement are very much like the old bandoleers still hanging in the

guard-chamber of Hampton Court Palace and others at Portsmouth. They

were most general in Charles I.’s time, and are beautifully shown in De

Gheyn’s costumes of Culverin-men and Harquebusiers. In this case the

bandoleer was made of steel, and it is faithfully rendered, with the

cord by which the whole arrangement was hung over the shoulder of the

hunter.

By this time we deserve sport. We have travelled far and worked hard

for it. Let us see the result. We had arrived at a great height, at the

snow-fields called Sneebreden, like the Folgefond in the Hardanger, We

had slid, crawled, and struggled, sometimes moving one behind the other

at an angle to reduce our surface, creeping on the crisp, dry, hard

snow, wading rivers of snow-water (very cold tubbing indeed), sloshing

at the edge of the snow, where the reindeer-flowers bloom, and going

through various other incidents of snow travelling, till at last we

arrived at a smart drop, previous to another _fond_. Here the Patriarch

had to be eased down, and his pendent position is only suggested in

the cut (p. 147). Soon Trophas began to draw upon some slots in the

snow, and it was the unanimous opinion that they were “fresh.” Trophas

pulled hard, held back by Ole, who eventually began to half trot. To

the unsentimental mind the action was that of a blind man’s dog eyeing

coppers in the distance; but Trophas was in earnest, and at last the

top of a horn burst upon us, and in a second our fate was disclosed

to us. There was nothing but the gralloch of a reindeer _kalve_ shot

yesterday—one horn, one hoof, &c.—as shown in the sketch (p. 148).

How could it be accounted for? Many suggestions were thrown out, many

improbabilities considered feasible, and at last a matter-of-fact mind

launched the frightful proposition that the glutton seen by Ole near

our tents the night before our arrival was nothing but a native hunter,

who had been stalking us, and had killed the _kalve_ of which the

remains were now at our feet. Nothing daunted, we flattered ourselves

that at all events we had now commenced in earnest, and remembered the

saw that the worst beginning has the best ending.

[Illustration: _Maritz Sæter._]

[Illustration]

Travellers in Norway are surprised, as they pass through the valleys,

to see so few cows. This is easily explained. They visit this

interesting country when these animals are away, like themselves, for a

holiday; and as every dog has his day, so every Norwegian cow has her

outing, and goes to the grass pastures in the upper plateau to enjoy

life until the white mantle of snow is ready to garb the upper ranges

and drive the cows and _piger_ down to their homesteads and winter

quarters. As already described, these _sæters_, or _châlets_, are high

up, and frequently afford the energetic nature-loving traveller and

genuine hunter cover and shelter, we may almost say comfort—_cum_

very much _grano_, though. In snow-work it becomes almost luxury to

have one of these to fly to in very bad weather. Tent life is the

most truly enjoyable thing—though there are times when a tent may be

blown down and soaked through—to say nothing of the milk supply at

hand, which is meat and drink at all times, although very filling at

the Norwegian price. This will account for our associating a _sæter_

so prominently with our snow-work. The one given in our woodcut (p.

149) was inhabited by Maritz, who was there by herself from July to

the beginning of September or end of August, according to the early or

late fall of the snow. The 20th of August generally brings the first

fall of snow in this latitude (63°). During our stay we always slept

in our tents, as we all feared the parasitical ticklings the _sæter_

would inevitably have afforded us had we given it the chance. All the

summer through the old snow lay round the antiquated wooden building,

and seldom indeed was it that Maritz had any one to speak to, as there

was no road or path of any kind. Still she was all kindness. Did she

not send a pair of cuffs to the Patriarch’s wife, and iron them, so

to speak, after her manner, with the back of a wooden spoon, as she

hummed a plaintive ditty in the minor key? Perhaps she thought the lady

would hardly like to wear them, or else that they might find their way

to some great people. Maritz, too, held to the superstitions of her

ancestors. Thus her porridge swizzle-stick—which is like the West

Indian swizzles, but larger—made from the five-shoot top of a young

fir, was always prepared with a cross cut at the end or swizzling part

of it, to keep the Evil One from turning the milk sour. This, too, she

sent with the cuffs.

A little outdoor shed, or _laave_, was our general cooking-place,

into which four of us sometimes squeezed, and, as the dogs filled up

the interstices, we were as closely packed as sardines, the whole

being seasoned with the oil of good fellowship. It is wonderful how

invigorating this life is. What a system for a sanatorium! How well

balanced should one become with such fresh air, simple food, and

exercise, and with all the energy and toughness requisite for this

work! It is inconceivable how kindly, obliging, and tender towards

others a life like this makes us. Such was the influence of our

head-quarters. Prosiness must be avoided, however; so another day on

the snow with the hopes of sport, and no buck fever if we get a chance.

Bad landmark that, if perchance it befall us. We hope it will not: if

it do we will forget it.

For our line the shortest way would be across the _vand_ where the

trout were caught, and Danjel reported the discovery of an old boat

of that class which has no iron nails about it, but all wooden pegs,

and yet not particularly inviting as to safety, as the baling-ladle of

birch wood gave the idea that whoever last used it thought it would be

wanted by the next comer. However, as the hunters were agreeable and

we could all swim, we determined to try it. So off we started, with

ominous gurglings and washings to and fro in the bottom of the boat,

fast, frequent, and furious. The ladle was heartily plied, first by one

strong arm, then by another; but still the water came. This brought to

our remembrance the Scottish Highland custom of baling the boat with

a good large shoe, and that if you only take a pair the power becomes

doubled.

[Illustration: _A Friend in Need._]

Happily we arrived safely, and soon started for a long day’s work

over unknown ground. The weather had cleared, and everything seemed

to combine in our favour. There was a hearty good spirit among our

hunters and ourselves, each fellow wishing the other good sport, and

the dogs were keen to a degree. They longed for a revenge after the

affair of the old gralloch, and flattered themselves that, if we were

not unlucky, they would get fresh blood before nightfall. We were soon

beginning to ascend steadily, and about an hour after starting, the

Patriarch, working his way under some overhanging rocks, met with a

surprise. An eagle, a large specimen, swept over his head and shadowed

him. With his rifle in its case and across his back, the noble bird

was safe, and the Patriarch delighted. Must there not be a nest? Yes,

there was. Rough sticks and the lightest of down feathers were all that

it was made of—rude, simple, and, one would think, uncomfortable for

so grand a bird. Some of the down feathers were taken as a souvenir,

and now and then brought out and floated, so light are they, in

recollection of our having found one of the noblest of birds at home.

[Illustration: _The Eagle’s Nest._]

By mid-day we were out on the open snow, with hardly any rock shelter

for stalking, should fortune favour us. The reindeer, however, were not

“at home;” so we stopped at a suitable rock for lunch. How we enjoyed

it! Old Trophas wagged his tail with a conviction that “no sport, no

food,” would never be his fate as long as there was something left in

our wallets. So we all rejoiced together, winding up with a little

whiskey and hearty wishes for good sport.

Soon after lunch the tips of some horns were just visible on the

snow-line. A large expanse of snow lay before us, with some small rocks

half-way. Could we reach them? No; so we waited for the chance of the

deer working up our way. Unfortunately they moved in the opposite

direction, and our chance was gone. Still we had seen some, and that

inspired fresh hope. Later in the afternoon we again saw a herd, and

telescoped them for a length of time. Soon after this a second herd

became visible, and it was most interesting to watch their manœuvres,

which we did until they joined and moved off—of course in the opposite

direction. An immense expanse of snow was now before us, and once we

saw four herds of reindeer, and could count about one hundred and

forty. For a long time we had hope, and agreed that if we could only

get one we should be satisfied; but even that was denied, for the four

herds gradually blended and went straight off, leaving us in the most

perfect solitude, reindeerless.

[Illustration: _Reindeer Head._[5]]

[5] This head, of forty-one points, is in the collection of Sir Charles

Mordaunt, Bart., at Walton Hall.

By this time we had a long distance to travel to get back to our tents.

Fortunately the light fades so little that it hardly signifies; still

great care is required to judge of the best footing after leaving the

snow, as the hunter leads, and can go any way, even to rolling down

places like a hedgehog, and sometimes sitting down for a slide. Indeed,

going home becomes a kind of steeple-chase over unknown ground. In such

cases woe and grief must be the fate of the novice. At the highest

elevation we passed an immense boulder, very much like the Logan Stone,

and of similar dimensions, though perhaps larger. On the top of this

was a much smaller one, but of different geological formation. This

gave rise to considerable discussion about the glacial theory, as there

was a non-believer present. What could have produced this remarkable

combination but the action of glaciers passing over the surface,

bearing huge masses of rock from distant parts, and, as the ice melted

away, depositing them? These boulders were found at an elevation of

5,000 feet or more. We also met with a most interesting instance of

pink snow, very marked indeed in colour. All these varied phases of

nature did much to repay us for our disappointment respecting the deer.

This the difficulties of the descent also made us for the time forget,

as Danjel Kulingen was tearing away as hard as he could possibly go,

sometimes letting himself down, then hanging on to the undergrowth of

heather, sliding, rolling, or jumping. We often solaced ourselves with

the idea that if we could only get him on the flat for ten miles for a

finish, we could give him a spin and run him in at high speed.

[Illustration: _Red Deer Head._]

Whilst we had been telescoping the deer our Aalesund friend was having

sport. On our return we found that he had been over to our tent to see

us, and had left word of “Sport, sport,” and a message to try for a

meet. This, unfortunately, could not be arranged, or we should have

seen joy depicted on his face when he described to us where and how he

killed his first reindeer.

The Norwegians believe that the horns of the reindeer, boiled down,

are good for consumptive people. There is no doubt that the reindeer

themselves eat, or rather gnaw them when they are shed, which occurs

in November. The males shed their horns first, the females retaining

them longer. We found several horns partially gnawed through, and, when

we consider the number of deer, there must be some reason why the shed

horns are not more frequently picked up. The same idea of horn soup

for consumptive cases occurs in Scotland, where the horns of red deer

are also found gnawed. One would imagine that the best time for this

_potage_ would be when the horn was first formed, and the “velvet” is

on, or when the horn is being renewed; and during this period it is

very warm indeed, as large arteries run inside the velvet, or horn

skin, and are engaged in depositing bone on the old stems, until the

horns are complete and the velvet fretted off in September.

The reindeer, like ptarmigan, become white during the winter, and in

their wild state present a great contrast to the sheeplike tameness of

those possessed by Laplanders. The Laps have a regular call for their

tame deer, which generally come at once; but if not, the proprietor has

generally his lasso with him, which is thrown over the animal’s loins,

and he is at once a prisoner. The good travelling pace of reindeer is

well known, being about ten miles an hour, with two hundred pounds

weight at their back. In their wild state their pace was beyond

computation when we were behind them. We could well say that we had

been “after reindeer,” and that is all. The only way to have sport in

such a country as Norway is patiently to settle down to it, without

fixing a time for returning. A river is not always right, nor the water

in condition. So is it with the reindeer hunter: a thousand things

may occur to mar his success. The very wind is sometimes wrong, and

may chop round at the moment when he hopes it will hold on steadily

for an hour or two; while, on the other hand, it may change at some

fortunate moment exactly in his favour. No; there is no royal road to

such sports as these. The charm of uncertainty must at all times attach

to real sport. It must be worked for, and directly the uncertainty

is removed its real charm is gone, and the relish for it dissipated.

The mere act of shooting and killing lasts but a second of time; it

is the surroundings which afford the real pleasure—the fresh air,

the change of scene, the care required in every detail, the sportsman

never knowing but that the very next moment some interesting incident

may transpire which would make the day, hour, and spot a landmark; the

necessity for watching every breath of air, the most delicate zephyr

being registered and measured by the painstaking hunter, as he brings

out tenderly some carefully preserved pieces of the finest floss silk,

or, better far, some of the eagle’s down feathers already alluded to.

Again, the dogs require constant attention; and, to be quite complete,

a coronet of eagles’ eyes—optical all-rounders—would be an assistance.

[Illustration]

Fishing for salmon, and the love which Englishmen have for that

grandest of all sports, have led to the opening up of Norway to the

general traveller. Our first pioneers, finding how importunate were

the inquiries of the new-comers respecting the best spots and methods

for sport, and that the inclination of some led them to try and bid

above others for the waters they had really well earned by their own

energy and perception—all this, we say, tended to make men on board

the good ship _Tasso_ rather _taciturn_. (Excuse the approach to an

unintentional pun.) This, however, is not surprising, for men are

compelled to be reticent when they know the inevitable consequences of

giving details of their sport. Nothing will secure success but earnest

work, patience, and biding your time for the happy combination which

the best rivers can only afford now and then. Why, as we have just

observed, the whole charm of sport would be dispelled if it became a

dead certainty, and a man knew he would kill so many pounds of fish one

day, and none the next. No; like the glorious uncertainty of cricket

and hunting, the uncertainty of fishing is one of its charms; the

average of good and bad is equalised, and the old French proverb comes

in, that “Patience et longueur de temps font plus que la rage.” The

noble salmon has become liable to increased and more subtle dangers

within the last few years, besides his old natural enemies. The

peasants have new means of torture. His natural foes are the bull-trout

and sea-trout, which are the vermin of every river, destroying the

spawn wholesale, and even lying in wait for the moment when the female

deposits her milt, an instance of which came under our observation.

The nets at the mouth of the river are an old institution, but they

should be well constructed and supervised; also the _tine_, or stage,

described in a former chapter, where the _bonde_ is anything but the

“sweet little cherub that sits up aloft;” still it is an old custom,

and we like old customs. So also is the “worm box” which hangs from the

peasant’s belt as he goes for some trout, or anything else that may be

tempted. The worm box is a very primitive construction, its simplicity

being well carried out in the birch twig by which it is suspended,

and the two pieces of leather through which the lid slides. It is a

picturesque relic of old days.

[Illustration: _Worm Box._]

We now approach the recent diabolical invention of the “otter,” which,

sad to relate, must have been introduced thoughtlessly by some one

who little knew what damage he was doing when, for his own selfish

gratification, he fell back upon so unlawful and unsportsmanlike

an expedient. Even to obtain food such poaching is unjustifiable.

Certainly enough could have been taken for that purpose by fair means.

It is of no use, however, dilating upon this; the deed is done, and

otters cannot be withdrawn now. If the arm of the law were stretched

forth, “les pommes volées” would become more than ever “les plus

douces.” Then, again, the kindly feeling engendered by good sport and

a certain sense of gratitude frequently leads, at the end of a visit,

to a gift of flies, perhaps even of a rod. In illustration of this let

us repeat the case of the proprietor of a river who gave to Nils, his

_elve-wakker_, a salmon rod and flies. Early in the season Nils began

to avail himself of the new fishing-gear, and soon wrote home to his

benefactor to say that the salmon were coming up the river, but that

he had broken both tops of the rod, and lost most of the flies; would

the gentleman kindly send out some more flies and tops to get the

river ready for him? We do not think this was done; it could hardly be

expected that any man would like all the salmon he killed to be landed

with more than one fly, perhaps one in his mouth, one in each fin, and

finally one in his tail. What an awful apparition for even the merest

tyro! Such liberality is simply mistaken kindness. This brings to mind

other stories concerning salmon-fishing.

It is often remarked that “truth is stranger than fiction.” When an

M.P. fishing in Scotland played and held his fish all night, and on

the following morning lost him, and a friend of his afterwards killed

a salmon with one of the M.P.’s favourite flies in his tail, that was

certainly an event, but hardly to be compared with what we are about to

relate. In the large rivers of Norway a fishing may extend four miles,

and the fishing next to that only three, so that different waters are

let to different persons. In the present instance our foreign Izaak

Walton was fishing the very top water, and, as good luck would have it,

hooked a _stor lax_, perchance a forty-pounder. He played him firmly

and steadily, but the fish after a time got the gentleman at the reel

end of the rod through the next water and the next. Hours rolled on,

yet still down they went, and by the next morning arrived at a shallow

part of the river. A Norwegian peasant came up, and, despite the

national dislike to going into the water, plunged into the river, and

walked out with the _stor lax_ in his arms—DEAD, and reported

that he must have been dead for the _last five hours_. Nevertheless he

got him, and a fine fish he was, with one fly in the right place.

[Illustration: _Fresh Fish al Fresco._]

[Illustration: _The Stige-steen, or Ladder Rock._]

The Norwegians have a great admiration and respect for a good

fisherman. One morning, speaking of the average sport of the river,

and referring to that of last year, we inquired if —— were a good

fisherman. Knut answered emphatically, “No; he is a poor man, a very

poor man.” We naturally replied, “But in England he is a very rich

man.” “Ah!” said Knut with strong emphasis, “when he was here he was no

richer than we, but the flies bite him much more.” What contentment!

no envying, although a latent satisfaction creeps out, which decidedly

evinces an undercurrent of thought.

Trout-fishing has the great charm of taking Piscator into the most

lovely and retired spots. The salmon, as a larger fish, takes us to

a grander scale of nature. The water of the cheerful little trout

stream is changed for the rushing river, and the comparatively low

bank sometimes gives place to a position like that in the annexed

illustration, which was taken from above a grand pool, the Stige-steen,

or Ladder Rock, connecting it with the side of the river.

Having said somewhat of fishing, let us now turn to the “aldermanic

view” of the salmon, and hark back to a happy day when a lady had

killed a nice fish, about fourteen pounds and a half, which was to be

cooked on the spot: it is well to observe the process and make a note

thereof. Cut the salmon in slices, and boil them for ten minutes; then

let the water in which they were cooked boil on, with the head added;

put in a little fresh butter, pepper, and salt, and serve as gravy

or sauce. With a Norwegian appetite it is perfect, and very simple.

N.B.—Fish killed at noon, served at two P.M. This is fresh

fish, and contrasts most favourably with the frozen salmon which

travels ice-bound to the metropolis of Great Britain.

Evening is the best time for fishing, and the long twilight, which

helps the enthusiast for trout and salmon fishing at eleven or twelve,

can only be realised by those who know the glories of the North. It

seems a curious thing to take, when travelling, a green blind in order

to exclude the light when wishing to go to sleep; still it is necessary

at first, although Nature is so elastic that she readily adapts herself

to circumstances, when the green blind can be given to some new-comer,

or lent as a passing boon.

[Illustration: _Casting._]

One word in reference to the illustration, “A Good Beginning.” It was

our last morning: wind, rain, mist low down—in fact, blowing hard.

No. 3 was up at five A.M., and found the Tentmaster-general

had passed a restless night, every coverlet and blanket being

knotted, twisted, and twined into the most perfect disorder. This

was attributed to the fact that it was his last night that season in

Norway, and his usually placid sleep had been disturbed with Norske

nightmare. He must have been dreaming of trolds and _nökken_, and

fancied that he was gaffing ogres or _bjergtrolds_ instead of fine

clean fish. The weather was the last straw which broke the camel’s

back—he would not go. “You go,” was his rejoinder. So the Patriarch

went; and this was the result to greet his companions when they came

down to breakfast.

[Illustration: _A Good Beginning._]

There is a great charm about the freedom of driving one’s own pony

and carriole, or _stolkjær_, for a long run, or even for a short

excursion; it conduces to the peaceful rest we are all longing for,

and saves one from reminders that at the next station the horses will

be charged for if we do not hurry on. This is rather tantalising when

one is drinking in nature, and realising the fact that each moment is

revealing fresh beauties and developing lifelong impressions—the very

time when one wants to be left to nature and himself. In the excursion

now before us we had our own ponies part of the way, and pedestrianism

for cross country. Our route was from Romsdal, the weird valley where,

on the previous evening, the trolds had been playing pranks in the

following manner:—About 8.30 a tremendously heavy roll as of thunder,

lasting forty seconds, brought us suddenly to the window. The mist was

hanging round the peaks, with cirri-strati across them; down came the

_steen-skreed_, or slip, with a mighty rush; and the cloud was driven

out by the shower of rocks and stone as they came madly down. It was

unusually grand. The sheep boy with his horn ran in, Anna rushed to the

door to see it, and as she came the dust rose up in a cloud as incense

after Nature’s work. Ole remarked that it was a fine shower, and very

impressive it certainly was; still Anna said she did not like it. In

some cases in the winter-time the peasants go on to the ice to avoid

the possibility of these erratic masses reaching them.

We were soon off to Gudbransdalen, calling as usual at Fladmark—that

lovely spot, beautiful to a degree if you have provisions. Should such

be the case, you certainly must have brought them, for the station

is not one of refreshment, as Mrs. Brassey testified by her anxiety

to regain her yacht, the _Sunbeam_, which is truly a sunbeam to her

friends. Long may it be so to her and her husband and son!

We must leave the hurly-burly of rocks through which the Rauma

dashes in this part. Rocks the size of detached villas seem to have

been “chucked” about, for this is the only term we can bestow upon

such higgledy-piggledy positions. One can only realise the idea by

imagining one’s self a minute insect in a basin of lump sugar, with a

great rushing river beneath.

[Illustration]

Arriving at Mølmen, we found it a most healthy spot, and worth staying

at for a time, as the people are so kind, and the whole surroundings

inviting. Being on a high plateau, the air is perfect, and the place

seems to be more than usually fortunate in its weather. The following

morning, there being no service at kirk, we availed ourselves of the

perfect weather for enjoyment on the hillside. Striking off from the

houses, we sauntered up through the stunted birch and the heather till

the grey rocks became more prominent, the vegetation sparse, the plants

closer to the ground, and then we lay down on the fjeld side. What a

view there was beneath us! The whole scene was a rare combination of

all the prismatic colours so characteristic of Scotland in October.

At our feet was the long Lesje Vand, beyond that the Dovre fjeld,

and we fancied we could see Sneehatten; then, away to the right,

were snow ranges to Storhættan, which is ascended from Ormem. How we

basked in the sunlight and longed for more life on the fjeld! “Why

should we not go to Eikesdal?” said Ole all at once. “That would be

fine: why not?” The idea was caught at. “How long would it take to

walk, Ole?” “Well, eighteen hours if there is no mist.” “Very well,

then; no mist, if you please, and we will do it.” This was a new joy:

eighteen hours’ walk without a house to call at, carrying one’s own

nosebag, and great doubts as to a bed on arriving—more delightful

still! This is enjoyment indeed, though not to every one, perhaps. We

therefore decided to start the next morning at three A.M., provided

there was neither mist on the mountains nor the chance of it. How we

revelled on the journey in anticipation, enhanced as our happiness was

by the beauty of the scene and the grandeur of the surroundings! All

the way down we conversed on our coming walk, interrupted only by a

visit to a farm, where we heard some of the good folk singing. It was

hay-time; the weather fine, with a refreshing breeze that gently waved

the new-cut grass as it hung from the frames, like huge towel-horses,

which are used for drying it. We were invited to enter the farmhouse,

where we found the room tidied up for Sunday, and the family singing

a hymn in their customary devotional manner. There was the usual

three-cornered cupboard; an old gun which had laid low many a good

buck, the powder-flask, primer, and ball-bag were ready for August;

the ivy was carefully trained up the windows inside; and the ale-bowls

and tankards were about the room. It was quite a Norwegian homestead.

One thing was unusual—a musical instrument called a _psalmodicum_,

which is a board painted green with red flowers, about an inch thick

and thirty inches long, with three strings raised on a bridge like a

violin. These strings are played with a bow, also of the violin class,

but different in character. We regretted very much that we could not

persuade any one to perform upon it.

[Illustration: _Wool Holder._]

On our return we found the proposed trip emanated from the fact that

a house-painter was going over to Eikesdal, and had been waiting for

clear weather to carry out his object. By the next morning a farmer

from Eikesdal proposed joining us: he knew the way. This completed

our party, and at four o’clock we started, with every assurance of

fine weather. Working up through the stunted birch-trees, we soon

looked over the heights of the Vermer Fos to Storhættan. The Svart-hø

rose behind us, and approaching the snow-line, we came upon the

reindeer-flower (_Ranunculus glacialis_), with its sharp-pointed leaves

and beautiful white blossom. Then the dreary Gravendal opened to us,

wild, bleak, weird, and barren to a degree, with Amra Jura on our

right, directly over Eikesdal, far, far away. About this time there was

a grand solar rainbow. We now got very rough rock-tramping—regular

_couloir_ climbing—and there was no vegetation, the moss being of the

“crottle” tribe, a perfectly black lichen. As we ascended the peaks

were grander. Many reindeer _spör_ were seen, but no reindeer. At the

highest part we found the snow discoloured by a very fine dark gritty

dust; and it is a remarkable fact that this discoloration was the

result of volcanic eruption in Iceland. After the eruption a gale set

in from the W.S.W., which on Easter Monday, 1875, positively carried

the clouds of scoriæ right across Norway. The line was followed even to

Sweden, and corroborated by some peasants who were out when it fell.

A volcanic eruption in Iceland is a serious matter. One of the worst

occurred in 1783. On that occasion 14,000 persons were killed. In the

eruption of 1875, the vegetation, which provided for 40,000 sheep,

2,000 cattle, and 3,000 horses, was all destroyed. The hay harvest, the

only one in Iceland, was also entirely destroyed. Scoriæ, varying from

fine pumice to pieces the size of two fists, covered its surface from

an inch and a half to eight inches deep. The eruption began about nine

A.M., and when the scoriæ fell there was total darkness. The

air was so highly charged with electricity that staff-spikes held up in

the hand seemed to be in a blaze.

We soon began to descend a little to a vast plateau. Our provisions had

been fallen back upon every few hours, and were now much reduced. The

farmer looked forward to the plateau as being likely to afford some

_multebær_, a kind of raspberry with a hard skin, but juicy. A good and

most useful man was the farmer. Favoured by the weather, he steered

well, and we soon came to an incline on the snow, where we could make

a long and safe _glissade_. It was certainly a novelty to see us all

flying down. The farmer was the best man, and happily we reached the

bottom in safety. Another hour and we lay down to rest and enjoy our

_multebær_. They were deliciously refreshing. The house-painter, or

_maler_, suggested that there was a _sæter_ somewhere at the head of

Eikesdal which we might try for. “That is just what we are making

for,” said our cheery chief, the farmer; “in about an hour we shall be

there.” On we went, our fatigue being forgotten in the grandeur of the

scenery and the difficulty of picking one’s way, for hopping from stone

to stone absorbs the attention considerably. The time soon passed,

and after we had completed our twelve hours’ walk we had arrived at

some weather-worn, storm-riven, dwarfed, gnarled, and twisted birches,

beyond which, in a _botten_, lay our _sæter_. What an invasion! The

two girls were astonished, but when they heard the voice of the farmer

all was well. Ole immediately ordered a _bunker_, as it is called

in Romsdal; in Gudbransdalen it is termed _rummer coller_. How we

enjoyed our rest after this simple food! A _bunker_, however, should

be described: it is a flat wooden tub of curds and whey, and is handed

to two people. Each person is armed with a spoon, with which it is

etiquette to draw a line across the centre for your _vis-à-vis_ to eat

up to, not beyond; but few Englishmen ever reach the line unless they

are very old hands.

[Illustration: _Reeb Holder._]

We were now at the head of the Eikesdal gorge, or valley; a roaring

torrent rushed down the centre to Utigaard; on the left were

steep precipices with a large fall; while the opposite side was

perpendicular, and threatened showers of troll stones. As we descended

we saw many huge masses of rocks which had ploughed their way down,

carrying all before them. To see one of these _lapsus naturæ_ is a very

impressive sight, and makes one hold his breath and think. Passing

through the valley, we noticed some very curious snow shoes, in form

like the square frames on which sea-lines are wound, but with broader

cross-pieces. Birch twigs on each side and over the foot fix them. On

we trudged, having bidden farewell to the farmer, thanked him for his

good services, and had a _skaal_ for Gamle Norge. Finally, we left the

house-painter at his destination, where the old lady told us all about

the dust coming down upon her; and then Ole and myself were alone to

finish the day. We had started at four A.M., and it was now

ten P.M. We at length saw the spire of a church—the kirk at

Utigaard—and we began to inquire for Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard, the

hunter. At last we found his house, but he was on the fjeld. Could we

get a bed anywhere? No, nothing. Ole persevered, and we presently found

comfort. Torstin was expected down from the fjeld that night with an

English gentleman, whose servant most kindly gave me his bed. After

awhile down they came. Enter Torstin, a grand-looking fellow, drenched.

They had killed a _semle ku_, and had left two men behind to bring it

down next day. In the morning they arrived with it, forming the wildest

reunion of hunters. The Finmark dog, quite black, looked a beauty as

he lay by the dead reindeer. “Blenk”—for such was his name—was a

good and trusty servant: neither biped nor quadruped would venture to

interfere with him when he was on duty. It was a splendid group, worthy

of the pencil of a Landseer.

After the pouring rain of the previous evening, which had continued

through the night, we all had hopes of fine weather for our trip,

and still more did we desire to see, before leaving, Utigaard in the

beauty of sunshine. But no; on arising at about five, we found dirtier

weather than ever; the mist low down; Blenk still keeping watch by the

reindeer which had been brought down; every kind of waterproof oilskin

being looked out; and a great demand for sou’-westers. At last the

_stolkjær_ was packed, and everything ready to go down to the boats.

The baggage on the _stolkjær_ was surmounted by a reindeer head, Blenk

ever in attendance, and Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard leading the pony

as our chief. Then we were off, looking something between fishermen and

smugglers.

It was with much regret we took our last look at Utigaard as we settled

down in the boats _en route_ for Syltebø. The valley was grand in

the extreme, the mist sometimes breaking up over the sky-line with a

sudden rush, as if thankful to get loose and range over the fjeld with

freedom. Hardly were we under way, and the crew settled down to the

steady-going pace which Norwegians can keep up for any length of time,

when Utigaard burst out wondering who could have been the figures he

telescoped on the snow on the previous day—the fellows who had nearly

spoilt their sport and frightened their deer at the very moment when

they thought they had the “rein” well in hand. What could people be

doing up there? why should they go? who had ever seen any one in that

part of the fjeld? At last the thought flashed across his mind that it

might have been us. Was it? Yes, most undoubtedly it was, but happily

we had unintentionally turned the deer; it was, however, the right

way, so no harm had been done. The deer had been bagged, and we now all

rejoiced together.

[Illustration: _Eikesdal._]

As the three boats rowed steadily in solemn procession down the _vand_

we approached the Vika Pass on the starboard side. At this point the

lake is most imposing, its grandeur much enhanced by the mist, which

is ever changing, ever beautiful in form and intensity. Soon some of

the favourite old Norwegian songs were started, the chorus being echoed

by the other boats. On the opposite side of the Vika Pass there had

been a great _steen-skreed_; and so immense are the surroundings that

it was impossible to realise the extent of the devastation until

we approached the base of it, as it had dashed and lumbered into the

lake; then the huge masses revealed themselves in their unmistakable

proportions, dwarfing our boats to mere insignificant specks by their

side.

[Illustration: _Volda._]

Near this spot bears have been seen, and one was tracked only lately.

This led to the subject of bear-traps and “self-shooters,” when the

Tentmaster-general enlarged on the _modus operandi_ adopted by the

postmaster at Sundal. He knew there were bears, and having fully

studied the spot, determined to lay a “self-shooter,” if possible, or

at all events a trap; and this he very ingeniously so arranged that

when the trap caught Master Bruin a red flag should go up: this he

could see with a telescope from the post-office as he sat sorting the

letters. Some people had noticed that the latter operation took much

longer than usual about this time; still no one attributed the delay to

the postmaster’s love of bear-hunting, and they little thought that he

sorted with one eye and watched for Bruin with the other. At last one

day the postmaster saw the red flag. This was too much; the letter eye

immediately joined the fun. He was off at once to the bear, shot him,

and brought him home; and during the year he managed to get four.

Hard as it rained, we were very sorry when our boat trip drew to a

close, and we felt that we should soon have to bid farewell to Torstin

and Eikesdal Lake, with its many joys, rough life, and hearty welcomes.

We had a glorious walk from the lake to Syltebø, and were glad when

we saw in the distance the white house which was to be our haven of

rest, and to welcome us as friends. Soon after our arrival our host

came in from the river with a good fish; and many a one has been taken

from that stream, in spite of the change which has come over Norwegian

rivers within the last few years. When English sportsmen began fishing

in Norway the _bönder_ attached no value to salmon. They were surprised

to see them caught with such slight rods and tackle; but, as soon as it

dawned upon them that salmon were worth so much per pound, they began

to help themselves by netting them at the mouth of the river, before

they could ascend the stream which the enthusiastic Piscator had paid

a good sum to rent. The natural consequence is that Norwegian rivers do

not afford the sport they once did.

Whilst shooting at Syltebø, one of my friends found a beautiful

specimen of amethystic crystal of considerable size. From here a

steamer runs to Molde, one of the northern sea-coast centres, and true

to its time the little screw came off the landing-place with hardly

any one on board, for the season was far advanced: most tourists and

sportsmen had returned, and we enjoyed it all the more, as it afforded

us a better opportunity of seeing the people themselves.

The variety in Norwegian travel adds greatly to one’s enjoyment. In

the present trip we started from a rich expansive valley; thence

we ascended through woods of birch and alder by a torrent’s side,

vegetation became stunted and sparse, mosses gradually disappeared,

and lichens preponderated; then came barren boulders, and, above all,

the everlasting snow. Having attained this, our journey was varied

by a descent to the wild gorge of Utigaard; the Lake of Eikesdal, a

vast body of water, with its grand fall; then again, after the boating

procession, through the valley of Syltebø, by the side of its salmon

river, to the sea; and finally we were on the deck of the bustling

little screw steamer. On stopping at the first place we were surprised

to see a large boat coming off, mushroomed with huge umbrellas, whence

issued the music of Norwegian voices, and evidently those of ladies;

but as they neared the steamer the soft strains ceased, and they

came alongside in silence. Our array of oilskins, waterproofs, and

sou’-westers announced that foreigners were on board. We, however,

considered that this treasure trove should not be a dead letter on

a rainy day, and the Patriarch broached the subject of Norwegian

music, which happily led to an encore of all the boat songs and

many others, reinforced with much gusto by the chorus of oilskins,

waterproofs, and sou’-westers. They were a happy band—all ladies and

no gentlemen—going to a party at the _præstegaard_, some few miles

down the fjord. They assured us the priest would be very pleased to

see us, and give us a hearty welcome. It was with much regret we were

compelled to decline the invitation, especially as it would have

afforded a pleasing episode in our trip, and given us an opportunity

of seeing the _vie intime_ of a Norwegian minister’s home _en fête_.

As their boat left the steamer, they sang one of our favourite songs,

and our modest chorus followed it at a gradually increasing distance

until both faded away. After this cheerful but soaking morning we

comforted ourselves with stories of the fjeld, salmon, and Norwegian

life. Happily the Tentmaster-general was in great force, and, when

called upon for a yarn, responded with “muckle hilarity,” giving us one

of his reindeer experiences. Can we do better than repeat it here?

[Illustration: _Syltebø: with Farm Implements._]

First scene, _tente abri_ on the fjeld. Snow close above; in fact,

too much snow for sport. The Tentmaster-general telescoping alone in

the camp, if one may so call two tents. Having had a very hard and

weary stalk on the previous day, he was resting whilst the Major and

Dan went up after deer. Soon after they had settled down to work, the

Finmark dog “Passop” became very uneasy, and so fretted the string by

which he was led that Dan thought he might break away, which would be

sudden destruction to everything; he therefore carried the dog in his

arms. Shortly afterwards, Dan, doubtlessly becoming slightly tired of

carrying the dog, relaxed his hold a little. At that moment Passop

caught sight of a buck, sprang from Dan’s arms, and bolted after the

deer. Dan threw up his arms in despair, and gave vent to several

Norwegian hunting quotations unfavourable to Passop’s future happiness.

One thing was certain—the dog would go till he died from sheer

exhaustion, and Dan would never recover his favourite Finmarker. Dan

soliloquised, and watched long with his telescope, and finally gave way

to grief. The next few hours were very blank and sad—deer and Passop

both gone. In the afternoon, with melancholy thoughts and sluggish

conversation, they began retracing their steps to the camp, which

was about six miles distant. As soon as they were in sight of their

fjeld home the Tentmaster-general came cheerfully to meet them, for he

had seen seven deer steadily going down to a lake, and had anxiously

awaited the return of Passop. No time, however, was to be lost. Off he

went in pursuit alone, with the Major’s rifle. Hardly had he got away

from the camp when he caught a glimpse of more deer—two this time,

both going to the edge. He lay down to watch them, for patience as well

as judgment is required in reindeer work. After some time a strange

sound, like the bark of a dog, came down; but who ever heard the bark

of a dog in the wilds of the fjeld and on the snow? Listening again, in

a few minutes, from behind a huge boulder, came a _stor buck_ straight

on, with a dog close behind. What a chance! Happily the Tentmaster was

equal to the occasion. In the twinkling of an eye the shot was fired,

the buck was hit, but carried his bullet with him, and made for the

water. The dog gaining on him a little, he dashed into the water to

swim for it; but Passop dashed in too, for by this time our hunter had

recovered from his astonishment at the strange dog, and recognised it

as Passop. The ice-water of these lakes is, of course, intensely, cold,

and the dog was obliged to come back: he, however, did not do so until

he had had a good tug at the deer, which by this time had turned on his

side and was dead. A second time Passop tried to reach him, and was

obliged to return; but the third time he got on his back, and sitting

there, held the horns in his teeth. As the dog could not bring him

ashore, what was to be done? By this time the Major had come up, and

determined to swim for him, and tow him on shore. The ice-water was too

cold for him also, and he was obliged to turn back. The deer was too

far out to lasso, even could they lead the line up from the camp. But

_nil desperandum_. Hardly had their wondering got full swing when a

tremendous squall swept down the hillside, caught the deer and Passop,

and they drifted in. The Major made another attempt, and the deer was

landed. They were soon off to the camp, where Dan, with a very sad

heart, was preparing _speise_. When the latter looked up and saw them

coming, accompanied by his beloved dog, his expression soon changed,

and Passop was caught up into his arms as quickly as he had sprung

from them in the morning, while Dan, with a radiant face and his head

a little on one side, turning round to the Tentmaster-general, said,

“Good man, Maget good man.” Passop was made much of, Dan’s happiness

restored, and the one bottle of champagne was iced in the snow, to

drink to “Rensdyr jagt paa hoie fjeld.” It was a great day happily

terminated, and long to be remembered.

For some days we had been on the tramp, and arrived at Indfjord.

Thursday, August 20th, 1875, was a sad day there. Returned from a

long tour through very wild, rough districts, where neither food nor

lodgings were to be had, we were settling down for a good night’s rest,

certainly under difficulties, at the house of a good farmer named Ole

Erikson Boe, when the gruesome news came of a disaster in the mountains

above. A tremendous rock crash, or _steen-skreed_, had taken place at

a spot called Sylbotten, some three thousand feet above, where there

were two _sæters_ occupied by two _piger_, who had charge of the cows

belonging to the good people down the valley. We started off at once.

In a more than quiet spot like this, with what a crash does such news

burst upon every one! What sympathy it brings out; what interest in the

details of the occurrence! What sadness marks each face, and how quiet

and subdued all are, though all are talking!

We pass on, with a little provision in our wallets, and soon come to

some reapers in the valley, working in the fields, with leather aprons

for their protection. We started with Halve Jacobsen, the owner of

the _sæter_, who went up, taking a pony and foal, in case the mare’s

services were required: the foal always runs by the mother. On our sad

mission we could not be otherwise than struck with the joyfulness of

this young animal, its abounding spirits, caprioles, and quirks and

capers. Before arriving at the steep part of the ascent we stopped at

a small outbuilding close to the farm, the front of the house looking

over the Indfjord, with a grand expanse before one, the morning light

shimmering down to the edge of the water far, far below, and all

seeming peace and gladness. At the back of the house, between that and

the _laave_, we found a vastly different scene—pain, grief, and heavy

hearts. What a contrast to the brightness on the fjord side—the sunny

side that was! The anxious group was in shadow, comparatively speaking,

the centre attraction being a roughly made stretcher, on which was

lying, hardly conscious, pale, agonized, and bone-broken, Ingeborg,

Erichsdatter, Griseth. Poor girl! she had been brought down some three

thousand feet by a very steep _sæter_ path—for there was hardly any

road—jogged and shaken, with one leg broken, ribs crushed, and her

face much cut and bruised by the cracking up of the _sæter_ before the

overwhelming force which carried it away. Around her were the _bönder_

folk, and one poor old woman whose grief seemed beyond consolation.

The autumn was advanced, and the winter coming quickly on, for the

first snow days had begun. She had only one cow to support her: that

was at Sjolbotten, and was killed, so her only hope of livelihood was

for the moment swept from her, as no cow could be got under £5, and

“no siller had she.” What a chance for some rich Samaritan to heal a

broken heart for the small sum of £5! But as “many a mickle makes a

muckle,” so, doubtless, would a new cow be bought by the kindly spirits

of the good Indfjord folk. Their love for each other is a lesson to

even the most civilised among us. Indeed, it is very noticeable that

small communities care for everybody, while large masses notice no

individual—only charitable institutions.

[Illustration: _Looking across Indfjord._]

But we have not yet commenced the ascent. The mare leads through the

brushwood, the cheerful foal diverging now and then in the self-conceit

of all young things, fancying they know better than their mothers. It

was a steep climb. The mare slipped; but Halve said it was all right,

she knew the way. The morning was warm, and, as soon as we arrived

at a kind of ledge looking over the valley and fjord, we halted.

What a lovely, or rather, what a grand scene it was! Still there was

no forgetting our mission—no shaking off its sadness. Our present

object, after Ingeborg’s arrival, was to go up and see after her

companion, Ingrana. Our halt was not for long. We had already taken off

our coats, and hung them on a pine-stump. To our surprise, Halve left

his there until our return, and said, when we did not, “You can leave

anything as you like in Gamle Norge.”

[Illustration: _The Halt at Griseth._]

_En route_, in three hours we had left our last brier and alder behind,

and were on the plateau of the High Fjeld, and found much _smörgrass_,

so good for cows. As _smör_ is the Norse for butter, it will explain

the name. For a long time we tramped over the _botten_, carpeted with

rich flora; but at the end we saw the _steen-skreed_, or landslip. Some

four or five _bönder_ were already there, and seemed very surprised

to see a foreigner coming up with Halve. A few words of explanation,

and all was understood: one common object in view, that of helping

each other, soon bound us together. Ingrana naturally had not been to

sleep since the disaster. It is difficult to imagine any Norske _pige_

nervous, but poor Ingrana had been shaken and frightened out of her

wits. Her description, after a little entreaty and patience on the

part of the persuader, ran thus:—Early in the morning Ingrana was

awakened by a heavy rolling sound of thunder, followed directly by a

crash. She rushed from her _sæter_, and, coming out of her door, saw

Ingeborg’s _sæter_ carried away and buried. It is difficult to realise

the feelings of this simple-minded girl, living so solitary a life for

three months. In a moment—a second of time—one was taken and the

other left. Ten cows also were buried; and, no help being at hand,

Ingrana had to go down this lonely mountain with the sad news, leaving

her companion fixed, pinned, and crushed until she could return with

assistance.

We arrived after three and a half hours’ hard ascent, when some sour

milk that had been left was given us. The Englishman elicited a smile

from Ingrana when, taking the bowl from his lips, his moustache was

white with cream. This was hopeful and a good sign.

The slip was accelerated by a very large waterspout striking the face

of the mountain, as amongst the rocks which were brought down was a

quantity of sand, and the presence and action of water were palpable,

deep pools being left in many places. The scene was appalling—a

wreck in the wildest sense of the word. Some three-quarters of a mile

of mountain side had come down, carrying all before it—_rammeding_,

as the Norse word is. Huge rocks, a few stunted trees, hardly any kind

of herbage—what a hurly-burly of desolation! Looking across and over

it, we saw the distant placid fjord and open sea. What a contrast, the

peace of one and the turbulence of the other! Still the damage was a

known quantity, every year something of the kind happening, sometimes

with loss of life, sometimes without. The accompanying sketch was taken

from the lower portion, looking upwards.

[Illustration: _Landslip at Sylbotten; Indfjord._]

After going over the greater part of this chaos we went back to the

preserved _sæter_, where we were most kindly received, our sympathy

being accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Then we

returned. We found Halve’s coat quite safe and undisturbed, and after

the usual time arrived at Ole Erikson Boe’s farm, where we had a simple

repast of good _fladbrod_ and _bunker_, there being no meat here. We

rested, and early in the morning started for Fiva. During the evening

Boe showed me an old Danske Bible, folio size, A.D. 1590, with

large brass clasps. The good folk wanted me to bring my wife to the

funeral, in case the poor girl should not survive. In the morning we

went down to the shore, as we heard the steamer for Molde was coming

in to take Ingeborg thither, should she be still alive. Life was all

but extinct when she was got on board. Ole Fiva and myself started in

a boat for Veblungsnæs, having thanked the good people of Indfjord

for their kind welcome, and they expressing their gratitude for our

interest and sympathy, and reiterating their desire to welcome my wife

at Indfjord.

The morning was lovely for boat travel; such peace that convulsions

like those we had witnessed seemed incredible. But it was no dream: the

inhabitants of Indfjord, the family of Ingeborg, Ingrana, and the poor

woman without her solitary cow, all were stern realities.

Soon after our return to Fiva we heard that Ingeborg was dead, had

been taken back from Molde, and was to be buried in the _gravested_

at Indfjord on September 2nd, 1875. Accordingly, early that morning

we started in carrioles from Fiva to Veblungsnæs, where myself, wife,

daughter, and Ole Fiva took a boat with six oars for Indfjord. A

lovely, peaceful morning it was as we left the landing-place at

Veblungsnæs. Soon the six oars began their sturdy dip as we came under

the shadow of the mountains: the dip was strong, as Norwegians only

can row for a long travelling sweep and perfect time. After settling

down with our _tine_ of provisions—for we were travelling Norskily,

and no Norske is complete without a well-filled _tine_—a sad tone

seemed pervading the boat: our mission was one of sympathy for the

bereavement of others, with an after-thought of thankfulness that

we had been spared in health, and were sound in body and bone. But

the melancholy of every one was broken by a remark from Ole that we

should soon see the Runic _steen_, which is about half a Norske mile

from Veblungsnæs. A lieutenant of engineers, who was superintending

a new bridge, had described this stone to us, and we were eager to

see it. At last we came upon it. The boatman ran alongside, and threw

water over it to develop it. In nine hundred years pluvial attrition

alone is sure to make its mark, to say nothing of our energetic friend

Neptune’s constant stormdrift and tempest. (The writer would apologize

for the term “pluvial attrition,” but there are so many long words

about just now, what with street advertisements and urban authors.) A

general view of the Runic stone is given in the opposite engraving,

while the initial ornament on page 175 was drawn from a plant plucked

on the spot. The letters are thirteen in number, and their length about

eighteen inches. Twelve feet from the sea-level, under low-water mark,

and projecting some few feet, runs a ledge of rocks, beneath which is

supposed to be secreted untold wealth.

The translation of these Runic hieroglyphics is, “The Court of

Justice,” and this inscription was evidently placed in a conspicuous

position to guide any who came to the court in old pagan days; for

Romsdal was one of the last of the pagan strongholds. Above, high up,

close to Sylbotten, was a pagan temple; but the Court of Justice was

held at Devold, Romsdal.

There was now a regular good settle down for a long pull. Up to this

time we have been in shadow, but now we round a point, and taking what

a landsman would call the “first on the left,” we go due south down to

Indfjord. The sea-water is beautifully clear, reflecting the quartz

rocks. _à merveille_, like the good old chandeliers of our grandfathers

after a spring cleaning; the rich sunlit yellow seaweed is grander

far than ormolu; and here are three herons in repose, water-ousels with

their snow-white breasts, and now and then sparkles by an old cormorant

or diver. As we go down the fjord the snow range at the end of it

blocks in everything, the morning mist waiting in the valley for exit,

if possible.

[Illustration: _Runic Stone, with Inscription, near Indfjord._]

[Illustration: _The Gravested: Ingeborg’s Funeral, Indfjord._]

By this time we near the hamlet, and high above us on the left, on a

kind of plateau, we see many figures congregated. They were in front of

Erich’s house, Griseth being the name of the farm. We soon steered in,

and then between two boathouses, at a rude pile-driven landing-place,

the well-known scrape of keel on shore was heard, and we had safely

arrived at Indfjord. Griseth had sent down to meet us and invite us

up to the house, but we return the message that we would rather not

disturb the family, but await their arrival at the _gravested_; so,

with our _tine_, we picked out a spot for lunch, and enjoyed some

cold reindeer meat, biscuit, cheese, &c. During lunch we could see

the _bönder_ folk collecting high up at Griseth, overlooking the

fjord, and at two o’clock we saw them by the telescope start down the

narrow mountain path, the coffin being lashed on to the little cart to

prevent it slipping. Soon they were lost in a dip of the wood, from

which they emerged nearer to us. As we stood at the _gravested_, or

graveplace—like our word homestead, home-place—a man came up and

shook hands with us, and then standing on the wall, commenced tolling

the bell; for there is no church, but only a bell-tower.

Soon the procession drew near. First came the coffin, black, lashed on

to the hay-cart, and drawn by a beautiful young _blakken_, or Norske

pony, whose collar was of old carved wood painted, the _bonde_ driver

walking behind the coffin, which bore three wreaths of wild flowers. At

a distance behind the coffin followed the men, and after an interval

the sorrowing women, who were succeeded by men of the family, many

sad hearts, and Ingrana. It was a modest but impressive scene. When

the pony arrived at the _gravested_, hearing the tolling bell, he

shied and jibbed, as if regretting what he had done. The coffin was

therefore carried in at once. There being no clergyman, a friend sang

a hymn. The coffin was lowered into the grave; the wreaths removed;

the ropes withdrawn. Some one said to Ingrana, “You were lucky to

escape.” “I could not have been ready,” she said; “God wanted me not,

and left me a little longer. She was ready,” meaning Ingeborg, whom

they were burying. They then sang the second hymn, “Hjemme, Hjemme,”

as the friends shovelled the earth in, and the heavy thud of the large

spadeful boomed like parts of Handel’s “Dead March” in _Saul_. After

filling in the grave the wreaths were placed on the newly raised mound,

and the ceremony closed with “Hjemme.” The weird sea birds screamed,

and all went away together. Many will recount the story of Ingeborg,

Erichsdatter, Griseth.

Before leaving the _gravested_ the grave-boards must be noted, they

being so remarkable in form, so quaint, and also so Bosphoric.

Sometimes a white butterfly is introduced, as typical of the soul.

How different from the present association with the allegory of their

transient nothingness! After the funeral we had to pay two or three

visits. All the farmers wanted us to visit them—some to tell of

sport, others to offer us _aqua vitæ_ and stamped cakes like the Dutch

_waffles_; and when we returned to Ole Erikson Boe’s he gave me an old

Norske belt as a memento of our visit, which we need hardly say is most

carefully treasured.

So passed away Ingeborg, Erichsdatter of Griseth, while Ingrana

remained waiting her bidding.

Isterdal is full of interest and character, with a wild river,

precipitous mountains on either side, snow on the high peaks above, a

rushing of waters below, hardly any track, and shut in by a façade of

rock at the end of the valley; and yet it is the way from Romsdal to

Valdal. Let us, therefore, explore it, and do so in two fyttes—a short

carriole ride to the _sæter_ with the ladies, and beyond, high, high

up, for real research without the ladies.

_Place aux dames._ We tried the short journey with two carrioles, and

for an English mile or two we did pretty well, as they will go anywhere

and over anything; but as we got into the scrubwood and underwood the

road grew worse, the wheels going sometimes over a boulder one or two

feet in height, the axle assuming an alarming angle, and the _skyd-gut_

hanging on the high side to keep the vehicle from turning over—first

one side and then the other—till the fair occupants of the machine

were shaken to a jelly, and would fain try to walk. Still we all

persevere, and soon arrive at the meal-mill, given in the accompanying

page illustration. What a retired spot for business! Who would ever

think of it as a centre to draw customers and found a business—as

a likely spot for a man beginning with the conventional half-crown

becoming the architect of his own fortune?

The water seen here is the Ister—ever thick and muddy, and always in

violent motion. What a contrast to the calm dignity of the adjacent

mountains in all their graduated phases! A little above this is a shoot

which brings down water to turn the mill. On our arrival the miller

comes out with a quiet kind of welcome, and very kindly shows us the

stones doing their share of work to bring about _fladbrod_ for the

people of the valley during their summer visit: it is for the _sæter_

people they work principally.

Leaving the mill, we pass on to the denser scrub and brushwood. We had

with us an old Skye terrier, full of noble traits of character—courage

and endurance—but being as blind as Belisarius, and running against

some of the rocks in the track, he was not only thrown on his haunches,

but his nerve was shaken—that Highland nerve which is of such rare

stuff. Let us immortalise our blind Norwegian canine traveller by a

description. If lost, an advertisement should run thus:—“Lost, a

brindled Skye terrier, answering to the name of ‘Kyle.’ Rough broken

hair, broad chest, short-legged, bow-legged, middle-aged and strong,

and carries his tail high. True to the core, with a head as large as a

deerhound’s. Teeth to match.” The Norwegians at first thought it would

be well to shoot him, but when they came to know him better he soon

enlisted them all among his many ardent admirers.

Perhaps the idea may flit across the mind of some, Why bring a blind

Scotch terrier into a work on Norway? This is why: old Kyle was taken

that day for a young bear by a simple-minded Norwegian cow. Never were

fear and fright more vividly portrayed than by the action of that

animal, and of her tail especially, on the first glimpse of the brown

brindled terrier. Hearing his name mentioned, he has just wagged his

tail, which is quite flat, like an otter’s, and when very pleased he

wags it with the flat side on to the floor to produce more sound.

By this time we are at the _sæter_, where the _piger_ have come to look

after the cows until September. Having driven on to the only flat piece

of grass, we unpack for lunch, when the produce of the aforesaid cows

comes to our comfort in an unadulterated form, and thoroughly is the

simple fare enjoyed. After lunch we visit the interior of the _sæter_,

and find spinning going on steadily, a little national tune being

hummed to the whirring wheel accompaniment. The weaving is done during

the winter months. In the summer a little spinning is done, but only by

the most industrious.

[Illustration: _Spinning in the Sæter: Isterdal._]

To see Isterdal the only way is to walk. Let us, therefore, continue

on from the _sæter_ in the direction of the Valdal. This was done

with Ole Fiva. Soon we began to ascend, for the end of the valley is

precipitous, with a fine fall, the top of which must be reached before

arriving at the plateau, _botten_, or _balloch_. On commencing the

ascent Ole pointed out in the river below a spot where a bear had been

killed; and higher up again where a bear lived, for he had seen it

there. Some idea of the situation is given by the opposite woodcut,

with the _aiguilles_ on the right. This is looking down Isterdal. The

path was effaced the day before we passed by the descent of a quantity

of rough stuff, more than sufficient to have carried us with it into

the valley beneath. The _aiguilles_ are of a similar formation to the

Troltinderne in Romsdal, and seem to be a nursery of trolds for future

ages.

[Illustration: _The Head of the Valley: Isterdal._]

The evening glows on these pinnacles are marvellously and beautifully

grand, and the transitions of hue from one to the other beyond

imagination and conception. Still we work up. Ole, ignoring the

slightly defined regular track, goes up really awful places, hauling

himself up, and astonishing his follower and companion by displaying

the most unnecessary and enviable agility. All honour to such strength

and energy! By this time we had reached the plateau from which the

murky Ister takes a header into the valley which lay at our feet. Once

on the plateau, we could get along better over the stunted flora and

bare rocks, with snow here and there, especially on the south-west

side. The track is indicated by a few pieces of rock, put here and

there in a pile, which being of the same formation as the rock we

are walking on, the similarity of colour makes them very indistinct

at times: the best way is to look out for one on the sky-line, if

possible. After a long tramp we crossed the Ister again, and found

it still more turbid, which was puzzling, as it seemed to come from

a glacier above; but of this more anon. We worked on until we could

look down Valdal, and having drunk in nature in that direction, took a

little food from our wallets, and lay down for an _al fresco_ siesta on

a handsome natural carpet of _fjelde reis_ and other vegetation.

After that, Ole began telling of expeditions, traditions, and

excursions to the Jager’s Steen, and formally wound up with the report

of a frozen lake which a hunter had seen, but which had not been

visited since. Could we find it? Was the Herr inclined to go? “Most

certainly.” So we started.

There is a wonderful sense of freedom, and yet of a closer commune with

one’s Creator, in wandering over almost untrodden ground to admire

some portion of his works that have been rarely visited by man. It is

suggestive of drawing aside the veil of the tabernacle of nature; and

happy is the man who derives comfort and soul strength in so doing!

Ole led straight up over rocks bare and betumbled; not a symptom of

vegetation; above us a glacier coming to the edge of a precipice, and

the melting ice forming a fringed fall. We lay down, looking over

the side on a bed of scarlet and crimson _fjelde reis_, a kind of

cotoneaster. Beyond this ledge we saw the glacier imperceptibly coming

on, backed in the long perspective of glacial blocks by a huge bare

mass of rock, the Biskop, and the Drönningen. This was the source of

the Ister. The water, some distance from the foot of the fall, passed

over a soft deposit, which sullied its pristine purity right down

to the sea, the “murky Ister,” thus acquiring near its origin its

characteristic turbidity.

[Illustration: _Melting Glacier over Valdal._]

Now for a try for the unknown lake. Ole keeps on, thinking he has his

bearings all right. At last, having climbed up by the side of a fall

dashing down through bare rocks, came the summit, and creeping round a

boulder, before us lies a lake intensely deep in colour, and full of

icebergs and floes of old ice. Where we stood there was snow, with

tracks of reindeer; but in places the former had melted, the _lemmings_

had been there, and the reindeer-flowers were coming up. These we eat

with _fladbrod og smör_ after a time, for we could not at once settle

down to a snack without paying a tribute of respect to the majesty of

nature before us. Beginning our meal in earnest, in the midst of it we

heard a noise like a roll of thunder, the direction of which we soon

discovered. On the left side of the lake the vast expanse of snow was

riven by a gigantic avalanche, which ploughed its way down, and, coming

to the edge of the rocks, plunged headlong into the lake, agitating all

the ice, and causing the icebergs to jostle each other; but both water

and ice soon regained their equilibrium, and nature lay before us in

solemn silence and undisturbed majesty. It can well be imagined that

having once attained such a spot—some 5,000 feet above the sea—there

was a desire to linger, though the day was fading, and we had five and

a half hours’ walk home. However, “En route!” was the word. Straight

down from bare rock to rock simply ends in no knees after a time, and

one’s legs become something between strips of asparagus and sea-kale.

There was, however, one thing in store: once on a fair road, we could

make some running. It was a lovely evening: we were late, it was true,

but, as horses go freely with their noses towards home, we both took

to the road very kindly, and went along with a will. Ole did not talk

much. It is the pace that kills, and after sixteen hours’ trudge with

our provisions, he no doubt felt that he had done enough. With health

and strength, such a day amidst grand scenery is a joy for ever.

[Illustration: _Church Axe._]

VIII.

CEREMONIES, WEDDINGS, ETC.

WEDDINGS—COSTUME—THE PROCESSION TO THE CHURCH—THE

BRIDE’S RETURN—MOTTOES—BETROTHAL AND

MARRIAGE—CONFIRMATION—FUNERALS—THEIR “ONLY

ONE”—GRAVE-BOARD INSCRIPTIONS—HOME LIFE—ANTIPATHY

TO VENTILATION—NEW CURRENCY—GEOLOGY—VARIATIONS IN

TEMPERATURE—WATERFALLS—POPULATION—WOOD-CARVING—OLD SILVER.

In all climes and in all stages of civilisation a wedding is an object

of special interest, and is likely to bring forward some traits of

national character. The bride is always the great attraction, of

course, whether plain or old—not that any bride should ever be plain,

however uncomely featured she may be, for on that day of all others,

the spirit should shine through the clay, with every hope of happiness

before her; and if there be happiness in the world, surely it must be

when the bride becomes the better-half of him she loves. Let us, then,

attend a Norske wedding.

Weddings are not now as they used to be in the “good old days,” when

knives and winding-sheets were a part of the programme—when grim

rehearsals of the “Grapplers” were frequently repeated, and two

combatants, with one belt round the two waists, grappled and struck

until one was vanquished. No; Scandinavian ferocity is subsiding;

they think more now of “bleeding” their foreign visitors, and the

weddings are sobered down; but the arch-fiend of inebriation tightens

his grip, and Norwegian weddings in the provinces are characterized by

deep libations and their wretched consequences. Now, having noticed

the worst feature of these Northern domestic gatherings, let us turn

cheerily to the brighter side of them.

[Illustration]

Naturally costume immensely assists a ceremony like this, and should

the bride not have old silver enough of her own, everybody is ready

to contribute towards the general result, and is only too glad to do

anything in his power to add to the brightness of the occasion. In

Norway the bride wears a silver crown, which varies a little in form

according to date, the most modern crowns branching out all round more

than the older ones. The silver crowns are generally made with hinges,

four or six in number, so that they may fold up into a small space for

carrying in a _tine_, or box. The oldest forms are silver-gilt; the

more recent are partially gilt, some parts being left bright silver.

The bride also wears a thick curb chain, with a medal, which is

sometimes set in filigree-work; but in the case under notice the medal

was one cast with a fine bust of Nelson. Tidemand, the Norwegian genre

painter, has portrayed many scenes of the “Bride preparing to start,”

“Dressing the Bride,” &c.

The procession to the church is generally all-important. First comes

the fiddler, next the _kander_ or tankard man, then best man, bride and

bridegroom, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, relations,

and many others—all the children of the place swarming round the

church door. We should observe that there is a stolid immobility about

some of the Norwegian _piger_ which seems to become intensified on

these occasions; but when they do melt there must be a great overflow

of spirit and reaction.

The picturesque group at the altar of the church takes one back to the

Middle Ages: the bride resplendent in costume—in some cases quaint

to a degree, especially in Sætersdalen—with the old silver brooches,

rings, and pendants of generations long gathered to their fathers;

the bridegroom also, most likely, in costume, with his best man close

by to look after the bridesmaid; in the centre, the Elizabethan ruff,

pure white as in Queen Elizabeth’s time, thrown vigorously up by the

sombre black gown, renders the priest a prominent figure; while perhaps

a ray from the sun, descending on the group, shines upon the bride

at the very moment when that ray only is wanted to complete the

pictorial effect of the grouping and its surroundings. The verger, or

clerk, with his long red pole—the functionary described in a former

chapter—is not on active service to-day to awake the sleepers; in

fact, the congregation seems rather inclined to turn the tables and

wake him up. The church floor is, as usual, strewn with juniper tips,

and after the ceremony the bride and bridegroom start home. Walk, ride,

drive, or boat—that depends on the distance and character of the road

to be traversed. They are all picturesque: the water, however, carries

the palm, and, as we have before remarked, the whole scene causes one

to revert to early days, before carriages were used, or roads were

uninviting for travel, and when locomotion was a difficulty.

[Illustration: _A Bridal Party crossing the Fjord._]

[Illustration: _The Wedding._]

What an evening it was, “the bride’s return!” As usual in Norway,

you cannot go far without crossing a fjord: this the bride had to

do. A twenty-oared sea-boat was her water carriage. What peace—what

colour—what harmony! Was it typical of her future married life? A

zephyr just filled the broad sail, the large prow rearing grandly in

front, with a huge bunch of flowers and green things innumerable on

the top; then a large flag and more flowers at the mast-head; and the

rowers every now and then bursting out into a refrain, which as one

leaves off the other takes up. And how these Norsemen do row—always

together! It is generally allowed, by men of experience in Norway,

that so long as the rower is not too “arch-fiended” to sit up, he will

always keep time with his oar. The dip of the oars in the calm is

delightfully refreshing, and the regular sweep gives an idea of power.

Fun is going on at the other end of the boat; for the bride is there

on a raised seat, with the bridegroom, supported by their friends.

The second boat is being left behind, so the _kander-man_ is holding

a large silver tankard to encourage and at the same time joke them.

Doubtless a spurt will be put on after this, and another race commenced

for the run home; or they may just stop for one more _skaal_ (the

bride’s health), and when they have once commenced, be undecided as to

going home.

[Illustration: _Drinking Horn in the Collection of C. Hampden Wigram,

Esq._]

[Illustration]

One thing is a comfort, at all events; all through the country there

is strong evidence of family affection, and these weddings are only

the beginning of a new era of happiness. In Thelemarken, as we have

already had occasion to remark, one custom is for the bridegroom

to elaborately carve the _stabur_, or family treasure-house, with

excellent designs and cunning work, which he effects with his

tolle-knife; and another is to carve good mottoes on the large beds and

over the doors of the rooms. The following are some from Thelemarken

district, that quaint land of short waists, shoulder-blades, and white

jackets—a land abounding with grand old conscientious work; huge

timbers made into solid houses; no hurry-skurry, no slurriness, no

giving as little as possible for wages received—real good timber-work;

while inside may be found carved chests, some of them family treasures

handed down for generations. Motto over bed, carved in: “This is my

bed and resting-place, where God gives me peace and rest, that I may

healthy arise and serve Him.” Over the entrance to a house: “Stand,

house, in the presence of our Lord, assured from all danger, from fire

and theft. Save it, thou, O God; bless also all who go in and all who

go out here.” The ale-bowls, too, have good mottoes: “Of me you must

drink; but swear not, nor ever drink too much.” This motto we would

recommend to the licensed victuallers of England, as good for their

“pewters.” Another drinking-bowl: “I am as a star unto you, and all

the girls drink of me willingly.” Another: “Taste of the fruit of the

corn-field, and thank God from your inmost heart.” This one again:

“Drink me forthwith, and be thankful, for I shall soon be no more.”

These, we say, are good sentiments, and worthy of note; and they must

be the outcome of deeply rooted honest hearts, anxious to benefit not

only those about them, but those who may follow.

[Illustration: _The Bride’s Return by Water._]

When the bride returns home there are great doings, with firing of

guns, and, as we have before observed, libations and dancing; the

latter doing good and giving pleasure, the former, to say the least

of them, producing the next day what is known in Scotland as the

“blacksmith’s hammer on the forehead.”

What a contrast to a Norwegian wedding, carried out with all its

details, is the modern civilisation of being married before a

“Registrar”—a process which must be sudden death to sentiment, and

destructive of all the sacred associations so closely linked with the

solemnity of marriage in Norway! Marriage takes time. The Lutheran

Church has two distinct services or ceremonies, which conduce to

the steady-going of the young people concerned, and tend to develop

prudent and careful living. There is first the betrothal, and then

the wedding. Circumstances decide the particular period between the

two events—one year generally, sometimes two or more; in any case

the betrothal is a good preparation for the responsibilities of

married life, and certainly works well. One thing is beyond denial—it

affords an opportunity to discover latent objections and bad habits,

which might not crop out all at once while the lover is offering a

concentrated essence of courtship. By the betrothal system a girl

enters upon a certain and marked position, being as it were an aspirant

to the honour and dignity of marriage; and this training has generally

a most wholesome effect. The same system is likewise carried out by the

provincial peasants, though these simple folk are sometimes a little

impatient of the second ceremony; but the law of Norway has alleviated

any difficulty which might arise from such impetuosity, and taken the

same _status_ as that of Scotland.

[Illustration: _Before the Wedding._]

The wedding festival will frequently last a week—early and late. It is

not “What a day we are having!” but “What a week we are having!” The

home love of the people is prominently shown on occasions like these;

their simple affection and general kindliness can only be the outcome

of tenderness and sympathy in their every-day life, when the mothers

are so motherly, the fathers so fatherly. No “iceberg dads” are to be

found in Norway; they are more like the stoves which every one gathers

round for comfort when the chills of life are likely to be forthcoming.

And the priest comes out strongly on these occasions, for, as we

have previously noticed, he is a part of every family; he shares the

troubles of the flocks, and enhances their joys. He is no kill-joy; on

the contrary, he enters into all that is going on, joins in the songs,

is generally convivial at table, and is not shy of tobacco; he is, in

fact, a practical, genial Christian, and consequently does good service

to the cause he represents and to his flock.

[Illustration: _The Arrival at Home._]

We now come to the last ceremonies of the Church, only remarking on

our way the very great importance attached by the Lutheran Church to

confirmation. In this the Church does well, and sows good seed at the

right time—seed which is to be the joy of riper years and the backbone

of posterity.

[Illustration: _Hitterdal Church._]

A Norwegian funeral is surrounded by an unwholesome atmosphere of

intense melancholy; hope and faith seem trampled down for the moment by

the weight of present grief. The Norwegians certainly do not look upon

the arrival of the reaper who puts in the sickle as the “order of

release” from the trammels of our lower state. Perhaps their intensity

of feeling is a certain relief from which they rebound to a lighter

burden in after-life. Their quiet, secluded life encourages this; the

very sombreness of the country develops it; and the almost oppressive

grandeur of the scenery sustains it; while the absence of birds with

joyous song certainly adds to it.

[Illustration: _Return from the Christening._]

[Illustration: _The Funeral: Bergen._]

Funerals in this country take many forms. First, in towns, for plump,

portly burghers, as well as for men of note in letters, politics, or

art, there is the old form of coffin chariot, with cock-hatted driver,

the horses clothed in all the panoply of funereal darkness, the road

sprinkled with juniper or yew twigs, the Death’s head blended with a

flame rising from the urn as decoration; the latter the only cheerful,

hopeful thought in the whole arrangement. We regret to add that, like

weddings, funerals are characterized by heavy libations. As to military

obsequies, they are much the same in all lands, and therefore we need

say nothing concerning them. And now, away from towns and cemeteries,

to the more simple method of taking farewell of passing spirits and

lifeless clay.

[Illustration: _The Stolkjær and Boat._]

During the visit to Indfjord a description was given of the funeral of

Ingeborg, a good _pige_ swept away by a landslip. How full of sympathy

the good folk were; how the finest breed of _blakken_ was brought,

with the best carved collar the district could produce, to honour her

last remains! And in another place we referred to the more common

occurrence of the coffin being placed on a _stolkjær_. During the

winter, in some of the most inaccessible farms, such as the Geiranger,

where there is no landing-place, the body is kept until spring.

This seems protracted agony; but there is the balance of nature—no

decomposition. In the less-frequented rivers a solitary boat may

sometimes be seen, containing a funeral party unattended, their sorrow

self-contained and unshared by others. The opposite woodcut illustrates

a touching incident—a _bonde_ and wife taking their “only one” to

God’s acre. This is secluded life intensified. Their little one—their

treasure and delight, their pet lamb—was called home, and they had

to take it to its resting-place. The poor mother may have borne up

bravely, but the sight of the churchyard in the distance was too much

for her, and at last she gave way and sobbed over the coffin. But when

she arrives the priest with kindly voice and deep sympathy will comfort

and cheer her. Little, however, will they talk as they row back, with

their hearts full and their home empty. None but those who have had an

only one called away can realise the blank—their “sunbeam” gone. The

grave-boards bear simple and pious inscriptions. We append a few here.

[Illustration: _Their “only one.”_]