A poet in full uniform--The young lady in gauntlet gloves
again--Church in a cave--Muscular Christianity in the
sixteenth century--A miracle of light and melody--A romance
of bigotry--How Lutheranism came in like a lion--The last
of the Barons--Author makes him bite the dust--Brief
burial service in use in South-Western Norway--The
Sörenskriver--Norwegian substitute for Doctors’ Commons--Grave
ale--A priestly Samson--Olaf’s ship--A silent woman--Norwegian
dialects--Artificial salmon breeding--A piscatorial prevision.
Next day, at five o’clock, A.M., I drove off to the head of the
Nord-Sö, distant half-a-dozen miles off, and got on board the steamer,
which was crowded with passengers. An old gentleman on board attracted
my attention. His dress was just like that of a livery servant in a
quiet family in England--blue coat, with stand-up collar, and two rows
of gold lace round it. This I find is the uniform of a sörenskriver.
Konrad Swach--for that was his name--is a poet of some repute in this
country. His most popular effusion is on the national flag of Norway,
which was granted to them by the present King, Oscar--a theme, be it
remarked, which would have secured popularity for a second-rate poem
among these patriotic Northmen. To judge from the poet’s nose, it
struck me that some of his poetic inspirations is due to drink. The
front part of the vessel is beset by Thelemarken bonders, male and
female, in their grotesque dress.
The young lady in gauntlet gloves is also on board, whom I make bold to
address, on the strength of our having journeyed together yesterday. As
we steam along through the usual Norwegian scenery of pines and grey
rocks, she points out to me the mouth of a curious cave.
“That is Saint Michael’s Church, as it is called. The opening is about
sixteen feet wide, and about as many high, and goes some eighty feet
into the cliff. In the Catholic times, it was used as a church, and
became a regular place of pilgrimage, and was regarded as a spot of
peculiar sanctity. In the sixteenth century, as the story goes, when
the reformed faith had been introduced into the country, the clergyman
of the parish of Solum, in which St. Michael’s was situate, was one
Mr. Tovel. Formerly a soldier, he was a man of strong will, zealous for
the new religion, and a determined uprooter of ‘the Babylonian remnants
of popery,’ as he phrased it. The church in the cave was now sadly
come down in the world, and had been despoiled of all its valuables.
But in the eyes of the bonders, who, with characteristic tenacity of
character, adhered to the old faith, it had risen higher in proportion.
Numerous pilgrims resorted to it, and miracles were said to be wrought
at the spot. At night, it was said, soft singing might be heard, and a
stream of light seen issuing from the orifice, which lies four hundred
feet above the water.
“One autumn evening, the reverend Mr. Tovel was rowing by the place
when the above light suddenly illumined the dark waters. The boatmen
rested on their oars and crossed themselves. Tovel urged them to land,
but in vain. Determined, however, on investigating the matter himself,
he obtained the services of two men from a neighbouring village, who
apparently had less superstitious scruples than his own attendants,
and watched from his abode, on the other side of the lake, for the
reappearance of the light. On the eve of St. Michael he looks out,
and sure enough the light was visible. Off he sets, with his two men,
taking with him his Bible and sword. The night was still, with a few
stars shining overhead. Reaching the foot of the rock, the priest
sprang ashore, and invited the boatmen to accompany him, but not a step
would they go. The superstition bred in the bone was not so easily to
be eradicated, even by the coin and persuasion of Herr Tovel.
“‘Cowards! stay here, then,’ exclaimed his reverence, as he started up
the steep ascent alone. After a hard scramble, he stood a foot or two
below the cavern, when just as his head came on a level with its mouth
the light suddenly vanished. At this trying moment, Tovel bethought him
of the great Reformer, how he fought with and overcame the Evil One.
This gave him fresh courage, and he entered the cavern, singing lustily
Luther’s psalm--
“‘En Berg saa fast er os vor Gud,
So godt et Skiold og Vaerge;
Fra alt vor Not Han frier os ud
Han kan og nun os bierge.’
“At the last words the light suddenly reappeared. An aged priest,
dressed up in the full paraphernalia of the Romish church, issues from
a hidden door in the interior of the cave, and greets Tovel with the
words--
“‘Guds Fred,’ (God’s peace); ‘why should I fear those who come in God’s
name?’
“‘What!’ exclaimed the astonished Tovel; ‘is it true, then, that Rome’s
priests are still in the land?’
“‘Yes; and you are come sword in hand to drive out a poor old priest
whose only weapon is a staff.’
“As he spoke, the door of an inner recess rolled back, and Tovel beheld
an altar illuminated with iron lamps, over which hung a picture of St.
Michael, the saint often worshipped in caves and mountains.
“‘It is your pestiferous doctrines against which I wage war, not
against your person,’ rejoined Tovel. ‘Who are you, in God’s name?’
“‘I am Father Sylvester, the last priest of this Church. When the
new religion was forced upon the land, I wandered forth, and am now
returned once more, to die where I have lived. The good people of
Gisholdt Gaard have secretly supported me.’
“Moved with this recital, the Lutheran priest asks--‘And are you trying
to seduce the people back to the old religion?’
“The aged man rejoins, with vehemence--
“‘It were an easy task, did I wish to do so; but I do not. It is only
at night that I say prayers and celebrate mass in the inner sacristy
there.’
“Tovel, thoroughly softened, when he finds that his beloved Reformed
faith was not likely to suffer, finishes the conversation by saying--
“‘Old man, you shall not lack anything that it is in my power to give
you. Send to me for aught that you may have need of.’
“The venerable priest points to the stars, and exclaims, solemnly--
“‘That God, yonder, will receive both of us, Protestant and Catholic.’
“After this they cordially shook hands. Tovel went home an altered man.
Some time afterwards, the light ceased to shine entirely. He knew why.
Old Father Sylvester was no more.
“Mr. Tovel got off much better than many clergymen of the Reformed
faith in those days. Old Peder Clausen, the chronicler, relates that he
knew a man whose father had knocked three clergymen on the head. The
stern old Norwegian bonders could ill brook the violence with which the
Danes introduced Lutheranism; a violence not much short of that used by
King Olaf in rooting out heathenism, and which cost him his life.”
I thanked the young lady for her interesting information.
Presently a curious figure comes out of the cabin. It was a
fine-looking old man, with white hair, and hooked nose, and keen eyes,
shadowed by shaggy eyebrows. His dress consisted of a blue superfine
frock-coat, with much faded gold embroidery on a stand-up collar; dark
breeches, and Hessian boots. On his breast shone the Grand Cross of the
North Star. A decided case of Commissioner Pordage, of the island of
Silver-Store, with his “Diplomatic coat.”
That’s old Baron W----, the last remnant of the Norsk nobility. He
wears the dress of an Amtman, which office he formerly held, and loses
no opportunity of displaying it and the star. He it was who in 1821
protested against the phævelse (abolition) of the nobility. The Baron
was evidently quite aware of the intense impression he was making
upon the Thelemarken bonders. On our both landing, subsequently, at a
station called Ulefoss, I was highly diverted at seeing him take off
his coat and star and deposit the same in a travelling-bag, from which
he drew forth a less pretending frock, first taking care to fold up the
diplomatic coat with all the precision displayed by that little man of
Cruikshank’s in wrapping up Peter Schlemil’s shadow. We both of us are
bound, I find, for the steamer on the Bandagsvand.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” said I, to the man who had brought my
horse and carriole.
“Oh, we must not start before the Baron. People always make way for
him. He won’t like us to start first.”
“Jump up,” said I, putting my nag in motion, and leaving the Baron
in the lurch, who was magniloquizing to the people around. All the
bonders “wo-ho’d” my horse, in perfect astonishment at my presumption,
while the Baron, with a fierce gleam of his eye, whipped his horse into
motion. I soon found the advantage of being first, as the road was
dreadfully dusty; and being narrow, I managed to keep the Baron last,
and swallowing my dust for a considerable distance.
We were soon at Naes, on the Bandagsvand, where lay the little steamer
which was to hurry us forty-two miles further into Thelemarken, to a
spot called Dal. The hither end of the lake, which is properly called
Hvide-sö (white-sea), is separated from the upper, or Bandagsvand,
by a very narrow defile jammed in between tremendous precipices. We
pass the church of Laurvig on the right, which is said to be old and
interesting. The clergyman, Mr. H----, is on board. He tells me that
the odd custom of spooning dust into a small hole (see _Oxonian in
Norway_) is not usual in this part of Norway. The term used for it is
“jords-paakastelse.” The burial-service is very brief; being confined
to the words, “Af Jord er du, Til Jord skal du blive, ud af Jord skal
du opstaae.”
For his fee he receives from one ort = tenpence, to sixteen dollars,
according to circumstances. In the latter case there would be a
long funeral oration. Close by the church is the farm of Tvisæt
(twice-sown), so called, it is said, because it often produced two
crops a year. Although placed in the midst of savage and desolate
scenery, the spot is so sheltered that it will grow figs in the open
air.
The Sörenskriver is also on board, the next Government officer to
the Amtman, or governor of the province. He is going to a “Skifte,”
as it is called. This word is the technical expression for dividing
the property of a deceased person among his heirs, and is as old as
Harald Hârfager, the same expression being used in Snorro’s Chronicle
of his division of his kingdom among his sons. In this simple country
there is no necessity for Doctors’ Commons. The relatives meet, and
if there is no will the property is divided, according to law, among
the legal heirs: if there is one, its provisions are carried out:
the Sörenskriver, by his presence, sanctioning the legality of the
proceeding.
He informs me that there is generally a kind of lyke-wake on the
melancholy occasion, where the “grave öl” and “arve öl,” “grave ale,”
or “heirship ale,” is swallowed in considerable quantities. In a recent
Skifte, at which he presided, the executors charged, among the expenses
to come out of the estate, one tonder malt and sixty-five pots of
brantviin; while for the burial fee to the priest, the modest sum of
one ort was charged. While the Sörenskriver was overhauling these items
with critical eye, the peasant executor, who thought the official was
about to take exception to the last item, or perhaps, which is more
likely, wishing to divert his attention from the unconscionable charge
for drink, observed that he really could not get the funeral service
performed for less. The pastoral office would seem, from this, not to
occupy a very high position among these clod-hoppers. Sixty-five pots,
or pints, of brandy, a huge barrel of malt liquor, and ten-pennyworth
of parson.
Mr. C., who is acquainted with Mr. Gieldrup, the priestly Samson of
Aal, in Hallingdal, gives me some account of his taking the shine
out of Rotner Knut, the cock and bully of the valley. It was on the
occasion of Knut being married, and the parson was invited to the
entertainment, together with his family. During the banquet, Rotner,
evidently with the intention of annoying the priest, amused himself by
pulling the legs of his son. Offended at the insult, Gieldrup seized
the peasant, and hurled him with such force against the wooden door of
the room, that he smashed through it. After which the parson resumed
his place at the board, while Knut put his tail between his legs, as
much abashed as Gunther, in the Nibelungenlied, when, at his wedding,
he was tied up to a peg in the wall by his bride, the warrior virgin
Brunhild.
It is customary in Hallingdal, where this occurred, to accompany the
Hallingdance with the voice. One of the favourite staves in the valley
had been--
Rotner Knut, Rotner Knut,
He is the boy to pitch the folks out.
It was now altered, and ran as follows, greatly to Knut’s chagrin,--
Rotner Knut, Rotner Knut,
The priest is the man to pitch him out.
On another occasion, Gieldrup was marrying two or three couples, when
one of the bridegrooms, impatient to be off, vaulted over the chancel
rails, and asked what was to pay. In the twinkling of an eye the
muscular parson caught him by the shoulders and hurled him right over
the heads of the bystanders, who stood round the rails.
As we steam along, the Sörenskriver points out to me, on the top of
the lofty rocks on the left, a rude representation in stone of a ship,
which goes by the name of “Olaf’s skib.” Among other idiosyncrasies of
the saint and martyr, one was, that of occasionally sailing over land.
How his vessel came to be stranded here, I cannot learn. Further on, to
the right, you see two figures in stone, one of which appears to have
lost its head, not metaphorically, but in the real guillotine sense.
The bonders will give you a very circumstantial account, part of which
will not bear repetition here, how that this is a Jotul, who had some
domestic unpleasantness with his lady, and treated her at once like the
Defender of the Faith did Anne Boleyn (we beg pardon of Mr. Froude)
casting her head across the water, where it is still lying, under the
pine trees yonder, only that the steamer cannot stop to let us see it.
The lady and gentleman were petrified in consequence.
And lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stands a ghastly stone, &c.
“I see you speak Norsk,” said the Sörenskriver, “but you will find
it of very little use yonder, at Dal. The dialect of Thelemarken,
generally, is strange, but at Dal it is almost incomprehensible, even
to us Norwegians. It is generally believed that the language here still
possesses a good deal of the tone and turn of the old Icelandic, which
was once spoken all the country through.”
I did not, however, find it so difficult. The Norwegians look upon
English, I may here remark, as hard to pronounce. On that notable
occasion, say they, when the Devil boiled the languages together,
English was the scum that came to the top. A criticism more rude than
even that of Charles V.
As we approach the landing-place, to my astonishment, I perceive a
gentleman fly-fishing at the outlet of the stream into the lake.
He turned out to be Mr. H----, who is traversing the country, at
the expense of the Government, to teach the people the method of
increasing, by artificial means, the breed of salmon and other fish.
He tells me, that last year he caught, one morning here, thirty-five
trout, weighing from one to six pounds each.
His operations in the artificial breeding-line have been most
successful; not only with salmon, but with various kinds of fish.
He tells me it is a mistake to suppose that the roe will only be
productive if put in water directly. He has preserved it for a long
period, transporting it great distances without its becoming addle, and
gives me a tract which he has published on the subject. As we are just
now at home in England talking of stocking the Antipodal rivers with
salmon, this topic is of no little interest. The method of transporting
the roe in Norway is in a wooden box, provided with shelves, one above
another, and two or three inches apart, and drilled with small holes.
Upon these is laid a thin layer of clean, moist, white, or moor, moss
(not sand), and upon that the roe, which has already been milted.
This is moistened every day. If the cold is very great, the box is
placed within another, and chaff placed in the interstices between
the two boxes. In this way roe has been conveyed from Leirdalsören to
Christiania, a week’s journey. Professor Rasch, who first employed
moss in the transport, has also discovered that it is the best
material for laying on the bottom of the breeding stews, the stalks
placed streamwise. Moss is best for two reasons: first, it counteracts
the tendency of the water to freeze; and secondly, it catches the
particles of dirt which float down the stream, and have an affinity
rather for it than for the roe. The roe is best placed touching the
surface of the stream, but it fructifies very well even when placed
half, or even more, out of the water. Care is taken to remove from the
stews such eggs as become mouldy, this being an indication that they
are addle. If this is not done, the mouldiness soon spreads to the
other good roe, and renders it bad. With regard to the nursery-ground
itself, it is of course necessary to select a spring for this purpose
which will not freeze in winter, and further, to protect the water from
the cold by a roofing or house of wood.
I suppose the next thing we shall hear of will be, that roe that
has been packed up for years will, by electricity or some sort of
hocus-pocus, be turned to good account, just as the ears of corn in
the Pyramids have been metamorphosed into standing crops. Mr. H----’s
avocation, by-the-bye, reminds me of an old Norwegian legend about
“The Fishless Lake” in Valders. Formerly it abounded with fish; but
one night the proprietor set a quantity of nets, all of which had
disappeared by the next morning. Well, the Norwegian, in his strait,
had recourse to his Reverence, who anathematized the net-stealer.
Nothing more came of it till the next spring; when, upon the ice
breaking, all the nets rose to the surface, full of dead fish. Since
then no fish has been found in the lake. Mr. H---- might probably
succeed in dissolving the charm.
“I see you are a fisherman,” said Mr. H----; “you’ll find the parson
at Mö, in Butnedal, a few miles off, an ‘ivrig fisker’ (passionate
fisherman)--ay! and his lady, too. They’ll be delighted to see you.
They have no neighbours, hardly, but peasants, and your visit will
confer a greater favour on them than their hospitality on you. That
is a very curious valley, sir. There are several ‘tomter’ (sites) of
farm-houses, now deserted, where there once were plenty of people: that
is one of the vestiges of the Black Death.”
On second thoughts, however, he informed me that it was just possible
that Parson S---- might be away; as at this period of the summer, when
all the peasants are up with their cattle at the Sæters, the clergy,
having nothing whatever to do, take their holiday.