It was already dark when we emerged from the morasses and loose rocks, and lighted by good luck on the little patch of green sward on the northern shores of the MisÖvand, adjoining the farm-house of Waagen. On referring to the map, reader, and finding this spot set down upon it, your imagination, of course, pictures a regular village, or something of that sort; but this is not the case. A couple of gaards, with a belt of swampy grass land, are all the symptoms of man to enliven this intensely solitary waste of grey rocks, bog, birch, and water.

The proprietors are Gunnuf Sweynsen and his brother Torkil, together with one Ole Johnson, a cousin. Gunnuf is absent, guiding the Germans across the Fjeld.

The best method to proceed is, I find, to take boat from here to Lien, which is about twenty-four miles distant, at the very top or north-eastern end of the lake; a horse must then be procured to carry my effects for the other seventy English miles across the mountains. A bargain is soon struck with Johnson, who has once before traversed most of the route; and for the sum of eight dollars (thirty-six shillings English) he undertakes to horse and guide me the whole way to the Hardanger.

The stabur, or hay-loft, affords me a tolerable night’s resting-place. There were no women-folk about to make things comfortable; so I managed with the three unkempt valets de chambre instead, who boiled me some coffee, greased my boots, and did the needful quite as well as one of those short-jacketed, napkin-carrying, shilling-seeking German kellners who supersede the spruce chamber-maid of the English inn.

By early day we walk across the dew-dank meadow down to the shore of the lake, while a few black ducks, which scuttle off at our approach, warn me to get my fowling-piece ready. The water is so shallow near the land, that the boat gets aground; and the men are in the water in a moment and pushing her off, and into the boat again in a twinkling as she shot into the deeps, the water streaming from their legs in cascades, about which they seemed to care as little as the black ducks aforesaid.

As we glide out into the offing, my spinning-tackle is got out, as I determine to improve the opportunity, and see what the lake can boast of in the way of fish. A banging trout is soon fixed on the deadly triangles which garnishes the sides of the bright metal minnow, to the great delight of the boatmen, to whom the operation is entirely novel.

Take warning, piscatorial reader, from me, and mind you use a plaited line with spinning-tackle. In my hurry I had used a fine twisted one, which kinked up into a Gordian knot the moment it was slack, and I lost some time in getting out another line.

Yonder, on the western shore of the lake, standing in the midst of the silent wilderness, rises the solitary house of God where the people of these parts worship, its humble spire of wood reflected on the surface of the lake. With the exception of Hovden Church and our boat, the waters and shores exhibit nothing else indicative of the proximity of man.

The congregation must be a very scattered one, for if ever people dwelt few and far between, it is in these solitudes. Not one of the three clergymen of the parishes of Vinje, Sillejord, and Tind, who share in the Sunday duty which is performed here a dozen times a year, can live under fifty miles off. A Diocesan Spiritual Aid Society is certainly wanted in these regions.

Such words as “hyre,” to hire; “ede,” to eat; “beite,” to bite; “aarli,” early, let drop by the boatmen in the course of conversation, remind me that I am in a part of the country where a portion of the old tongue still keeps its ground, such as it was when brought over to England, and engrafted on its congener, the Anglo-Saxon, nearly a thousand years ago.

Quite a tempest of wind now suddenly springs up, sending us along at a great pace, and rendering it difficult, when I now and then caught a trout by the tackle trailing astern, to lay-to and secure the fish. The twenty-four miles were soon behind us, and we found ourselves in the Quenna river. “Ducks ahead!” was the cry of the lively Torkil, and my fowling-piece soon added fowl to the fish. No fear of starvation now, even though the larder at Lien prove to be empty.

As it is some hours to nightfall, I rig my fly-rod, and try the pools of the Quenna. Some fat, cinnamon-coloured flies, which I found reposing under the stones, being hardly yet strong enough on the wing to disport themselves aloft, gave me a hint as to the sort of fly that would go down, and, my book containing some very similar insects, I had no lack of sport, securing several nice fish. They do run as large as five pounds, I hear.

On returning to the small farm-house where I was to spend the night, a horse, I found, had been procured; and as a beautiful evening gave promise of a fine day on the morrow, we prepared to start by earliest dawn. My bed of skins was, as usual, laid in the hay-shed; and I retired in the highest possible spirits at the prospect of crossing the desolate and grand mountain-plateau that separates us from the western shores of Norway.

As this spot stands at an elevation of some three thousand feet above the sea, there were no pine-trees growing near; so the shed was constructed of undressed birch poles, and was about as weather-tight as a blackbird’s wicker cage. The chinks near my pillow I stopped up with loose hay. Vain precaution! Before dawn I awoke, cold and stiff. The weather had changed; my sleeping-chamber was become a very temple of the winds, and the storm made a clean breach through the tenement, having swept out the quasi-oakum which I had stuffed into the crevices.

On issuing from my dormitory, I found the weather was frightful. A deluge of rain, and wind, and thick mist filled the space between earth and sky. To attempt the passage of the Fjeld was not to be thought of, as there is no road whatever. Departure, therefore, being out of the question, I made up my mind to another day’s sojourn at the cottage, which was the most comfortless, dirty spot I ever met with in Thelemarken; and that is saying a good deal. During the day, most of the natives—Ole, my guide, among the rest—were away at the chÂlet. Besides myself, there were only two other persons left at home; and these, as my journey is at a stand-still, I may as well describe.

A tall, old man, his height bowed by the weight of more than eighty years, sat in a kubbe-stol—a high backed chair, made out of a solid trunk of tree, peculiar to Thelemarken—warming his knees at the fire in the corner, and mumbling to himself. Presently he lay down on a bench, and snored. Before long up he got, and spooned up a quantity of cold porridge; and then, turning his bleared eyes at me, as I sat finishing a sketch of the interior of the dwelling, including himself, croaked out,—

“Er du Embedsman?” (Art thou a Government servant?)

“No.”

“Well, that’s odd.”

And then he commenced warming his knees and mumbling, and then snored as before, extended on the bench; and before long, rose and spooned up porridge. These were his daily and hourly avocations. His name was a grand one—HerrbjÖrn Hermanson—but the owner of it was disgusting. No wonder; he never washes at all, so that the appearance of his countenance may be conceived. When he departs this life he will undergo ablution.

Apropos of this, in the absence of a better occupation, I gave a classic turn to the affair, and in my thoughts altered a line of Juvenal:—

That I don’t think is a libel. Indeed, with “the wretchlessness of most unclean living”—this application of the words of the Seventeenth Article is not mine, but a late geological Dean of Westminster’s, in his sermon on the cholera—the inhabitants of this country generally have a very practical acquaintance.

The other person who kept at home all day, was a young fellow of thirty, with swarthy face and gleaming eyes. His dark, shaggy head of hair was surmounted by a cap like that worn by the Finns, with a bunch of wild flowers stuck in a red band that encircled it. His dress was a short jacket, skin knee-breeches, and jack-boots. His time was occupied between smearing the boots with reindeer fat, sharpening a knife of formidable dimensions, and casting small bullets; while ever and anon he would repair to a small looking-glass of three inches square, hung against the wall, and contemplate a very forbidding, peculiar set of features therein. There was something uncanny about the look of the fellow which I did not much relish. Presently he takes my pipe from the table, and coolly commences smoking it. Subsequently I find that Joh is not as other men are, and only half in possession of his senses.

Some twenty years ago tame reindeer were introduced upon these mountains from Finmark, and great things were expected from the importation; but the enterprize did not answer; and a couple of years ago the proprietors slaughtered all the deer, and there was a great merry-making at a farm called Norregaard on the occasion. Deep drinking was the order of the day; raw potato brandy was gulped down in profuse quantities. For forty-eight hours without intermission did the bout continue. Like Paddy’s noddle in respect to the shillelagh, most of these mountaineers’ heads are proof against the knock-me-down power of strong alcohol. Not so Joh’s, who was one of the party; in the midst of the festivities he lost his reason, and went stark staring mad. It was long before he quieted down; since then he has never done any work, or shared in the labours of the rest of the family; nothing will persuade him, however, to touch brantviin now. The burnt child dreads the fire—the brandy must formerly have had a fearful fascination for him. I drew a cork from a small flask with me; the moment the sound caught his ear, his face whirled round to where I sat with the rapidity of an automaton, and he glared a look of peculiar meaning at me from underneath his heavy eyebrows, which at the time I could not comprehend.

But though he is averse to all regular work, there is one thing I find on which he spares no pains,—reindeer stalking. This is the occupation on which he starts day after day, without speaking a word to the rest of the household; in season and out of it, he is continually alone on the mountains around. Outside the door are a dozen pairs of antlers, the trophies of his skill. Only last week he shot a female deer, the fifth or sixth this summer, although the season fixed by law has not yet arrived. But he is out of the ken of informers.

Drying on the wall outside is a rein-skin, and in the house are two or three hides which his ingenuity has converted into leather. His boots are of that material—so are his knee-breeches. He is often absent for days on the mountain, not unfrequently sleeping under a rock. If he discovers a flock of deer in a spot where the nature of the ground will not permit of his getting within shot, he bides till they move, dodging about unperceived. Not long since, he killed two specimens of the Fjeld-frass, or glutton, whose scent is said to be incredibly keen, nosing wounded game miles off. One of these wretches he saw track and catch and kill a wounded (skamskudt) deer; and while it was thus occupied he stole upon it unawares, and became possessed of deer and glutton both.

At all events, he showed more gumption on this occasion than an English parson with whom I am acquainted. One day he saw that diminutive British equivalent to the glutton—a weazel—pursuing similar tactics—overtake an unfortunate hare. As usual, poor puss was fascinated, and her legs refused their office in the way of flight; but each time the ferocious little creature tried to fasten upon her, she knocked it over with her paws, jumping at it and pushing it over. Off set the parson, not to smash the brute with his cane, but to tell his Grace’s keeper. It is needless to add, that when he returned with that functionary the vampire quadruped had got on the hare’s neck, and sucked all the blood out of its veins, managing to get clean off to boot.

But to return to Joh. Observing me engaged in frying trout, he suddenly exclaims—the first word he had spoken—“Kann De spise reen?” (can you eat reindeer?) “To be sure.” Upon which he bolted out of the hut, and soon returned with a lump of venison weighing perhaps four pounds, which he silently placed on the board. It was evident to me that Joh was a person of capabilities; and I soon got him to work, repairing my knapsack and gun-case. A few artificial flies, of which he was not slow in comprehending the meaning, rewarded his endeavours in the saddler’s art.

Towards evening the family returned from the sÆter,—two strapping maidens, Kari and Gunhild, among the number. The occupation in which some of the party forthwith engaged—the mystery or craft of making flad-brod, the national esculent—soon drove me into the fresh air. At a table sits one of the girls, roller in hand, busily engaged in rolling out huge flat cakes of dough, sprinkling them with water by means of a little brush. The Alfred of the occasion was the father of Joh, who, with a sort of trowel, whips up the cakes, and flaps them down on the girdle-iron, a flat disk, about three-quarters of a yard in diameter. At the proper moment he gives them a turn, and in a minute they are done, and whisked into the hands of the other girl, who piles them on a table. The girdle-iron being large, the smoke is prevented ascending the chimney in its natural way, and becomes dissipated all over the one sitting-room of the house, and this it is that drives me out of it.

This favourite food is sometimes prepared in sufficient quantities for a whole winter’s consumption. I have seen, in a large gaard, nearly a dozen Abigails hard at work kneading, sprinkling, rolling, and baking the cakes. The only time when they are endurable to the palate, in my opinion, is when they are just warm off the fire. When warm, they are flexible, and are then folded up compactly, if wanted for travelling.

Another national cake, something like a pikelet in taste and consistency, is the waffel-kage, which is about half an inch thick, oblong, and moulded into squares; this is by no means to be despised.

I was early down among the hay for the purpose of recruiting my vital energies for the morrow, when our work was cut out for us, and plenty of it. The interstices between the bars of the cage were weather-tightened afresh, and I was resolved to be as cosy and comfortable as circumstances would permit. Neither the French nor the Germans have any word to represent that very pleasant accident of our being, which we call comfort; so they borrow the word and its derivatives out and out from our English vocabulary when they desire to express a thing, which, after all, they cannot possibly have experienced practically. Only fancy, then, the Norwegians presuming to think of such a phase of existence. And yet they have a word said to answer exactly to our word “comfortable,”—viz., “hyggelig,” from hygge; which is, no doubt, identical with our word “to hug,” or embrace.

Anyhow, my efforts to be “hyggelig” were not successful that night. Like the Grecian hero under different circumstances, I could not rest; no wonder, therefore, I was up and stirring early; indeed, I had been stirring all night. The sun shone out brightly, every leaf and blade of grass and rock reflecting his rays from their moist surfaces. The rain had ceased falling from the clouds, but not from the mountains. The river was brimful and roaring fiercely, the toying cascades of twenty-four hours ago now swollen into blustering cataracts, while fresh ones were improvised for the occasion. But, alas! I was ill fitted for enjoying the glorious scene. Ague-fits shot through my limbs and frame; and even before we started, I felt as if I had already travelled many miles.

It was clear I had caught cold, if nothing worse; but there was no help for it. The very idea of stopping another day in this den, with Joh and HerrbjÖrn for my companions, was intolerable. Seventy miles, it is true, lay before me, and not a house on the route. Behind me it was a good fifty miles back to civilized life, and double or treble that distance to a doctor. “Nulla retrorsum,” too, is my motto, unless things come to such a pass as they did with Havelock’s men on the road to Lucknow. The upshot was that I trusted in Providence, and set my breast manfully to the mountain, supported by that inward consciousness of endurance so dear to a Briton, which every now and then tried to express itself, comically enough, by feebly humming “There’s life in the old dog yet.”