At Langeid station, where we arrived late at night, there was great difficulty in finding anybody at home. At last we ferreted out an old man in one of the multifarious buildings, which, as usual, formed the establishment. All the rest of the family are paa hoien (up on the mountain). That Langeid was a horrid place. As there was no wash-basin to be found, I laid hands upon a quaint brass mortar, which the old man informed me was “manifold hundred years old.” In the travellers’ book I see a German has been informing the people that he is a Ph.D. But then I have seen elsewhere, in this country, an Englishman’s name in the book with M.P. attached to it. But he went down, poor man, with the steamer Ercolano, so we must leave him alone.

What a lovely morning after the rain. The spines of the fir-trees, and the hairy lichen (alectoria jubata) festooning the branches, frosted over with the moisture which still adheres to them, and is not yet sucked up by the sun that is just rising over the high mountains. What refreshing odours they shed abroad, seconded by the lowlier “pors,” with its delicious aromatic perfume.

What an intense pleasure it is thus to travel through an unknown country, not knowing where one is to be at the day’s end, and looking at the map to find out where in the world one is. Give me this rather than a journey in Switzerland, and all the first-rate hotels in the world.

“Up yonder,” said my attendant, “a bear used to harbour. The man in the gaard above shot him not long ago. He was very large. That’s a ‘Vitr’ (warning) yonder, on the top of that mountain to the east. There are a great many dozen of pine-logs piled up there from the olden times.”

I discovered that this was a beacon-hill, formerly used to give notice of the approach of foes on the coast. The next beacon was at Lobdal, a great many miles down the valley. The establishment of beacons from Naes to Helgeland, is attributed, by Snorro, to Hacon the Good. A slower way of conveying intelligence of the descent of an enemy on the coast, was the split arrow (haeror), equivalent to the fiery cross of Scotland.

“Are not you frightened to travel all alone?” said the little fellow, looking curiously into my face. “You might be injured.”

“Not I,” replied I.

“Oh! yes, we Norwegians are good people, except in Hallingdal—they are rare rough fellows there, terrible fighters.”

To the left of the road, high on the hill, is the abode of Herjus, the bear-victim mentioned above, who is gradually recovering from his wounds.

The scenery becomes grander as we advance. What would you think of trees growing on the side of a precipice, apparently as steep as Flamboro’ Head, and ten times as high? They seem determined to get into places where the axe cannot reach them. But they are not safe for all that. Now and then the mountain side will crack, and some of it comes down. Look at that vast stone, which would throw all your Borrowdale boulder stones into the shade; it has come down in this manner. Advantage has been taken of its overhanging top to stow away under it a lot of agricultural instruments, among which I see a primitive harrow of wood.

At Ryssestad station I find a quaint old powder-horn, more than two hundred years old, on which Daniel in the lion’s den, Roland, Adam and Eve, Samson and Delilah, figure in marvellous guise. I note this, as I afterwards saw almost the facsimile of it in the Bergen Museum. The owners declined to part with it.

There was also a wolf’s skin, price five dollars. The station-master shot him from one of the windows last winter, while prowling about the premises. One Sigur Sannes offers for sale a curious old “hand-axe,” date 1622, but I did not wish to add to my luggage.

What a set of giants surrounded me while I was drinking coffee! and such names—Bjug, Salvi, Jermund, Gundar! Imagine all these long-legged fellows standing in trousers reaching to their very shoulders and neck, and supported by shoulder-straps decked in brass ornaments, while below they are secured by nine buttons above the ankle. What may be seen of their shirts is confined by two immense silver bullet studs, and then a silver brooch an inch and a half wide. The hats, of felt, are made in the valley. The brim is very small, and the crown narrows half way up, and then swells out again. A silver chain is passed round it two or three times, and confined in front by a broad silver clasp, to which is suspended a cross. A figured velvet band likewise goes twice round it.

The dress of the women is the black or white skirt, already mentioned, swelling into enormous folds behind, and so short as to permit the garters with silver clasps to be seen. The stockings bulge out immensely at the calf—indeed, are much fuller than is necessary—giving the legs a most plethoric appearance, and, as in the Tyrol, they often only reach to the ankle. Occasionally, when the women wish to look very smart, a pair of white socks are drawn over the foot, which oddly contrasts with the black stocking. The shoes, which are home-made, are pointed, and fit remarkably well. On the bosom is a saucer-sized brooch of silver, besides bullet-studs at the collar and wristband. I see also women carrying their babies in the kjell or plaid.

Beyond the station, we have to diverge from the regular road, and take an improvised one, the bridge having been carried away by a flom (freshet). At a ferry above, where the river opens into a lake, the ferrywoman, after presenting to me her mull of home-made snuff, inquires if I am married. This provokes a similar query from me.

“No,” is the reply; “but I have a grown-up son.”

The custom of Nattefrieri, to which I have alluded elsewhere, will account for things of this kind.

Beyond the ferry there has been a recent fall of rocks from the cliffs above. In the cool recesses of the rocks grow numbers of strawberries and raspberries, which my man obligingly gathers and presents to me. A black and white woodpecker, with red head and rump, perches on a pine-tree close by.

A little above is the finest fall on the river, except that near Vigeland. All around the smooth scarped cliffs converge down to the water at a considerable angle, the cleavage being parallel to their surface.

At one spot my chatty little post-boy, who, boy as he was, rejoiced in a wife and child, stops to talk with a mighty tall fellow, one BjÖrn Tvester, who offers to take me up some high mountain near to see a fine view. A woman close by, who is unfortunately absent on the hills, possesses an ancient silver cross, of great size and fine workmanship. This used, in former times, to be used by the bridegroom at a wedding.

A smiling plain now opens before us, in the centre of which stands the parish church. While I stop to enjoy the prospect, a crowd of men and women collect around me. One of the fair sex, who rejoiced in the name of Mari BjÖrnsdatter, I endeavour to sketch, to her great delight.

“Stor mirakel!” (great miracle) shouted the peasants, looking over my shoulder. “Aldrig seet maken[10] (never saw the like)”!

“And what’s your name?” I asked of a red-headed urchin, of miserable appearance. The answer, “Thor,” made me smile, and produced a roar from the masculines, Folke, Orm, Od (a very odd name, indeed), Dreng, SigbjÖrn, and a titter from the feminines ditto, all of whom saw the joke at once.

Putting up at the station-master’s at Rige, I sally out and meet with an intelligent fellow, Arne Bjugson by name, formerly a schoolmaster, now a pedlar. He tells me there is an ancient bridal dress at one of the houses, and he it was who put this on, and sat to Tidemann for his sketch of the SÆtersdal Bridegroom.

We forthwith go to inspect it. The bridegroom’s jacket is of blue, over which came another of red. His knee-breeches are black, and crimped or plaited; his blue stockings were wound round with ribands; his hat was swathed in a white cloth, round which a silver chain was twisted. In his hand he held a naked sword; around his waist was a brass belt, and on his neck a silver chain with medals. The bride’s dress consisted of two black woollen petticoats, plaited or folded; above these a blue one, and over all a red one. Then came a black apron, and above that a white linen one, and round her waist three silver belts. Her jacket was black, with a small red collar, ornamented with a profusion of buckles, hooks, fibulas, and chains. On her head was a silver-gilt crown, and around her neck a pearl necklace, to which a medal, called “Agnus Dei,” was suspended.

Arne has read Snorro’s Chronicle, which he borrowed from the parson. Ivar Aasen, the author of several works on the old Norsk language, has been more than once up here examining into the dialect. Those interested in the sources of the English language, and in ascertaining how much of it is due to the old Norsk, have ample room for amusement and instruction here. Many English words, unknown in the modern Norwegian, are to be found in use in these secluded parts, though driven from the rest of the country, just in the same way as the Norsk language was talked at Bayeux a long time after it had become obsolete at Rouen and other parts of Normandy. Our “noon” reappears in “noni;” “game,” in “gama,” a word not known away from this. “To prate,” is “prata;” “to die,” is “doi;” “two,” is “twi,” not “to,” as elsewhere; indeed, all the numerals differ from those used elsewhere. The people pronounce “way,” “plough,” and “net,” just like an Englishman. To “neigh,” is “neja,” not “vrinska.” A stocking is “sock,” not “strÖmpe;” eg = edge; skafe = safe or cupboard; “kvik” corresponds in all its meanings to our word “quick.” The old Icelandic “gildr” is used as an eulogistic epithet, = excellent. Their word for “wheel” sounds like our English, and is not “eule,” as elsewhere; “stubbe” is our “stub,” or little bit; “I” is “oi,” not “Ieg;” “fir” is pronounced “fir;” “spon” has been already mentioned: “snow,” “mile,” “cross,” re-occur here, whereas elsewhere they differ from the English.

While we are engaged in these philological lucubrations a man comes up, a piece of whose lower-lip has gone, interfering with his speech. This occurred at a wedding. He and another had a trial of strength, in which he proved the strongest. The vanquished man, assisted by his two brothers, then set upon him, and bit him like a dog. As aforesaid, the people of the valley are ordinarily good-natured and peaceable enough; but let them only get at the ale or brandy, and they become horribly brutal and ferocious, and a slagsmal (fight) is sure to ensue. One method of attack on these occasions is by gouging the eye out, spone i ovgo (literally to spoon out the eye). Sometimes the combatants place some hard substance in the hand, as a stone or piece of wood. This they call “a hand-devil,” the “knuckle-duster” of English ruffians. At Omlid, several miles over the mountains to the east of this, the people even when sober are said to be anything but snil (good). So disastrous was the effect of drink at a bridal (i.e., bride-ale or wedding festival),[11] that the bride, it is said, frequently used to bring with her a funeral shirt for fear that she might have to carry home her husband dead. In any case she was provided with bandages wherewith to dress his wounds.

I picked up another very intelligent Cicerone in Mr. Sunsdal, the Lehnsman of the district.

“You would, perhaps, like to see one of the old original dwellings of our forefathers,” said he; “there are still many of them in this part of Norway. The name is Rogstue, i.e., smoke-room.”

We accordingly entered one of these pristine abodes, such as were the fashion among the highest of the land many hundred years ago. The house was built of great logs, and its chief and almost only sitting-room had no windows, the light being admitted from above by an orifice (ljaaren) in the centre of the roof, over which fitted a lid fastened to a pole. Through this the smoke escaped from the great square fireplace (aaren) in the middle of the floor, enclosed by hewn stones. Round this ran heavy benches, the backs of which were carved with various devices. A huge wooden crane, rudely carved into the figure of a head, and blackened with smoke, projected from a side wall to a point half-way between the hearth and chimney-hole. From this the great porridge-pot (Gryd-hodden) was suspended. Kettle is “hodden” in old English.

On this smoke-blackened crane I discerned two or three deep scars, indicative of a custom now obsolete. On the occasion of a wedding, the bridegroom used to strike his axe into this as he entered, which was as much as to say that peace should be the order of the day; an omen, be it said, which seldom came true in practice.

One side of this pristine apartment was taken up by the two beds (kvillunne) fixed against the wall, according to the custom of the country, and in shape resembling the berths on board ship. Between them was the safe or cupboard (skape). On the opposite side of the wall was a wooden dresser of massive workmanship, while round the room were shelves with cheeses upon them. They were placed just within the smoke line, as I shall call it. The smoke, in fact, not having draught enough, descends about half-way down the walls, rendering that portion of them which came within the lowest smoke-mark of the sooty vapour as black as the fifty wives of the King of the Cannibal Islands; while the great beams below this preserved their original wood colour.

The lady of the house, Sigrid Halvorsdatter, took a particular pride in showing the interior of her abode. Good-nature was written on her physiognomy, and the writing was not counterfeit. When we arrived, she was just on the point of going up the mountain with a light wooden-frame (meiss) on her shoulders, on which was bound a heavy milk-pail; but she immediately deposited her burden on a great stone at the door, took a piece of wood from under the eaves and unfastened the door. Subsequently, I find that this is the identical dame, and Rogstue, painted by Tidemann, and published among his illustrations of Norwegian customs.

Taking leave of her with many thanks, we proceeded to another house, where the woman said we should see a “Simon Svipu.”

“A Simon Svipu!” ejaculates the reader, “what on earth is that?” Thereby hangs a tale, or a tail, if you will. The nightmare plagued these people before she visited England.

The people of this valley call her “Muro,” and they have the following effectual remedy against her. They first take a knife, wrap it up in a kerchief, and pass it three times round the body; a pair of scissors are also called into requisition, and, lastly, a “Simon Svipu,” which is the clump or excrescence found on the branches of the birch-tree, and out of which grow a number of small twigs. This last is hung up in the stable over the horses’ heads, or fixed in one of the rafters, and also over their own bed.

This exorcism is then pronounced—

The birchen charm may remind one of the slips of yew “shivered in the moon’s eclipse,” in Macbeth.

The term “svipu” is used in parts of the country for whip, instead of the real word “svÖbe.” And I have no doubt this is the signification of it here—viz., a means of driving away the mare.[12]

But to return to the real Simon Pure—I mean Svipu. Unfortunately, I could not get a sight of it. The good folks either could not, or would not, find the wonderful instrument. I believe, though still in their heart clinging to the ancient superstition, they were averse to confessing it to others.

“But here comes a man,” said the Lehnsman, “who will tell us some curious anecdotes; his name is Solomon Larsen Haugebirke. He is a silversmith and blacksmith by trade, and having been servant to half-a-dozen priests here, he has become waked up, and having a tenacious memory, he can throw a good deal of light on the ancient customs of the valley. Gesegnet arbeid (blessed labour) to you, Solomon.”

“Good day, Mr. Lehnsman. You have got a stranger with you, I see. Is he a TÜsker (German)?”

The old gentleman was soon down on the grass, under the shadow of an outbuilding, the sun being intensely hot, and whiffing his pipe, stopped with my tobacco, while he folded his hands in deep thought.

“Well, really, Lehnsman, I can’t mind anything just on the moment. Landstad and Bugge[13] were both here, and got all my stories and songs.”

“But can’t you remember something about Aasgardsreia?”

After pausing for a minute or two, Solomon said—

“Well, sir, you know it was always about Yule-tide, when we were just laid down in bed, that they came by. They never halted till they came to a house where something was going to happen. They used to stop at the door, and dash their saddles against the wall or roof, making the whole house shake, and the great iron pot rattle again.”

“But do you really believe in it, Solomon?” said I, putting some more tobacco in his pipe.

“When I was a lad I did, but now I don’t think I do. Still there was something very strange about it, wasn’t there, sir? The horses in the stable used to be all of a sweat, as if they heard the noise, and were frightened. They could not have fancied it, whatever we did.”

“But are you certain they did sweat?”

“I believe you; I’ve gone into the stable, and found them as wet as if they had been dragged through the river.”[14]

“Ah! but I can easily explain that,” said the Lehnsman. “When I first came here, some years ago, the young men were a very lawless lot; they thought nothing of taking the neighbours’ horses at night, and riding them about the country, visiting the jenter (girls); and it is my firm belief that they took advantage of the old superstition about the Aasgaardsreia coming by, and making the horses sweat, to carry on their own frolic with impunity. It was they that made the horses sweat, by bringing them back all of a heat, and not these sprites that you talk of.”

I felt inclined to take the Lehnsman’s view of the case; but the old man shook his head doubtingly.

“Ride, sir! why, at the time I speak of, you could not possibly ride, the snow was so deep that the roads were impassable. But now we are talking about it, it strikes me there may have been another cause. The horses used to get so much extra food just then, in honour of Yule, and the stalls are so small and close, that perhaps it made them break out in a sweat. Be that as it may, we used all to be terribly frightened when we heard the Aasgaardsreia.”

“It was merely the rush of the night wind,” said I, “beating against the house sides.”

“Would the night wind carry people clean away?” rejoined Solomon, returning to the charge. “Once, when they came riding by, there was a woman living at that gaard yonder, who fell into a besvÖmmelse (swoon); and in that state she was carried along with them right away to Toftelien, five old miles to the eastward.[15] And more by token, though she had never been there before, she gave a most accurate description of the place. I was by, and heard her. What do you think of that, Herr Lehnsman?” concluded Solomon, who was evidently halting between two antagonistic feelings, his superior enlightenment and his old deep-rooted boyish superstitions.

“I don’t believe it at all,” was the incredulous functionary’s reply; “it was, no doubt, the power of imagination, and the woman had heard from somebody, though she might have forgotten it, what Toftelien looked like.”

“You talked about the night-wind,” continued Solomon, turning to me. “I remember well when I was a lad, if there was a virvel-vind (whirlwind), I used to throw my toll-knife right into it. We all believed that it was the sprites that caused it, and that we should break the charm in that way.”

“Of course you believed in the underground people generally?”

“Well, yes, we did. I know a man up yonder, at Bykle, who, whenever he went up to the StÖl, used, directly he got there, and had opened the door, to kneel down, and pray them not to disturb him for four weeks; and afterwards they might come to the place, and welcome, till the next summer.”

“But did you ever see any of these people?” said I, resolved on probing Solomon with a home question.

“No, I’ve never seen them, but I have heard them, as sure as I sit on this stone.”

“Indeed, and how was that?”

“Well, you must know, I was up in the Fjeld to the eastward at a fiskevatn (lake with fish in). Suddenly I heard a noise close by me, just behind some rocks, and I thought it was other folks come up to fish. They were talking very loudly and merrily; so I called out to let them know I was there, as I wished to have selskab (company). Directly I called, it was all still. This puzzled me; so I went round the rocks, but not a creature could I see, so I returned to my fishing. Presently the noise began again, and I distinctly heard folks talking.”

“And what sort of talk was it?”

“Oh! baade fiint o gruft (both fine and coarse, i.e., good and bad words), accuratÈ som paa en bryllup (just like at a wedding). I called out again, on which the noise suddenly stopped. Presently they began afresh, and I could make out it was folks dancing. Then I felt convinced that it must be a thuss[16]-bryllup (elf-wedding).”

“Had you slept well the night before?”

“Never better.”

“You had been drinking, then?”

“Langt ifra (far from it); I was as Ædru (sober) and clear-headed as a man could be who had taken nothing but coffee and milk for weeks.”

“And how long did this noise continue?”

“Two hours at least. Every time I cried out they stopped, and after a space began again. I examined all around very carefully, as I was not a bit afraid; but I could see no hole or anything, nothing but bare rocks. Now what could it be?” asked the old man, solemnly.

There are more things in heaven and earth, thought I, than we dream of.

“Besides,” continued Solomon, “there was another man I afterwards found fishing at another part of the water, who heard the same noise.”

“Who was that?” said the Lehnsman.

“Olsen Prestergaard,” (i.e., Olsen Parsonage, so called because he was born on the parsonage farm).

“But he is as deaf as a post,” retorted the other.

“He is now, but he was not then. He has been deaf only since he got that cold five years ago; and this that I am talking of happened six, come Martinsmass.”

It may be as well to state that we met Mr. Parsonage subsequently making hay, and, after a vast deal of hammering, he was made to understand us, when, with a most earnest expression of countenance he confirmed Solomon’s account exactly.

“Can’t you tell us some more of your tales?” said the Lehnsman; “one of those will do you told to Landstad and Moe, or to Bugge last summer.”

“How long does the stranger stop?” asked Solomon; “I will endeavour to recollect one or two.”

“Oh! I shall be off to-morrow,” said I.

“Why so early? Well, let me see. There was the grey fole (horse) at Roysland. I’ll tell you about that. You must know, then, sir, we used many years ago to have a horse-race (skei) on the flat, just beyond the church yonder, at the end of August-month each year. There was a man living up at Roysland, an old mile from here, up on the north side of the Elv. He was a strange sort of a fellow, nobody could make him out; Laiv Roysland, they called him. One August, on the morning of the race, a grey horse came down to his gaard and neighed. He went and put the halter on him, and seeing he was a likely sort of a nag, thought he would take him down and run him, without asking anybody any questions. And sure enough he came. The horse—he was a stallion—beat all the rest easily. Laiv carried off all the prizes and returned home. When he got there he let the horse loose, and it immediately took up to the hills, and was not heard of or seen for twelve months. When the race-day came round, a neigh was heard (han nejade), Laiv went out of the door, and found the same horse. He put the halter on his head, and brought him down to the races just as before. He won everything. There never was the likes of him whether in biting or running (bitast eller springast). He was always the best. At last people began to talk, and said it must be the fand sjel (the fiend himself). The third year the horse ran it lost. What a rage Laiv was in. When he got home he hit the horse a tremendous thwack with his whip, and cursed a loud oath. It struck out, and killed him on the spot. Next year a neigh was heard as usual outside the house, early on the morning of the race-day, but nobody dared go out. They were not such dare-devils as Laiv. It neighed a second time, but the people would not venture, and from that time to this it has never been heard of or seen.”

“A strange wild tale,” said I; “ what do you really think it was?”

“Well, I suppose it was He. I never told that story,” continued Solomon, “to any one before.”

“Yes, there can be no doubt about it,” said Solomon, after a long pause; “so many people have seen these underground people that there must be some truth in it. Besides which, is not there something about it in Holy Writ: ‘Every knee shall bow, both of things that are in heaven, and in earth, and under the earth,’ and who can be under the earth but the underground people?”

“Well, Solomon, have you no more tales?”

“Not of the valley here, but I can tell you one of the country up north.”

“Oh, yes, that will do.”

“Well, you must know, there was a man at a gaard up there—let me see, I can’t rightly mind the name of it. He was good friends with a Tuss; used, in fact, to worship him (dyrkes). The priest got to hear of this, and warned him that it was wrong. The man made no secret of the fact, but persisted that there was no harm in it. Indeed, he derived a mint of good from the acquaintance. His crops were a vast deal finer, and he really could not give up his friend on any consideration.[17] The man spoke with such apparent earnestness and conviction, that the priest was seized with a desire to see the Tuss. ‘That you shall, and welcome,’ said the man; ‘I don’t anticipate any difficulty. I’ve lent him two rolls of chew-tobacco, and he will be sure to return them before long. No Christian can be more punctual than he is in matters of business.’ The little gentleman put in an appearance soon after, and honestly repaid the tobacco, with thanks for the loan of it (tak for laane). ‘Bide a bit, my friend,’ said the farmer, ‘our parson wants to have a snak (chat) with you.’ ‘Impossible,’ he replied; ‘I’ve no time; but I’ve a brother that’s a parson. He’s just the man; besides, he has more time than me. I’ll send him.’ The tuss-priest accordingly came, and had a long dispute with the priest of this world about various passages in the Bible. The latter was but a poor scholar, so he was easily out-argued.

“At last they began to dispute about vor Frelser (our Redeemer).

“‘Frelser!’ exclaimed the goblin-priest, ‘I want no Frelser.’

“‘How so?’

“‘I’m descended from Adam’s first wife. When she brought forth the child from which our people trace their descent, Adam had not sinned.’

“‘First wife?’ repeated the University man; ‘where do you find anything about first wife in the five books of Moses? If you have found any such like thing there, you have not read it right,’ said he.

“‘Don’t you remember,’ said the tuss, ‘the Bible has it, “This is now bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.” So he must have been married before to somebody of a different nature.’

“The other, who was not so well read in the Bible as he ought to be—so much of his time was taken up in farming and such like unaandelig (un-spiritual) occupations—was not able to confute this argument. Indeed, the tuss-priest beat the Lutheran priest hollow in every argument, till at last they parted, and the latter was never known again to express a wish to have any further controversy with so subtle an antagonist.”