A dreary station—Strange bed-fellows—Broadsides—Comfortable proverb—Skarp England—Interesting particulars—A hospitable Norwegian Foged—Foster-children—The great bear-hunter—A terrible Bruin—Forty winks—The great Vennefoss—A temperance lamentation—More bear talk—Grey legs—Monosyllabic conversation—Trout fished from the briny deep—A warning to the beaux of St. James’s-street—Thieves’ cave—A novelette for the Adelphi. I stop for the night at the dreary station of Homsmoen. By a singular economy in household furniture, the cornice of the uncurtained state-bed is made to serve as a shelf, and all the crockery, together with the other household gods or goods of the establishment, are perched thereon, threatening to fall upon me if I made the slightest movement, so that my feelings, and those of Damocles, must have been not unlike; and when I did get to sleep, my slumbers were suddenly disturbed by the creeping of a mouse or In the morning, when the peasant-wife brings me coffee, I tell her of the muscipular disturbances of the past night. She replies, with much sang froid, “O ja, de pleie at holde sig da” (Oh yes, they are in the habit of being there), i.e., in the loose bed-straw. While sipping my coffee, I read a printed address hung upon the wall, wherein “a simple Norwegian, of humble estate,” urges his countrymen not to drink brandy. A second notice is an explanation of infant baptism. This is evidently to counteract the doctrines of the clergyman Lammers, who, as I have mentioned elsewhere, has founded an antipÆdobaptist sect. Indeed, I see in the papers advertisements of half-a-dozen works that have lately appeared on the subject. Another specimen of this wall-literature was a Next day we pass a solitary farmstead, which my attendant informs me is called Skarp England (i.e., scanty, not deep-soiled, meadow-land). Were it not for those Angles, the generally reputed godfathers of England, one would almost be inclined to derive the name of our country from that green, meadow (eng) like appearance which must have caught the attention of the immigrant Jutes and Saxons. At least, such is the surmise of Professor Radix. “And what road is that?” I asked, pointing to a very unmacadamized byway through the forest. “It is called Prest-vei (the Priest’s-way), because that is the road the clergyman has to take to get to one of his distant churches.” “Gee up!” said I to the horse, a young one, and unused to his work, adding a slight flip with “Hilloa, Erik! this won’t do; it’s quite dangerous.” “Oh no, he has no back shoes; he won’t hurt you—except,” he afterwards added, “out of fun he should happen to strike a little higher.” The ill-omened shriek of a couple of jays which crossed the road diverted my attention, and I asked their Norwegian name, which I found to be “skov-shur” (wood-magpie) in these parts. As we skirt the western bank of the Kile Fjord, a fresh-water lake, a dozen miles long, and abounding in fish (meget fiskerig), the man points to me a spot on the further shore where the Torrisdal River, after flowing through the lake, debouches by a succession of falls in its course to Vigeland and the sea at Christiansand. At every station the question is, “Are you going up to the copper works?” These are at Valle, a long way up the valley. They have been discontinued some years, but, it is said, are now likely to be re-opened. At Ketilsaa I am recommended to call on the Foged of the district, a fine, hearty sexagenarian, who gave me much valuable information respecting this singular valley and its inhabitants; besides which, what I especially valued under the circumstances, he set before me capital home-brewed beer, port wine, Trondjem’s aquavit, not to mention speil aeg (poached eggs) and bear ham. Bear flesh is the best travel of all, say the Greenlanders, so I did not spare the last. The superstitions and tales about Huldra and fairies (here called jÜgere) are, the Foged tells me, dying out hereabout, though not higher up the valley. His foster-son, The station-master, Ole Gundarson Fahret, manages to get me a relay in one hour; in the interval we have a palaver. “There was once an Englishman here,” said he, “who went out bear-hunting with the greatest bear-shooter of these parts, Nils Olsen BreistÖl; but they did not happen on one. BreistÖl has shot fifteen bears.” “How does he manage to find them in the trackless forest?” “Why he is continually about, and he knows of a great many bears’ winter-lairs (BjÖrn-hi); and when the bear is asleep, he goes and pokes him out.” “But is it not dangerous?” “Sometimes. There was a great bear who was well known for fifty miles round, for he was as grey as a wolf, and lame of one leg, having been injured, it “And how long does the bear sleep in winter?” I inquired. “He goes in about Sanct Michael’s-tid, and comes out at the beginning of April.” “And how many bears are there in one hole?” “Only one; unless the female has young late in the autumn. A man in these parts once found an old he-bear (Manden), with a she-bear, and three young cubs, all in one hole. I think there are as many bears as ever there were in the country. There was a lad up in the forest, five years ago; a bear struck at him, but missed him, only getting his cap, which stuck on the end of his claws. This seemed to frighten the brute, and he made off. The little boy didn’t know what a danger he had escaped; he began to cry for the loss of his cap, and wanted to go after it. Now that did not happen by chance. V Herre Gud In which proper sentiment I of course acquiesced, and took leave of the intelligent Schusskaffer. My attendant on the next stage, Ole Michelsen Vennefoss, derived his last name from the great cataract on the Otterelv, near which he lives. It is now choked up with timber. But all this, he tells me, will move in the autumn, when the water rises; although, in the north of the country, the rivers at that time get smaller and smaller, and, in winter time, with the ice that covers them, occupy but a small part of the accustomed bed. A few years ago, a friend of his had a narrow escape at these falls: the boat he was in turned over just above the descent, and he disappeared On the road we overtake a man driving, who offers me schnaps in an excited manner. “Ah,” said Ole, mournfully, “he has been to the By, and bought some brantviin; they never can resist the temptation. When he gets home, there will be a Selskab (party). People for miles round know where he has been, and they will come and hear the news, and drink themselves drunk.” Ole is one of the so-called Lesere, or Norwegian Methodists, disciples of Hauge, whose son is the clergyman of a parish near here. They may often be detected by their drawling way of speaking. “Well, Ole,” said I, “did you ever see any of these bears they talk so much about?” “Yes, that I have. I saw the old lame bear that BreistÖl shot. I was up at the stÖl (chÂlet) four years ago come next week, with my two Quite so, hummed I— The sable score of fingers four Remain on that horse impressed. “But what do the bears eat, when they can’t get cattle?” “Grass, and berries, and ants (myren).” “But don’t the ants sting him?” “Oh! no; no such thing. A friend of mine saw a bear come to one of those great ant-hills you have passed in the woods. He put out his tongue, and laid it on the ant-hill till it was covered with ants, and then slipped it back into “Does the bear eat anything in winter?” “Nothing, I believe. I have seen one or two that were killed then; their stomach was as empty as empty—wanted no cleaning at all. I think that’s the reason they are such cowards then. I have always more pluck when my stomach is full. Hav’n’t you?” It struck me that there are many others besides the artless Norwegian who, if they chose, must confess to a similar weakness. “But the wolves (ulven) don’t go to sleep in winter; what do they eat?” “Ulven?—what’s that?” “I mean Graa-been (grey-legs).” “Ah! you mean SkrÜb. Ole further tells me that a pair of eagles build in a tall tree about a mile from his house. The “Hvor skal de ligge inat?” (where shall you lie to-night?) he inquired, as we proceeded. “I don’t think I shall go further than Guldsmedoen, to-night,” I replied. “There is no accommodation at all at the station,” he said; “but at Senum, close by, you can get a night’s lodging.” It was dark when we arrived at Senum, which lay down a break-neck side-path, where the man had to lead the horse. On our tapping at the door, a female popped her head out of a window, but said nothing. After a pause, my man says “Quells,” literally, whiling, or resting-time. This was an abbreviation for “godt quell” (good evening). “Quells” was the monosyllabic reply of the still small voice at the porthole. “Tak for senast” (thanks for the last), was my guide’s next observation. “Tak for senast,” the other responded from above. The ice being now somewhat broken, the treble of “the two voices” inquired— “What man is that with you?” “A foreigner, who wants a night’s lodging.” Before long, the farmer and his wife were busy upstairs preparing a couch for me, with the greatest possible goodwill; nor would they hear of Ole returning home that night, so he, too, obtained sleeping quarters somewhere in the establishment. I find, what the darkness had prevented me from seeing, that this house is situated at the southern end of the Aarfjord, a lake of nearly forty miles in length. Mine host has this evening caught a lot of fine trout in the lake with the nets. They are already in salt—everything is salted in this country—but I order two or three fat fellows out of the brine, and into some fresh water against the morning, when they prove excellent. So red and fat! The people here say they are better than salmon. Rain being the order of the next day, I post up my journal. In the afternoon I resume my journey “Look at that hole,” said my attendant, pointing to an opening half-way up the limestone cliff, surrounded by trees and bushes. “That is the——” “Cave of the Dragon?” interrupted I, abstractedly. “The Tyve Helle (thieves’ cave), which goes in one hundred feet deep. For a long time they were the terror of all SÆtersdal. The only way to the platform in front of the cave was by a ladder. One of their band, who pretended to be a Tulling (idiot), used to go begging at the farm-houses, and spying how the ground lay. “On one occasion they carried off along with some cattle the girl who tended them. Poor soul! she could not escape, they kept such a sharp watch on her. The captain of the band meanwhile wanted to marry her; she pretended to like the idea, and the day before that fixed for the wedding asked leave just to go down to the farm where she used to live and steal the silver Brudestads (bridal ornaments), which were kept there. The thieves gave her leave;—they |