CHAPTER VI.

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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 rat, not “behind the arras,” for the wooden walls were bare, but under my pillow. Gracious goodness! is it my destiny then to fall a prey to these wretches? Notwithstanding, I soon dozed off to sleep again, muttering to myself something about “Coctilibus muris,” and “dead for a ducat.”

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 collection of Norwegian proverbs, one of which might perhaps serve to reconcile an explorer in this country to indifferent accommodation. “The poor man’s house is his palace.” Another proverb rebuked pride, in the following manner:—“Dust is still dust, although it rise to heaven.”

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 the whip (SvÖbe), a compliment which the colt returned by lashing out with his heels.

“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,[4] a jolly-looking gentleman, sends off a messenger to see if his own horse is near at hand, in order that I may not be detained by waiting for one at the neighbouring station, Fahret. But the pony is somewhere in the forest, so that his benevolent designs cannot be realized. Altogether, I have never visited any house in Norway where intelligence, manliness, and good-nature seemed so thoroughly at home as at the Foged’s.

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 was thought, in a fight with a stallion. He killed a number of horses; and great rewards were offered to the killer of him. The people in Mandal, to the west, offered thirty dollars; he had been very destructive down there. Well, BreistÖl found out where he lay one winter, and went up with another man. Out he comes, and tries to make off. They are always rÆd (frightened) at first, when they are surprised in their lair. But BreistÖl sent a ball into him (this Norsk Mudjekeewis, by-the-bye, makes his own rifles), and the bear stopped short, and rushed at him. Just at this moment, however, he got another bullet from the other man, which stopped him. After waiting for a moment, he turned round, and charged at the new aggressor, who dodged behind a tree; meanwhile, BreistÖl had loaded, and gave him another ball; and so they kept firing and dodging; and it actually took fifteen balls to kill him, he was so big and strong. The last time they fired, they came close to him, and shot two bullets into his head, only making one hole; then he died. The usual reward from the Government is five dollars, but BreistÖl got fifteen. The Mandal people, when they heard the great grey bear was dead, gave him nothing. Fand (fiend)! but he was immensely big (uhyr stor), so fat and fleshy.”

“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 har Hannd i slig (God our master has a hand in such like things). We have a proverb, that the bear has ten men’s strength, and the wit of twelve; but that’s neither here nor there. BjÖrnen kan vaere meget staerk, men han faa ikke Magt at draebe mennesker, Mnaar Han ikke tillade det. (The bear may be very strong, but he has not the power to kill men unless He permits it.”)

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 from view; down hurried the boat, and providentially was not smashed to pieces. At the bottom of the fall it caught against a rock, and righted again, and up bobbed the drowned man, having been under the boat all the time. His friends managed to save him.

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 sisters. We were sitting outside the building, just about this time of the evening, when it was getting dusk; all of a sudden, the horse came galloping to us as hard as ever he could tear. I knew at once it was a bear; and, sure enough, close behind him, came the beast rushing out of the wood. We all raised a great noise and shouting, on which the bear stopped, and ran away. Poor blacky had a narrow escape; he bears the marks of the bear’s claws on his hind quarters. I could put my four fingers in them.”

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 his mouth. They can’t hurt him, his tongue is too thick-skinned for that.”

“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.[5] In winter they steal what they can, and, when hard pressed, they devour a particular sort of clay. That’s well known; it’s plain to see from their skarn (dung.)”

Ole further tells me that a pair of eagles build in a tall tree about a mile from his house. The young ones have just flown; he had not time to take them, although there is a reward of half-a-dollar a-head. Fancy a native of the British Isles suffering an eagle to hatch, and fly off with its brood in quiet.

“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 by the road on the further side of the lake. Until very lately a carriage road was unknown here. The Fogderi, or Bailewick, in which we now are, is called Robygd: a reminiscence, it is said, of the days not long since over, when the sole means of locomotion up the valley (bygd) was to row (roe). The vehicle being a common cart, with no seat, a bag is stuffed with heather for me to sit on; and this acts as a buffer to break the force of the bumps which the new-made road and the springless cart kept giving each other, while, in reality, it was I that came in for the brunt of the pommelling. The Norwegian driver sat on the hard edge of the cart, regardless of the shocks, and as tough apparently as the birch-wood of which the latter was composed. It won’t do for a person who is at all made-up to risk a journey in SÆtersdal: he would infallibly go to pieces, and the false teeth be strewed about the path after the manner of those of the serpent or dragon sown by Jason on the Champ de Mars. Armed men rose from the earth on that occasion, and something of the kind took place now. Don’t start, reader, it was only in story.

“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 could dispense with the parson, but not with this. But first they made her swear she would not speak to a soul at the house. At midnight, Asjer, as she was called, arrived at her former home, to the astonishment of the good folks. She at once proceeded to take a piece of white linen, a scrap of red home-spun cloth, and a pair of shears. This done, she went to the chimney-corner and told the pinewood-beam, ‘I have been stolen by robbers; they live in a cave in the forest, I will cut little bits of red cloth on the road to it; to-morrow the captain marries me. To-night, when they are all drunk and asleep, I will hang out the piece of white cloth.’ Without exchanging a word with the inmates, she then set off back. The master of the house and a few friends collected, and followed her track. At night-fall they saw the flag waved from the mouth of the cave. In they rushed upon the thieves, who, unable to escape, threw themselves over the precipice. The captain, suspecting her to be the author of the surprise, seized her by the apron as he dashed over the ledge, determined that she should die with him. But the leader of the bonders, a ready-witted fellow, cut her apron-strings with his knife, just in the nick of time, so that she was saved; and the robber, in his fall, took nothing with him but her apron.”


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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