Bidding adieu to the kind and hospitable Lehnsman and his spouse, whose courtesy and hospitality made up for the forbidding ways of Madame Rige, I turned my face up the valley. The carriage-road having now ceased, my luggage is transposed to the back of a stout horse, which, like the ancient Scottish wild cattle, was milk-white, with black muzzle. The straddle, or wooden saddle, which crosses his back, is called klÖv-sal. Curiously enough, the Connemara peasants give the name of “cleve” to the receptacles slung on either side the ponies for the purpose of carrying peat, and through which the animal’s back cleaves like a wedge. A very fat man came puffing and panting up to my loft to fetch my gear.

“What!” said I, “are you going to march with me all that distance?” with an audible aside about his “larding the lean earth as he walks along.” The allusion to Falstaff he of course did not understand. His literature is older than Shakspeare; indeed the bard of Avon often borrowed from it. Whence comes his “Man in the moon with his dog and bush,” but from the fiction in the Northern mythology of MÂni (the moon), and the two children, Bil and Hiuki, whom she stole from earth. Scott’s Wayland Smith, too, he is nothing but VÖlund, the son of the Fin-king, who married a Valkyr by mistake, and used to practise the art of a goldsmith in Wolf-dale, and was hamstrung by the avaricious King Nidud, and forced to make trinkets for him on the desert isle of Saeverstad. Though it is only fair to say that the legend belonged also to the Anglo-Saxons, and indeed to most of the branches of the Gothic race. But we are forgetting our post-master. He was the first fat peasant I ever saw in this country.

“Nei, cors” (No, by the Rood). “I’m not equal to that. It’s nearly four old miles. My wife, a very snil kone (discreet woman), will schuss you.”

His better half accordingly appeared, clad in the dingy white woollen frock already described, reaching from the knee to the arm-holes, where is the waist. On this occasion, however, she had, for the purpose of expedition, put an extra girdle above her hips, making the brief gown briefer still, and herself less like a woman about to dance in a sack. Sending her on before, I sauntered along, stopping a second or two to examine the huge unhewn slab before the church door, with a cross and cypher on it, and the date 1639; to which stone some curious legend attaches, which I have forgotten. Passing Solomon’s house, and finding he had gone to the mountains, I left for him some flies, and a douceur, to the bewilderment of his son. At a house further up the valley I found a primstav two hundred years old, the owner of which perfectly understood the Runic symbols.

“That goose,” said he, “refers to Martinsmass, (Nov. 11). That’s the time when the geese are ready to kill.”

So that our derivation of Michaelmas goose-eating from the old story of Queen Elizabeth happening to have been eating that dish on the day of the news of the defeat of the Spanish Armada, is a myth. We got the custom from Norway, but the bird being fit to eat on the 29th September, Englishmen were too greedy to wait, and transferred to the feast of the archangel the dish appertaining to the Bishop of Tours.

That’s a lyster for Saint Lucia (13th Dec.); it means that they used to catch much fish against Yule. That knife means that it is time to slaughter the pigs for Yule. That horn is Yule-horn [the vehicle for conveying ale to the throats of the ancient Norskmen]. That’s Saint Knut (Jan. 7th). That’s his bell, to ring winter out. The sun comes back then in Thelemarken. Old folks used to put their hands behind their backs, take a wooden ale-bowl in their teeth, and throw it over their back; if it fell bottom upwards, the person would die in that year. That’s St. Brettiva, (Jan. 11), when all the leavings of Yule are eat up. You see the sign is a horse. I’ll tell you how that is. Once on a time a bonder in Thelemarken was driving out that day. The neighbour (nabo) asked him if he knew it was Saint Brettiva’s day. He answered—

The horse stumbled, and broke its foot; that’s the reason why the day is marked with a horse in Thelemarken.

“That’s St. Blasius (Feb. 3), marked with a ship. If it blows (blÄse) on that day, it will blow all the year through. That’s a very particular day. We must not use any implement that goes round on it, such as a mill, or a spindle, else the cattle would get a swimming in the head (Sviva).

“That’s St. Peter’s key (Feb. 22). Ship-folks begin to get their boats ready then. As the weather is that day it will be forty days after.

“That,” continued this learned decipherer of Runes, “is St. Matthias (24th Feb.) If it’s cold that day, it will get milder, and vice versÂ; and therefore the saying is, St. Matthias bursts the ice; if there is no ice, he makes ice. The fox darn’t go on the ice that day for fear it should break.

“That’s a mattock (hakke) for St. Magnus (16th April). We begin then to turn up the soil.

“That’s St. Marcus (25th April). That’s Stor Gangdag (great procession-day). The other gang-days are Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday before Ascension.”

“And why are they called Gang-days?”

“Because a procession used to go round the fields, and the priest, at their head, held mass, to drive away all evil spirits.”

Here, then, we see the origin of our beating the bounds. Although, perhaps, the custom may be traced to some ceremonial in honour of Odin akin to the Ambarvalia at Rome in honour of Ceres. According to an old tradition, however, it originated thus. There was, many years ago, a great drought in Norway about this period of the year. A general procession-day was ordered in consequence, together with a fast, which was kept so strictly, that the cattle were muzzled, and the babe in the cradle kept from the breast. Just before the folks went to church it was as dry as ever, but when they came out, it was raining hard. We Christians ring the “passing bell” on the death of anybody, but are perhaps not aware that it began in northern superstition. Sprites, as we have mentioned elsewhere, can’t bear bells—one of them was once heard lamenting in Denmark that he could stay no longer in the country on account of the din of the church bells. So, to scare away the evil spirits, and let the departing soul have a quiet passage, the sexton tolls the bell.

“That’s Gowk’s-mass (May 1); you see the gowk (cuckoo) in the tree. That’s a great bird that. They used to say—

“What’s the meaning of that?”

“Why, if you heard the cuckoo first in the north, the same year you would be a corpse; if in the south, you would have luck in sowing; if in the west, your will would be accomplished; if in the east, you would have luck in wooing.

“That’s Bjornevaak (bear’s waking day) May 22. You see it’s a bear. They say the bear leaves his ‘hi’ that day. On midwinter (Jan. 12) he gave himself a turn round.[23]

“That’s Saint Sunniva, Bergen’s Saint[24] (July 8).

“That’s Olsok (St. Olaf’s day), July 29, marked with an axe. The bonder must not mow that day, or there will come vermin on the cattle.

“That’s Laurentius’ day, marked with a gridiron.

“That’s Kverne Knurran, marked with a millstone, Sept. 1. If it’s dry that day the millers will come to want water.

“That’s vet-naet (winter-night), Oct. 14, when the year began. That’s a glove,[25] to show cold weather is coming. There’s an old Runic rhyme about that, where Winter says:—

The “Tale of the Calendar”[26] was, however, now interrupted by a tap at the window, and a man screams out—

“Where is the Fremmad man? where is the Fremmad man?”

“The stranger is here in the house,” was the reply.

And in came a man, who had evidently just dressed in his best, with something very like death written in his sunken cheeks, starting eyes, and sharpened features.

“Can you tell me what is good for so and so?” he asked. “Oh! what pain I endure.”

The poor fellow was clearly suffering from the stone, and there was no doctor within a great many days’ journey. His doom was evidently sealed.

Further up the valley, a fierce thunder-storm coming on, I entered one of the smoke-houses above described, where an old lady, Gunvor Thorsdatter, bid me welcome. She offered me her mull of home-dried sneeshing—it was rather a curious affair, being shaped like a swan’s-egg pear, and sprigged all over with silver. A very small aperture, stopped by a cork, was the only way of getting at the precious dust. Gunvor was above eighty, but in full possession of her faculties, and I judged her therefore not an unlikely person to have some old stories.

“What do you sing to the babies when you want to make them sleep?”

“I don’t know. All sorts of things.”

“Well, will you repeat me one?”

She looked hard at me for a moment, and suddenly all the deep furrows across her countenance puckered up and became contorted, just like a ploughed field when the harrow has passed over it. A stifled giggle next escaped her through her erkos odontÔn, which was still white, and without gaps. A slight suspicion that I was making fun of her I at once removed from her mind; then, looking carefully round, and seeing that there was nobody else by, she croaked out, in a sort of monotonous melody, the following, which I give literally in English:—

This sounds like our—

Another, the first lines of which remind one of our—

This species of accumulated jingle is called “Reglar,” and reminds us of “The House that Jack built.”

Another, sung by a woman with a child on her knee:—

“Very good,” said I. “Many thanks. Have you any gaade (riddles)?”

Upon which, the old lady immediately repeated this:—

Before parting with her, I begged the old lady to accept a small coin in return for her rhymes, which she said she had heard from her grandmother; but this she indignantly refused to accept, begging me at the same time, as she saw a man approaching, not to say a word about what she had been telling me. The fact is, as has been observed by the Norwegians themselves, that the peasants fancy that nobody would inquire about these matters unless for the sake of ridiculing them, of which they have a great horror. Although they retain these rhymes themselves, they imagine that other people must look upon them as useless nonsense.

The man who approached the cottage brought with him a tiny axe, a couple of inches long, which he had dug up in the neighbourhood. Its use I could not conceive, unless, perhaps, it was the miniature representation of some old warrior’s axe, which the survivors were too knowing and parsimonious to bury with the corpse, and so they put in this sham. That the ancient Scandinavians were addicted to this thrift is well known. In Copenhagen, as we have already seen, facsimiles, on a very small scale, of bracelets, &c. which have been found in barrows, are still preserved. This peasant had likewise a bear-skin for sale. The bear he shot last spring, and the meat was bought by the priest.

The storm being over, I walked on through the forest alone, my female guide being by this time, no doubt, many miles in advance. All houses had ceased, but, fortunately, there was but one path, so that I could not lose my way. How still the wood was! There was not a breath of wind after the rain, so that I could distinctly hear the sullen booming of the river, now some distance off. As I stopped to pick some cloud-berries, which grew in profusion, I heard a distant scream. It was some falcons at a vast height on the cliff above, which I at first thought were only motes in my eyes. With my glass I could detect two or three pairs. They had young ones in the rock, which they were teaching to fly, and were alternately chiding them and coaxing them. No wonder the young ones are afraid to make a start of it. If I were in their places I should feel considerable reluctance about making a first flight.

At length I spied a cottage to the right in the opening of a lateral valley. Hereabout, I had heard, were some old bauta stones; but an intelligent girl who came up, told me a peasant had carried them off to make a wall. This girl, who wore two silver brooches on her bosom, besides large globular collar-studs and gilt studs to her wristbands, asked me if I would not come and have a mjelk drikke (drink of milk).

Jorand Tarjeisdatter was all the time busily engaged in chewing harpix (the resinous exudation of the fir-tree); presently, on another older woman coming in, she pulled out the quid, and gave it to the new-comer, who forthwith put it into her own mouth. But after all this is no worse than Dr. Livingstone drinking water which had been sucked up from the ground by Bechuana nymphs, and spit out by them into a vessel for the purpose.

Jorand was nice-looking, and had a sweet voice, and without the least hesitation she immediately sang me one or two lullabies, e.g.—

She then chanted the following:—

Another.

She then started off with a stave full of satirical allusions to the swains of the neighbourhood, showing how Od was braw, and Ola a stour prater (stor Pratar), Torgrim a fop, and Tarjei a Gasconader—

The whole reminded me of the catalogue in the glee of “Dame Durden.”

“But how long will you stop with us? If you’ll wait till Sunday, we’ll have a selskab (party). Some of the men will come home from the mountains, and then you shall hear us stave properly.”

She seemed much disappointed when I told her I must be off there and then, my luggage was already miles ahead.

Leaving her with thanks, I made a detour of a couple of miles into the side valley, to see a very ancient gaard, to which a story attaches. Roynestad, as it was called, was built of immense logs, some as much as three feet thick;[29] on one of which several bullet marks were visible. Here once dwelt a fellow bearing the same names as the murderer of the priest at Valle, viz., Wund Osmund. He had served in the wars, and seen much of foreign lands. For some reason he incurred the displeasure of the authorities, and fled for refuge to his mountain home. A party of officials came to seize him. When he saw them approaching, he took aim with his cross-bow at a maalestock (pole for land-measuring), which he had placed in the meadow in front of his house, and sent three or four shafts into it.

The Dogberries were alarmed, and, after discharging a few bullets, turned tail.

There were in the loft some curious reminiscences of this daring fellow, e.g., an ancient sword, and some old tapestry, or rather canvas painted over with some historical subject, which I could not make out. In ancient times the interior of the houses was often decorated with hangings of this kind (upstad, aaklÆd). But what I chiefly wanted to see was a genuine old Pagan idol, which had been preserved on the spot many hundred years. But “Faxe,” I found, was not long ago split up for fuel. The real meaning of “faxe” is horse with uncut mane, so that it was most likely connected with the worship of Odin.

Regaining my old road, by a short cut, which fortunately did not turn out a longer way, I plodded on to BjarÄen, a lonely house in the forest. Here I found my excellent conductress, who, alarmed at my non-appearance, had halted, and it being now dusk, further advance to-night was not to be thought of.

Those horrible cupboards, or berths, fixed against the wall, how I dreaded getting into one of them! A stout, red-cheeked lass, the daughter of the house, was fortunately at home, and posted up the hill for some distance, returning with a regular hay-cock on her back, which improved matters. But before I bestowed myself thereon, I took care to place under the coverlet a branch of Pors, which I had cut in the bog. It did for me what the aureus ramus did, if I remember rightly, for Æneas, gained me access to the realms of sleep. The fleas, it is true, mustered strong, and moved vigorously to the attack, but the scent of the shrub seemed to take away their appetite for blood, and I remained unmolested.

The stout lass brought me a slop-basin to wash in next morning, and instead of a towel, an article apparently not known in these parts, a clean chemise of her own. The house could not, by-the-bye, boast of any knives and forks. No sugar was to be had, and the milk, which was about three months old, was so sharp that it seemed to get into my head, certainly into my nose.

Next morning, after some miles walk through uninterrupted solitudes, I found myself on the shores of a placid lake, from which the mist was just lifting up its heavy white wings. As I stood for a moment to look, a large fly descended on the smooth water, and was immediately gobbled up by a trout. Over head, half hidden in the mist, were perpendicular white precipices, stained with streaks of black, which returned my halloo with prompt defiance. Between their base and the lake vast stone blocks were strewed around, and yet close by I now discovered a farm-house exposed to a similar fall.

That’s a very proper quotation, no doubt, but the smoke must be left out. The farm was deserted; not a soul at home, the family having gone up to the mountain pasture. We must, however, except a couple of sad and solitary magpies, which, as we drew near, uttered some violent interjections, and jumped down from the house-top, where they had been pruning themselves in the morning sun. They must be much in want of company, for they followed our steps for some distance, and then left us with a peculiar cry. Would that I had been an ancient augur to have known what that last observation of theirs was!

The path now wound up the noted Bykle Sti, or ladder of Bykle, which is partly blasted out of the rocks, and partly laid on galleries of fir logs. Formerly, this place was very dangerous to the traveller. Here the river, which has been flowing at no great distance from us all the way, comes out of a lake. From a considerable height I gaze down below, and see it gurgling and then circling with oily smoothness through a series of black pits scooped out in the foundation rocks of this fine defile. Opposite me is a huge precipice, whence the screams that are borne ever and anon upon my ear, proclaim the vicinity of an eagle’s eyrie. Below, the river widens again, and I see a number of logs slumbering heads and tails on its shores. We are now more than two thousand feet above the sea, but shall have to descend again to the lake, and cross it, as the road soon terminates entirely.

The ferry-boat was large and flat-bottomed, but all the efforts of my attendant and myself failed to launch it. At this moment a sort of Meg Merrilies, clad in grey frieze, with hair to match, streaming over her shoulders, made her appearance.

“Come and help us!”

“It’s no use. The boat’s fast; the water has fallen from the dry weather, and old Erik himself can’t move it.”

“Well, let us try. You take one oar, and Thora the other, and I’ll go and haul in front.”

The two women used their oars like levers, when suddenly, Oh, horror!—snap went one of them. Tearing up a plank, which was nailed over the gunwale as a seat, I placed it as a launching way for the leviathan. This helped us wonderfully, and at last the unwieldly machine floated. The Danish Count would have flung “Trahuntque siccas machinÆ carinas” in our faces, but he would have had to alter the epithet, as the boat was thoroughly water-logged. So much so, that when the horse and effects and we three were on board, it leaked very fast. The women took the oars, the broken one being mended by the garters of Meg Merrilies. The water rose in the boat much quicker than I liked, and I could not help envying a couple of great Northern divers, which my glass showed me floating corkily on the smooth water—fortunately it was so—if the truth were known they doubtless looked upon us with a mixture of commiseration and contempt.

When we arrived safely on the other side, which was distant about half-a-mile, I gave our help-in-need sixpence. She was perfectly amazed at my liberality.

“Du er a snil karro du.” (You’re a good fellow, you are.)

She was, she told me, the mother of fourteen children. Her pluck and sagacity were considerable. Now, will it be believed, that this awkward passage might altogether be avoided if the precipice were blasted for two or three score yards, so as to allow of the path winding round it. As it is, a traveller might arrive here, and if the boat were on the other side, might wait for a whole day or more, as nobody could hear or see him, and no human habitation is near.

As we rose the hill to Bykle, I saw two or three species of mushrooms, one of which, of a bright Seville-orange colour, with white imposthumes, I found to be edible. Visions of a comfortable place to put my head into smiled upon me, as I saw a church-spire rising up the mountain, and a gaard, the station-house, not far from it. But alas! I was doomed to be disappointed—all the family were at the StÖl, and the doors and windows fastened. A man fortunately appeared presently, whom I persuaded for a consideration to go and fetch the landlord. My guide meantime departed, as she was anxious to get half home before night. Meantime I lay on some timbers, and went to sleep. Out of this I was awakened by a sharp sort of chuckle close to my ear, and on raising myself I found that two magpies had bitten a hole into the sack, and were getting at my biscuits and cheese. It was with some difficulty that I drove off these impudent Gazza-ladras: and as soon as I went to sleep again, they recommenced operations. In three hours the messenger returned with the intelligence that the station-master would not come; the road stopped here, and he was not bound to schuss people Nordover (to the North).

There was nothing for it but to go up the mountain, and wade through the morasses to see the fellow. Fortunately I found an adjoining stÖl, where dwelt another peasant, Tarald (AnglicÈ Thorold) Mostue, whom I persuaded to come down and open his house for the shelter of myself and luggage. He brought down with him some fresh milk, the first I had tasted since leaving Christiansand. After lighting for me a fire, and making up a bed, he returned to his chÂlet, promising to return by six A.M. with a horse, and schuss me to Vatnedal. Here, then, I was all alone, but I managed to make myself comfortable, and slept well under the shadow of my own fig-tree—I mean the branch of Pors—secure from the fleas and bugs! Tarald appeared in the morning, and off we started. He was, I found, one of the Lesere or Norwegian methodists.

“Do they bann (banne = the Scotch ‘ban’) much in the country you come from?” inquired he, as we jumped over the dark peat-hags, planting our feet on the white stones, which afforded a precarious help through them.

“I fear some of them do.”

“But I’ve not heard you curse.”

“No; I don’t think it right.”

“Where does the Pope (Pave) live?”

“At Rome.”

“They call it the great —— of Babylon, don’t they? Is Babylon far from Rome?”

“It does not exist now. It was destroyed for the wickedness of its inhabitants, and according to the prophecy it has become something like this spot here, a possession for the cormorant and the bittern, and pools of water.”

“Ah! I had forgotten about that; I know the New Testament very well, but not the Old.”

Tarald had also something to say about Luther’s Postils; but like most of these Lesere, he had no relish for a good story or legend. He had a cock-and-a-bull story—excuse the confusion of ideas—of a bear and a fox, but it was so rigmarole and pointless, that it reminded me of Albert Smith’s engineer’s story. The real tale is as follows. I picked it up elsewhere:—Once on a time, when the beasts could talk, a fox and a bear agreed to live together and have all things in common. So they got a bit of ground, and arranged, so that one year the bear should get the tops and the fox the bottoms of the crop, and another year the bear the bottoms and the fox the tops. The first year they sowed turnips, and, according to agreement, the bear got the tops and the fox the bottoms. The bear did not much like this, but the fox showed him clearly that there was no injustice done, as it was just as they had agreed. Next year, too, said he, the bear would have the advantage, for he would get the bottoms and the fox the tops. In the spring the fox said he was tired of turnips. “What said the bear to some other crop?” “Well and good,” answered the bear. So they planted rye. At harvest the fox got all the grain, and the bear the roots, which put him in a dreadful rage, for, being thick-witted, he had not foreseen the hoax. At last he was pacified, and they now agreed to buy a keg of butter for the winter. The fox, as usual, was up to his tricks, and used to steal the butter at night, while Bruin slept. The bear observed that the butter was diminishing daily, and taxed the fox. The fox replied boldly—“We can easily find out the thief; for directly we wake in the morning we’ll examine each other, and see whether either of us has any butter smeared about him.” In the morning the bear was all over butter; it regularly dropped off him. How fierce he got! the fox was so afraid, that he ran off into the wood, the bear after him. The fox hid under a birch-tree root, but bruin was not to be done, and scratched and scratched till he got hold of the fox’s foot. “Don’t take hold of the birch-root, take hold of the fox’s foot,” said Reynard, tauntingly. So the bear thought it was only a root he had hold of, and let the foot go, and began scratching again. “Oh! now do spare me,” whispered the fox; “I’ll show you a bees’-nest, which I saw in an old birch. I know you like honey.” This softened the bear, for he was desperately fond of honey. So they went both of them together into the wood, and the fox showed the bear a great tree-bole, split down the middle, with the wedge still sticking in it. “It’s in there,” said the fox. “Just you squeeze into the crack, and press as hard as you can, and I’ll strike the wedge, and then the log will split.” The trustful bear squeezed himself in accordingly, and pushed as hard as ever he could. Reynard knocked out the block, the tree closed, and poor Bruin was fast. Presently the man came back who had been hewing the tree, and directly he spied the bear, he took his axe and split open his skull; and—so there is no more to tell.

On the bare, rocky pass which separates SÆtersdal from Vatnedal were several stones, placed in a line, a yard or two apart from each other.

“Those are the Bridal Stones,” observed Tarald. “A great many years ago there was no priest on the Bykle side (I suppose this was after the murder by Wund Osmond, the Lehnsman), and a couple that wanted to wed came all the way over here to be married. Those stones they set up in memory of the event. On this stone sat the bridegroom, and on that the bride.”

The mountain pink (Lycnis viscaria) occurs on most of these stony plateaus. I also met with a mighty gentian, with purplish brown flower, emitting a rich aromatic odour, the root of which is of an excessively bitter taste, and is gathered for medicinal purposes.

A mile or two beyond this we stood in a rocky gorge, from which we had a glorious view of the Vatnedal lake, and another beyond it several hundred feet below us. After a very precipitous descent, on the edge of which stood several blocks, placed as near as they could be without rolling over, we skirted the lake through birch-grove and bog till we got opposite a house visible on the further shore. At this a boat was kept, but it was very uncertain whether anybody was at home. Leaving Tarald to make signals, I was speedily enticing some trout at a spot where a snow-stream rushed into the lake. At last Tarald cried out—

“All right, there are folk; I see a woman.” And sure enough, after a space, I could discern a boat approaching. A brisk and lively woman was the propelling power. We were soon on the bosom of the deep—the two men, the woman, and the horse, all, in spite of my protestations, consigned to a flat-bottomed leaky punt, though the wind was blowing high. The horse became uneasy, and swayed about, and, being larger than usual, he gave promise of turning the boat upside-down before very long. I immediately unlaced my boots, and pulled off my coat. The Norwegians seemed at this to awake to a sense of danger, and rowed back to the shore; the horse was landed and hobbled when he forthwith began cropping the herbage. We then made a safe passage. Unfortunately, Helge’s husband, whom I had counted on to help me on my journey, had started with his horse the day before to buy corn at Suledal, thirty-five miles off.

In this dilemma, I begged Tarald to take pity on me, or I might be hopelessly stopped for some days. The “Leser” was like “a certain Levite.” He had been complaining all day of fatigue. He felt so ill, he said, he could hardly get along. I had even given him some medicine. In spite, however, of his praiseworthy antipathy to swearing, and the nasal twang with which he poured out some of his moral reflections, I had felt some misgivings about the sincerity of his professions; for he had begged me to write to the Foged, and complain of the absence of the station-master at Bykle, that he might be turned out, and he get his place. And, sure enough, I found him to be a wooden nutmeg with none of the real spice of what he professed to be about him. No sooner did he finger the dollars, than his fatigue and indisposition suddenly left him, and he started off home with great alacrity, reminding me of those cripples in Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame, who, from being hardly able to crawl, suddenly became all life and motion.

“Truly,” mused I, “these Lesere are all moonshine. They profess to be a peculiar people, but are by no means zealous of good works. But this lies in the nature of things. Which is the best article, the cloth stiffened and puffed up with starch and ‘Devil’s dust,’ or the rough Tweed, which makes no pretence to show whatever, but, nevertheless, does duty admirably well against wind and weather?” But enough of the thin-lipped, Pharisaical Tarald.

There was a beaminess about the hard-favoured countenance of Helge Tarjeisdatter Vatnedal, together with a brusque out-and-out readiness of word and deed, that jumped with my humour. The fair Tori too, her daughter, with her good-tempered blue eyes and mouth, and comfortable-looking figure, swept up the floor, and split some pine stumps with an axe, and lit the fire, and acted “Polly put the kettle on” with such an evident resolve to make me at home, that the prospect of being delayed in such quarters looked much less formidable. The two women had netted some gorgeous trout that afternoon, and I was soon discussing them.

“We must go now,” said Helge.

“Where to?”

“To the stÖl. We are all up there now. It was only by chance we came down here to-day. Will you go with us, or will you stop here? You will be all alone.”

“Never mind; I’ll stop here.”

“Very good. We know of a man living a long way off on the other lake. We’ll send a messenger to him by sunrise, and see if he can schuss you. In the morning we’ll come back and let you know.”

My supper finished, by the fast waning light I began reading a bit of Bulwer’s Caxtons. The passage I came upon was Augustine’s recipe for satiety or ennui—viz., a course of reading of legendary out-of-the-way travel. But I can give Mr. Caxton a better nostrum still—To do the thing yourself instead of reading of it being done. In the Museum at Berlin there is a picture called the Fountain of Youth. On the left-hand side you see old and infirm people approaching, or being brought to the water. Before they have got well through the stream, their aspect changes; and arrived on the other bank, they are all rejuvenescence and frolic. To my mind this is not a bad emblem of the change that comes over the traveller who passes out of a world of intense over-civilization into a country like this. How delightful to be able to dress, and eat, and do as one likes, to have escaped for a season, at least, from the tittle-tattle, the uneasy study of appearances, the “what will Mr. So-and-so think?” the fuss and botheration of crowded cities, with I don’t know how many of the population thinking of nothing but getting 10 per cent. for their money. Sitting alone in the gloaming, under the shadow of the great mountains, with the darkling lake in front, now once more tranquil, and lulled again like a babe that has cried itself to sleep—the sound of the distant waterfalls booming on the ear—a star or two twinkling faintly in the sky—I might have set my fancy going to a considerable extent.

But bed, with its realities, recalled my wandering thoughts. That was the hour of trial! A person, who ought to know something about these matters, apostrophized sleep as being fond of smoky cribs, and uneasy pallets, and delighting in the hushing buzz of night flies. I had all these to perfection, the flies especially, quite a plague of them. But nature’s soft nurse would not visit me. The fact was, I had lost my branch, and the “insectivora” of all descriptions, as a learned farmer of my acquaintance phrased it, roved about like free companions, ravaging at will. Knocked up was I completely the next morning, when at six o’clock the women returned with the welcome intelligence that one Ketil of the Bog was bound for that Goshen, Suledal, to buy corn, and would be my guide.

“I am so weary,” said I; “I have not slept a wink.”

With looks full of compassion, the women observed—“We thought you wouldn’t. We knew you would be afraid. That kept you awake, no doubt.”

Whether they meant fear of the fairies or of freebooters, they did not say. My assurance to the contrary availed but little to convince them. No solitary traveller in Norway at the present day need fear robbery or violence. The women soon shouldered my effects, not permitting me to carry anything, and we started through morass, and brake, and rocks, for the shieling of Ketil of the Bog.

At one spot where we rested, the fair Tori chanted me the following strain, which is based on a national legend, the great antiquity of which is testified by the alliterative metre of the original. It refers to a girl who had been carried off by robbers.