"Gamle Norge": Rambles and Scrambles in Norway

O those going northward Molde has especial interest for many reasons: its situation is beautiful, its climate delightful, its vegetation luxuriant, its flora abundant, and, as a centre to radiate from, it is most convenient. To arrive there one becomes associated pro tem. with the good ship Tasso. “Good ship” is used, in this instance, as a term of affection among old Norwegians. In former days it was rarely that any save real sportsmen or regular fishers were to be found on board. Every one was known. The steward knew every one by name; the captain looked forward to seeing his “regulars,” and could tell exactly how much he would see of each individual passenger. Judging from the weather, he could guess the number for each festive meal in the saloon, and knew without a doubt who would propose to smoke a cigar on deck, or one more pipe before turning in, and who would be ready to spin a good yarn if there were any chance of conversation flagging. From Hull to Trondhjem a fraternity existed, on condition that no one betrayed undue curiosity about his fellow-traveller’s river. That condition carried out, any one might kill his fish over and over again, and even add a pound or two, rather than the relater should not be happy. The captain of the Tasso was decidedly a favourite, and could the weather at all times have proved as fair as the captain himself, the Tasso would have been always crowded with passengers; for even in spite of the stormy winds of the North Sea there has been such a thing as a telegram for the captain, hoping he would wait for the next train, as —— wanted to go by the Tasso. There is much sentiment about this dear old vessel. Light as a cork, in a breeze she can throw you up off your legs, and catch you somehow when you come down. She is lively, but that is better than being driven through everything, tunnelling the long seas. Besides, if the Saturday be very bad, and Saturday night too, Sunday afternoon generally improves matters, and by the evening some ladies venture up in the captain-cabin on deck for a little fresh air, and are well looked after; for the captain himself, in spite of having been up all night, comes out with his personal appearance unimpaired, and buttoning his gloves, which he wears only on Sundays. He had a very impressive way of buttoning the right glove, as if a great work had just been completed, and the mere act would revive the passengers. Still he was a thorough sailor and a great favourite, and everybody regrets that he no longer commands the Tasso.

This vessel, which leaves Hull on Friday night, with her course north-east, ploughs, or rather bruises, the North Sea until Monday morning, when the first land is made, which is generally Statland—bluff, wild, precipitous, and if not almost uninhabited, at all events very sparsely populated. Having made this point, the Tasso, altering her course, runs up the coast for Aalesund, before reaching which the number of passengers on deck increases. Passengers are always divided into two classes—the well and the unwell, or “marines.” It is surprising how strongly the marines muster at this point, and discover that they would have come up before if they had known there was anything really worth getting up for. Not a syllable do they utter about how they envied those humble people who were always asking for more roast beef, and who relished bottled stout. Neptune’s habit of rocking stops many a hearty meal, and keeps many a visitor from Norway, levelling even the great and mighty; for even the president of a learned society has been seen lying on the deck, rolled up in a blanket, with the large red letters “Scandinavia” across his vertebræ, helpless and mute, though his object in coming was to talk Norske; but the sea god denied him the luxury until he arrived at the land of Thor and Odin. Aalesund will be described afterwards.

The Tasso arrives at Molde on Monday afternoon or evening, according to the run. If it is a fine evening, what a lovely sight after the permanent unbroken horizon of the last three days! On the left lies Molde; on the right, mountains, snow ranges, islands, and fjord entrances running up to Veblungsnæs, Alfernæs, and Eikesdal. Some have described Molde as a Naples; but the two places are as different as is Stockholm—sometimes called the Venice of the North—from Venice itself. Let each have praise for its individual beauty and grandeur, but no comparison can well be made.

The Tasso does not come alongside; the small coasting steamers do. Boats, therefore, come out, when one soon sees what seamen these Norsemen are; and the women are as good as the men. The principal figure as well as the voice most distinctly heard is that of Jacob, the polyglot and ubiquitous porter from the hotel. Molde was once famous for an hotel kept by Herr Buck and family, whose kindly reception and unceasing attention were a pleasure to the visitor. In front of the house were honeysuckles, clustering roses, geraniums—not yet called pelargoniums at Molde—wallflowers, fuchsias, and almost every kind of flower. With such good quarters, such attention, and such natural beauty, how could any one be disappointed in Molde? Yet so it was; one’s fancy was blighted by the footmark of civilisation—modern dress had supplanted costume. The taille de Paris was attempted, although it has not, up to this time, much reduced the general solidity of the Scandinavian waist. The heads of the people are much more transformed, and soon become smiling victims to the first phases of the vile taste for artificial flowers, feathers, and tawdry finery. If they only knew the dignity of simplicity and the charm of good silver ornaments handed down for generations, they would never so debase themselves.

Molde is almost entirely built of wooden houses painted white. In the lower basement the storehouses run out over the water for some distance, being built on most picturesque piles of timber, with solid galleries, affording delightful peeps seaward. This warm spot, nestling under the mountains, faces the south, and is naturally celebrated for the vigour of its vegetation and the luxuriance of every variety of floral growth, which is centred in the churchyard, where every Moldean tries to outvie his neighbour in the culture of fair flowers on the graves of those dear ones who have been called home. What a beautiful thought is this to keep before one through life—to be called home, and to look upon death as a friend, or as a schoolboy does upon his exit! Happy indeed are those who can do so! It has a soothing influence, which conduces to cheerfulness in old age; and what is cheerfulness in old age but a looming of the immortality of the soul, as the outer case begins to fade away?

This lovely spot has been selected as the best locality for an establishment to solace the poor victims of that terrible scourge of the North—leprosy. White as a leper, and shining as Gehazi, Elijah’s servant—that is the aspect of Eastern leprosy. Not so in the North. The features of the Northern leper become purple and hard, and the feet swollen and fearfully disfigured. It is brought on by the absence of vegetable diet and the constant use of salt fish. The hospital is situated outside the town, on the south-west side, and is coloured yellow.

Many routes start from Molde, and much character may be noticed on board the steamers—small practical craft, with very efficient captains—good seamen and remarkably obliging—a quality most acceptable to the traveller. But this attention is only accorded to those who adopt the axiom of the late Dr. Norman Macleod, who said the best language to travel with was, “Yes, if you please,” and “No, I thank you,” whether in domestic life or en voyage. It would conduce greatly to home harmony if this were more generally adopted. It is a wholesome contrast to a woodcut in Punch by that keen observer of human nature, John Leech, who portrayed a Transatlantic brother holding a revolver at the head of the person sitting next to him, adding only the simple words, “Pass the mustard.” To return, however, to the deck of the steamer.

The lower class in Norway chew and expectorate; the upper class smoke, and some carry pipes. Carry is the correct term, for the pipe belongs to the class impedimenta. As the map of France is divided into departments, so may be the travelling pipe of Norway. First department, the mouthpiece; next, the elastic, to ease off the roll of steamer or jostle of stranger; then a huge silver tassel, generally two; then a stem and a joint; and finally the bowl of meerschaum. What an écume de mer! What a responsibility to travel with such an instrument! It is quite an apparatus—worse than a narghile or chibouque: less coil, but more tassel. The bowl of the pipe is generally surmounted by a huge silver cover in the form of a crown. Our woodcut gives a specimen of one in the possession of an officer on a tour of inspection along the coast or fjord. As he is represented with his back to the land, it is only just to mention that there was some object of interest in front of him.

One more word for the Tasso. Returning from Trondhjem, she generally calls at Molde. Should bad weather come on, the waiting for twenty-four or forty-eight hours in constant expectation is wearying to a degree. One hardly dare patronise the good baths of Molde, admirably arranged as they are, so unmercifully do the jelly-fish sting; but the advantages of sea-bathing are irresistible, so, in spite of being stung, we indulge in a bath while waiting for the steamer, and in the midst of it we hear the alarming whistle of the Tasso. Rapid exit and hurry-skurry, in which tradition says the Tentmaster-general, anxious to be first, was last, from having tried to put on his flannel shirt without towelling sufficiently beforehand. Hurried as we were, there was still a ceremony to go through, which could not be omitted without giving offence. The bath attendant is most careful in his attention to visitors, who generally give him twopence. On receiving this honorarium he observes an old custom in Norway, that of shaking hands and thanking the donor; so we all kept up the good old charter, and received his kind wishes for our safe return to England and our homes. Unquestionably we carried with us delightful recollections of the kindness of the people, and especially of the bönder folk—many souvenirs to remind us of localities visited, and very deep impressions of the charm of their simple life, undisturbed, as it seemed, by those little envyings, strivings, emulations, and jealousies which, like mosquitoes, sting and irritate, to the misery of their unhappy victims.

Surely the man who loves God, worships Him through nature, and traces his majesty in creation, would enjoy the spot depicted in the woodcut, where the village of Veblungsnæs is shown close to the edge of the fjord, backed by the snow range. What a neighbourhood to have round one! And what a contrast to the idea conveyed by the same word in modern acceptation! Here the sea-water of the fjord washes the edges of the hamlet, in many parts bluffly repelled by huge and mighty façades of rocks; there a ravine terminates in a waterfall into the sea itself. Valleys branch off in all directions, excursions are numerous, and many new ones still remain unexplored. The high fjeld is easy of access from Veblungsnæs, and real bear valleys are near, where Bruin exists and has met with his death at the hands of our countrymen. Natives have offered to go on the terms of “no bear, no pay.” This betokens an amount of practical confidence which is a prominent feature in all bargains between Scandinavians and our folk. Bruin is still a terror in some parts, and especially to the sæter people, or piger. For instance, near Isterdal the following circumstance occurred to a friend:—Scene, lonely sæter. English traveller approaching. Pige appears at window imploring help and beseeching traveller’s assistance. A bear has been down, and killed a cow. The pige positively dare not come out until the Englishman shoots the bear that killed the cow that frightened the pige. Now comes the sad finale. The dead cow could not be found, neither could the bear; and even had the latter been discovered, the traveller had no rifle to shoot him with. Still there can be no doubt of there being many yet left to be laid low by our enthusiastic fellow-hunters in days to come. Veblungsnæs is hardly appreciated by travellers, who are generally so bent on rushing forward to the well-known comforts of Aak, that they are blind to the beauty en route. Perhaps an innate longing to get away from villages makes them anxious to dive at once to the more placid and less populated parts. This place is generally reached by those who come from Molde by steamer, in which case the entrance to the Romsdal fjord is a grand subject, affording the most magnificent mountain and sea-scape combined. Happier far is the traveller who goes in a small sailing boat, with a good south-wester behind him, a tight sheet, and the water hissing away all round her, thrown off from her bows and rushing from her stern, as the crew lie down singing good Norske songs, some of which are as long as Gaelic ones; and that is saying a good deal.

Veblungsnæs is close to the mouth of the Rauma, which rises in Lesje Vand, and after forcing its way through rocks and every kind of obstruction, finally finishes its course among peaceful sand plains. The village can boast of many good things. First, the church, or kirke, then the post-office, telegraph office, station for carrioles, a compulsory school, a baker of white bread, præstegaard, and a pier, to say nothing of the store or shop. Having made a bouquet of these charms, let us refer to them seriatim.

The church is the old wooden structure from Gryten which was buried in the sand, and stood, as shown by the spire on the right hand side of the illustration, looking from Næss. It was moved about fifty years ago, and at that time was painted red, having only of late years assumed the more sombre hue which now characterizes its roof and spire—namely, black. The interior is plain fir; the pulpit is high up over the altar, and of a general light blue tone; while on the right side, on the ground, is the bishop’s stall, panelled up to the galleries, which go round the church. The candelabrum that hangs in the centre from the ceiling is very elegant in design, and made of pinchbeck; it is dated 1770. The silver candlesticks on the altar, one on each side, are large and massive; these are lighted three times a year—Christmas, Easter, and at the end of the forty days. The first priest appointed to Gryten commenced his work in 1514.

Here we saw a funeral, which was largely attended, as the church is on a main road. The coffin was followed by seven stolkjærs and many people, some of whom had driven on before; but there was no clergyman to officiate.

The post-office is kept in a very unofficial way. Calling one day, we found that the post kontouress (who, by the way, is a very superior person) was not at home, having left her official duties to assist at four o’clock tea—société. The postman is picturesque, with an enormous portmanteau, with irons, chains, and such fastenings, to assist in the protection of which he carries a horn and a revolver (see p. 87). He goes from this office to Dombaas, so that sometimes, from the difference of elevation, he will sledge one part regularly, and carriole the other. Before leaving the post-office we will thank the chef for all her kind attentions to us and many of our countrymen.

The telegraph office is admirable. English spoken, and every information.

The carriole station is at Herr Onsum’s, who seems to be the squire of Veblungsnæs. Here tout est Onsum—hotel, boats, land, and store. Every one has a good word for the member of the Storthing, Herr Onsum, and his musical and well-educated family.

The school is, throughout Norway, for all denominations, and compulsory.

As to the baker of white bread, this personage is mentioned because white-bread bakers are few and far between, and a valuable adjunct to Fiva, where we stopped. Twice a week “our daughter” drove in from Fiva to the baker at Veblungsnæs, about nine miles in and nine out. Sometimes the white bread was not ready, and after a nine-mile carriole drive, with a long ford across the river, it is rather trying to go back empty-handed. Occasionally there were additions, such as rød fiske, or red sea-fish, like very large mullet, hanging from the carriole, and picturesque in colour, to say nothing of odd baskets banging about. We must some time have a sketch of “The Return from Market through the Ford, with the Skyd-gut Boy behind.” Our daughter’s boy was rather an old one, Ole Fiva as he called himself—the gamel skyd-gut. The occasional one was very young, and very nice indeed: as he did not understand English, his answers resolved themselves almost always into the “blushing grin” of good-hearted innocence. At last “mee boy Matthias”—pronounced Matteeus—found an outlet for his feelings, and brought red berries, or tyttebær in his cap; and when he found them accepted, and that his offering gave us pleasure, he grinned and blushed more than ever. But why were we not sure of getting our white bread when we sent so far for it, hail, rain, or shine? For this reason. One day there was a glorious breeze out in the fjord, the white horses were showing their crests, while the gulls and terns were sweeping round us. What a day for a sail! Herr Onsum had a good sea-boat, and would be sure to lend it to us if we asked. We did. My wife, daughter, self, Ole Fiva, with three Norwegians, full of sea-rovers’ expeditions and sagas, for a crew, were soon on board. As the craft was lying by the landing-place her bowsprit naturally rose up and down as the waves heaved her hull, when a voice came from the end of it: “Ole, Ole! Spørge, Ole, spørge!” Ole took no notice, and again came the same appeal from a figure with a white cap and jacket. It was the baker of the white bread, hanging on with a desperate effort, asking permission to go for a sail with us instead of getting our vid brod ready for us to take back. Judging from the uncertain movements of the applicant, it is to be feared the supply of white bread is equally precarious at Veblungsnæs.

Our view of Næss is taken as looking up the Rauma River. On the left are the Vengetinderne, the Karlstrotind, and the Romsdal Horn over the valley, down which flows the river Rauma by Aak; the centre peak is the Mid-dag Horn; and on the right is the Isterdal valley, with the Biskop and Drönningen towering above. The little spire of Gryten is inserted here to show where it stood before its sand immersion and removal to its present resting-place. From this point one obtains a grand view and general idea of the immense sand and grit deposit collected here from the two valleys of the Rauma and Ister, the greater portion of which was ground off the sides of the valleys by the great glaciers when the glacial period was in full action, and before all the mighty ice giants melted at the presence of the new visitor to the coasts of Norway, the gulf stream. All down the valleys the rocks are worn and ground round by the débris in the ice as it passed down. Only some such phenomenon as that referred to could have so raised the temperature and worked such changes.

On the following page an old friend is shown at work by the riverside—Ole Larsen, a shoemaker of simple habits and small clientèle, but very large family, about eighteen in number. Unlike many of our followers of St. Crispin, he begins ab initio, with the skin as removed from the animal, and is now getting the hair off previously to tanning. It can well be imagined that Ole Larsen does not do a large business in the course of the financial year, and the family seldom get meat, their whole nourishment being brod og smör, bunkers, and cow comforts.

The Norwegian farm-building is called a laave, and is so constructed that the hay-carts can drive right in under cover, and be unladen at convenience: underneath are generally stables and a cow-house. Such a laave as the one shown on p. 116 will hold three ponies and about twelve cows. During the summer the cows all go up to the sæter, and about September return to the valleys, preparatory to their winter session, when, poor things, they are generally shut up from October right through the winter, till spring comes with all her brightness, and releases these long-pent prisoners from their thraldom. It is an amusing sight to see them first at liberty when the snow has melted in the valley. They gallop, kick, frisk, career, and chase each other; and the ponies join in the festivities with the cows and the goats, and rejoice together for a time, until all finally agree that there is nothing like good quiet steady grazing, to which they betake themselves.

ERE seems centred all that is grand in nature, bold in outline, interesting in geological formation, with the constant registers of the ice passage down the valley, as it existed before the glacial period was melted away by the influence of the gulf stream. The whole valley suggests the idea of the crust of the earth having cracked in cooling, the fissures forming these immense valleys. At the entrance of the latter, as the river approaches the fjords or the sea, large plateaux of sand have been deposited in past ages, and through these sandhills the river forces its way, very frequently altering its course, until finally it reaches the sea. These sand plateaux or ridges are very distinctly shown at the entrance of the Rauma River, a little above Veblungsnæs, and being exposed to the winds through the two valleys—Romsdalen and Isterdalen—a change on the dry sand is perceptibly going on at all times. This is especially to be noticed at a spot called Gryten. In the maps it is marked as a church, and a church there once was in the position indicated; but, as we have already observed, it was so sanded up that it was taken to pieces and removed to Veblungsnæs away from the sand-storms, and just bordering on the fjord.

The tourist of the promiscuous class is sure to rejoice in this part of Romsdal, as here is situated an old farmhouse, now adapted to modern customs, and purveying comforts of all kinds not generally found in Norway. A friend, visiting this happy spot some twenty years ago, was kindly received by the proprietor, Herr Landmark, who is still spared to conduce more than ever to the increasing wants of Norwegian travellers. By degrees the farmhouse has developed, and is now, with its new annexe, generally spoken of as the “Hotel at Aak.” Still, how different is it from the modern idea of such things! Very much of the leaven yet remains— the same kindly reception, and the likkelig reise to the parting guest. Many ask regretfully as they leave the entrance of the house—in itself a picture: up four wooden steps to a stage with two small tables and seats—where such is to be found; others, perhaps just arrived, feast their eyes on the view over the Rauma towards the Drönningen and Biskop, in Isterdal; while others, again, anxiously watch for the first peep of the Romsdal Horn. Over the door and by the side clusters generally a glorious honeysuckle, which grows most profusely, and adds much to the picturesqueness. Inside, to the left, is the salle à manger, out of which leads a small room, which is, I believe, now generally left for any ladies stopping in the house. Not much monotony is there, but many delightful evenings, with a little music, and sometimes an exceedingly good rendering of Mendelssohn, Schumann, Offenbach, or even the severe but sterling Beethoven.

One evening, after a very earnest attempt on the part of our coterie to sing some Norwegian songs by Kjerulf, it was discovered that amongst those listening outside was the brother of the composer, Professor Kjerulf, now of the Geological chair at Christiania. He expressed himself as being highly gratified with the English appreciation of his brother’s undoubted talent. All this musician’s work has great individuality and crispness, and his airs always “go” well. Hear his “Brudefærden.”

The previous woodcut shows the north side of the house and farm-buildings. The stabur, or provision-house, is there, with the bell above. This bell is rung regularly for the farm labourers to come in, as they are always fed by the bönder, and the meals, though very simple, seem frequent. It was at this good hostelry that Lady Di Beauclerc stopped and described the French count who was in search of good “chase” of reindeer there, and the lady whose pursuit was le saumon, and who had a fly of the same colour as her costume. One becomes imperceptibly very curiously impressed by an association of ideas. Several people have mentioned that they felt rather surprised that they had never seen the count with his French hunting horn, nor the lady. There is still an idea that their ghosts linger about the spot, waiting, we suppose, for the reindeer and the salmon to come to them. The friend who was so kindly received here some twenty years ago was offered a little fishing by Herr Landmark. A portion of the river Rauma runs in front under the house, and the good sport made the happy fisherman rabid for life on salmon: he has been to Norway almost every year since, and taken many with him.

A few miles above Aak, leaving the sand plateau behind, we enter the Romsdal valley proper, with the Romsdal Horn rearing its grand peak on the left. The Troltinderne, or the Witches, is one of the most remarkable groups of fantastically jagged rocks in Norway, ever varying in effect, the mist wreathing and most delicately veiling or throwing a film over them, which makes them more gigantic and weird than ever. The outline of the peaks when clear is very serrated indeed, and with the Northern people a fair share of superstition attaches to them. These two elements have brought about the tradition that the series of aiguilles represent a wedding party going to the church. First, the spilleman (fiddler), then the kanderman (best man) with a tankard; the next large peak is the priest; then come two peaks, turning away as it were one from another: these were the unhappy bride and bridegroom, who foolishly and injudiciously quarrelled. Next come the father and mother. But the most curious character yet remains. By the side of a sharp point is a mass of rock, which certainly does look very much like a figure: this is the disconsolate lover, who, seeing that the bride and bridegroom had already quarrelled, makes a frantic rush to cut in and carry off the lady. This must have been the precise moment when they were all turned into stone, and so they remain, a warning to all frequenters of the valley. That the peasants believe in spirits and “little people” living on the fjeld, even in this year of grace, cannot be denied, as they say they do; but why they should think that these little people have blue heads I cannot imagine.

Exactly opposite to the Romsdal Horn, on the other side of the valley, is an immense couloir, originally an enormous landslip, leaving the perpendicular sides of the Troltinderne to gradually crumble and fall down, the finer stuff and débris filling up the interstices between the bigger rocks. After frost the thunder of the falling rocks and stones into this terrific shoot will last as long as thirty seconds, and the nightfalls create constant alarm to new-corners; whereas the elve-wakker, or river-keeper, merely remarks, “The old ladies are quarrelling,” or “The old ladies have finished aftenmad and are throwing out the bones.” Still, this brings about a new range of thought to a person who has never observed portions of the earth’s surface in motion. After seeing a huge rock, the size of a stucco-faced villa, hop down the side of a mountain, there arise a certain impressiveness and grandeur unknown before. About once a year there is an important landslip in Norway—hardly more. Most of the loose rocks have their regular grooves, and the peasants know how to avoid them; still, as the vast country is so sparsely inhabited, many must occur which do not “get into the papers.” A curious instance of the effect of a small landslip occurred in this valley to an old man personally known to us. A slip came down behind his house, of good timber stuff, and fortunately stopped just short of it. He and his wife decided to leave, and go to live at a place called Aalesund; they did so for a twelvemonth, after which time they became home-sick, and, chancing all further damage, returned to the old house, where they were living very happily last year. In another part a description will be given of an important steen-skreed—a scene of terrible destruction and considerable interest.

The centre of the valley has two or three good farms, highly productive for Norway, and presenting a very curious appearance to a foreigner when the corn is cut, as the sheaves are stuck upon a pole, sometimes five, sometimes ten, with the head facing the sun, and, as the sun works round, the heads of corn are kept turned to it, so as to get the greatest amount of heat, which is an advantage when the peasants arrive at the happy time for carrying their corn, as they have only to pull up the stakes with the five or ten sheaves on them, and they are easily carried. Whilst on the subject of corn-drying, it is a most remarkable thing that during the fine weather of the short Norwegian summer the wind helps materially by blowing what the natives call a sol-gang: the wind goes round with the sun all day, beginning to blow from the east in the morning, clue south at mid-day, and north-west in the evening.

Having paid especial notice to the Trols, we must turn to the Horn, which rises on the left side: 4,000 feet is the height of it, and it goes sheer up out of the valley; in fact, one morning, as we were sitting by the river, a carriole came hurrying by, and a voice from it inquired, “Where’s the Horn?” The old fisherman with me stared at the flying folk in search of information, and pointed straight up over our heads. The summit has never been reached yet, either by the Government engineers who surveyed the country, or by Alpine men, who have all given up the Aiguille Dru as hopeless, or by captive balloon, which has been proposed. A very likely party from a yacht made a bold attempt at it, but even some of these looked upon it as a hopeless case, from the fact that there is a lean-to on a huge shoulder on the north-west side. Perhaps the most beautiful time of all to see this wild valley is after the first sprinkling of snow, when the tops are powdered, which happens when the “iron days” come, the first snow falling about August 20th. After a little sharp frost the weather recovers from its first shudder, but by the 29th of September all is snow again down to the river. Patches of old snow are always lying in the valley, even during the hottest summer, but much more in the couloir; and, from the immense scale of everything here, the real quantity is most difficult to appreciate.

At the foot of this Romsdal Horn is the Rauma itself, the first fall caused by the rocks thrown down when the couloir was originally formed; and between the river and the base of the Horn runs the road through the valley to Gudbransdalen. There are a few sheep here in the advanced farms, and these, like all animals in Norge, are wonderfully docile. For some time we heard sounds of music at a distance, but could never discover either the music or the musician, until one day a boy was found playing in a barn, or laave, on a goat’s horn with six holes in it, and with a reed mouthpiece. The sound is quaint. This instrument was intended and used for the amusement of the sheep, and the boy’s mission was to play to them on it. The sheep and goats here always follow instead of being driven; and, like all other animals in this country, they are remarkably tame, never exhibiting the least signs of fear. This is another pleasant feature resulting from the kindliness of the people and their domestic happiness. Long may both remain to them!

The sight of the square-sailed craft with one mast and a bold rampant black stem at once shuts out all intrusive thoughts of civilisation, for these same vessels—relics of very old days—are seldom seen anywhere save on the wild shores of Heligoland, working down to Bergen, or still farther south round by the coast, and up to the town of Christiania. These craft are mostly from the north of Trondhjem: their lines are very fine indeed forward, the after part, with quarter-deck, forming a kind of citadel for the captain. As these vessels come from the coast opposite to the Lofoden, they are closely allied with the fishery of that district—the great national fishing ground of Norway, to which rushes every able-bodied fisherman from Bergen northwards as far as the North Cape. In the month of February the fish are in force—principally early arrivals; and ultimately such immense quantities are gathered together that tradition has handed down to us as a fact that there are times when a deep-sea line will hardly sink through them. Lines and nets are both worked with the greatest system. The take is generally tremendous, and the results lucrative. The fish are cured as stock-fish until April, when they are split, salted, and dried on the rocks like Scotch cod. It is a simple process to gut and hang up these cod-fish two and two across poles; not even salt is used—nothing but the sea breezes, sun, and wind. Many years ago the takes were even more enormous than at present, amounting to as much as 16,000,000 fish, or 8,000 tons dried, to say nothing of the cod-liver oil and roe; but when we consider that these fish are gradually dispersed over Europe, even 8,000 tons would soon go during the period of a continental Lent. About April most of the fishers return home, and are ready for any chance of herrings, which are as great a blessing to the Norwegians as to the Scotch and Irish.

There was a very striking instance of an old custom in one of the outlying fjords, where the fashion of bygone centuries is still faithfully kept up. At the entrance of the fjord is a boat, in which is stationed the watcher, with a horn or bugle. As soon as the herrings are descried the watcher, or rather the look-out, stands up in the bow of the boat and sounds his horn. The notes are quickly caught by the anxious longing ears on the beach, the boats put off, and soon the herrings feel that they are “fish out of water,” and will ere long be adding much to the happiness and support of all the bönder and agricultural peasantry of the neighbourhood.

Near our herring scene was a well-to-do but scattered hamlet, for it could scarcely be called a village; and, having visited some of the good people, who were much interested in the foreigners—N.B., it is a curious sensation when it first dawns upon the mind of an Englishman that he is a regular foreigner in the eyes of others—we came to the conclusion that, all in all, the Norwegian bönder, as a class, are more comfortably provided with the good things of this world than any other of similar position. Their outdoor life brings sound health; they work hard, especially the women; and their reward is abundance. Their farms produce all they require to eat, drink, and even wear. In the fine weather they work for internal comforts; in the bad winter weather they provide for external wants in the form of carding, combing, and weaving in their houses, and making vadmel, or homespun—a material in which “shoddy” is unknown, and for which “everlasting wear” is the best name. They have their ponies, their boats, a wholesome love of God, and veneration for true, practical religion. Their houses are of their own building—sound, solid, and warm. There is no money greed amongst them, until spoilt by tasting the fruit of the tree of civilisation, and then the reaction is all the worse. Another great blessing that remains to them is, that there is no tendency to extravagance, no wish to launch out in competition with their neighbour. A peaceful, contented, simple life seems to them the summum bonum: this they possess, and are careful not to part with. Until savings-banks were introduced they really had no use for money, and when they acquired silver, instead of investing it, they had something new made of it, in this respect strongly resembling the old Dutch farmers, who were sometimes quite at a loss to know what they should have made next. The latter, indeed, went so far as to have candle-boxes, as well as other domestic utensils, of silver. Again, Norwegian servants are in good relationship with their masters and mistresses: much kindly feeling exists, coupled with a sense of duty and a proper regard for relative position, which is never forgotten.

We have mentioned the “home-madeness” of everything in a Norwegian farmer’s house; but we have yet to refer to the woodwork supply, namely, sledges, agricultural implements, stolkjærs, rakes, scythe handles, carrioles, tankards, teenas (written tine), butter-boxes, and bedsteads. These last-mentioned items are the worst things produced in the country. The beds are all too short—never are they long enough. It seems as if the Norwegian has not quite grown out of the idea that in sleep the body should be bent up with the knees to the chin, and in the Isle of Skye tradition assigns to the Norsemen certain stone graves composed of nearly square slabs. The only way in which a tall traveller in Norway can avoid pushing his feet through the footboard is by bending his body up. The best carrioles are built at Drammen and Christiania, but they are advanced specimens, with springs; and springs are considered a little foppish, as well as liable to break, length of shaft being all the spring required. When these vehicles have to go on to steamers or large boats—a very frequent necessity, as the whole seaboard is constantly incised by fjords and arms of the sea—it is usual to take off the wheels, when the body is soon removed. Where rivers have to be crossed, and a small boat only can be procured, the best way is to bring the latter side on to the carriole, place a plank with one end on terra firma, and the other on the gunwale of the boat, where the wheel of the carriole nearest to the shore should ultimately go. The object of this is to run the wheel along on this plank to ship the carriole in the boat. This done, there is still a difficult part to be performed: the river has to be crossed, and if once the balance is lost, all is over. The rush of the river is very strong in parts, but even a kind of race makes no difference. A pull on one side, then a shoot and a pull on the other, and smooth water is reached, safety insured, and the carriole is over. Sometimes a river may be forded, but great care should be taken, as the want of local knowledge may in a moment cause a loss of life, or at all events a ducking.

We were once fording a river when Old Kyle, our blind dog, was travelling very comfortably in a dog-bag, or hund sac, under the carriole. The excitement and novelty of the ford made us forget our old pet, and the first hint we had of his discomfort was the sorry sight of the dog vainly endeavouring to stem the current, while the only way of recovering him was by wading back. The carriole is used for everything; even the post-carrier is a carriole-driver, and is provided with a huge leather bag or portmanteau, with an iron rod running through it, and padlocked at the end. The postman carries a revolver, more as a staff of office or official status than anything else, for no one ever hears of such a thing as a robbery in this part of the world. The last few years have brought about a very great facility of communication in Norway, for which all travellers are much indebted to the energy of the Government. One can telegraph to any part of Norway for tenpence, and the stations are numerous—surprisingly so, when the extent of country and sparseness of population are considered; and for English travellers the convenience is very great, because almost all the telegraph-station masters speak and write English well.