TRAVELLING in Norway is principally carried on by carriole, row boat, and steamer. From the immense extent of seaboard the latter mode has naturally been much practised and developed, more especially as the Government has not only countenanced it, but encouraged it in every possible way. Our route in this excursion involves the adoption of this mode of conveyance, and we leave Bergen, with all its interesting monuments, associations, costumes, and commercial interests, to wend our way up the coast to the north. Starting from the port, with its varieties of shipping from all parts of Europe, its Nordlander jægts always prominent, its churches standing well out from the moist haze and smoke of the city, a scene at all times picturesque, we soon settle down for steamboat travelling. On this occasion there was a very unusual bustle at the mouth of the port, a fresh breeze was blowing, and a small schooner yacht was being towed out for a trial trip. From the amount of bunting and excitement, not only on board the yacht, but on shore and on our steamer, this was evidently a great event. With sails all ready to be hoisted as soon as the hawser was let go, one would imagine that chase was about to be given to a smuggler, or that a Viking had appeared in the offing. It was, however, only for a sail, and our little coast steamer was soon away by herself, ploughing in loneliness through the fjord. And now for the healthy pleasant delights of sea-coast trips.

With our luggage quietly stowed awaiting our bidding, and a calm satisfaction that the steamer was well found, our meals punctual and plenteous, our captain well up to his work, the steward anxious to take care of us, and our travelling companions likely to be agreeable—the Norwegians being kindly to strangers who are courteous to them—there is but one drawback to the steamer work. It occurs in the fore part of the vessel, and is occasioned thus. A skaal (health) for Gamle Norge is a very good thing and a noble sentiment, but if too often repeated, with the usual accompaniments, it becomes offensive. The peasants come on board at the numerous stations, and can procure every variety of spirit which is unobtainable on shore. They therefore make the most of their opportunity, and soon the demon of our own land—inebriation—appears, bringing discomfort to the recipient, disgust and misery to his surroundings, and finally a besotted and wrecked old age; for, although strong constitutions may resist its inroads for a time, they must inevitably succumb at last, and pay the penalty. Either the victim is quarrelsome or maudlingly stupid: the demon makes his mark in so many ways. The natural expression of the features is no more to be found; the eye loses its brightness, its sweetness is changed for heavy moistness, its telegraphic and sensitive expression has vanished; the lips, before so full of character, are no longer the exponents of subtle feeling; the hand trembles, the feet shuffle, the whole frame is limp, the muscles are flaccid, and the brain muddled to futile dreaming. If this be a curse in public, what must it be when it invades a home! Well may the wife long to see her husband freed from this evil spirit and restored to his former noble nature!

But let us turn to the feast to which nature invites us. At every moment the sea-scape changes, new peaks open to us, the clouds are massing ready to be gilded by the setting sun, and soon we have the heavens in a blaze of fiery glory and impressive grandeur. As we approach the outlying islands we find strong glacial markings, less vegetation, and the characteristics of the line of route, all up the west coast of Norway, can be carefully and comfortably studied by the most moderate sailors, as the islands keep the steamer track quite smooth, and it is only when the entrance of some large fjord is passed that any motion is felt or any rolling occurs. The villages generally nestle close to the waterside, the church in the centre, and the præstegaard close by; but a variation occurs in one village particularly: the church answers the double purpose of God’s service and the fisher’s beacon, and is placed well upon the top of the hill. Many are the excuses made by professing Christians for not going to church, but the difficulty of access to the one in question, while frequently causing the pilgrim to utter the cry of “Excelsior,” at the same time elicits the mental avowal that he would be very thankful if it were lower.

In making this passage those who are in Norway for the first time must be struck by seeing that both sides of the vessel are sometimes within three feet of the bare rocks, which descend precipitously into the sea. No wonder, then, that the old woodcuts of the sixteenth century show large rings in the face of sea rocks for the vessels to moor to.[2] One part of the coast near Steensund is most barren: the masses of rock, entirely rounded by ice in past ages, seem to be too smooth for vegetation to get a footing. The spot, however, finds favour with lobsters, which seem to thrive here, ultimately finding themselves in England, and ending their days with a garnishing of parsley. Even for lobsters, however, travelling is very expensive, for the difference between their price in England and Norway is simply astonishing.

On some parts of the west coast red deer are found, and now that these animals are scarce, it seems a pity they should be in danger of extermination. Better far would it be if the chasseur had sufficient strength of mind and self-denial to induce him to give these last of their race such a respite, or series of closed seasons, as would enable them to increase in number. One fine head came on board—a very healthy, powerful horn, and royal on both sides. The beam was much thicker than it usually is in the horns of stags killed in Scotland, and very grand in form. The haunch weighed thirty-eight pounds English, so that it must have been a “gude beastie.”

After passing the entrance of the Sogne fjord and experiencing a little rolling, we sighted the island of Alden, a very imposing mass of rock, supposed to resemble a lion’s head; and, fortunately for us, there was less mist rolling around it than usual. It would have been a sad disappointment had we only had its whereabouts suggested to us, which is the fate of many who are anxious to see it. Our wholesome little craft soon leaves Alden far behind, running up Dalsfjord to the eastward; we begin to worm our way through narrow passages, with the rocks nearer than ever to her sides; and at last we leave her to take a boat, in order that we may row up to Ousen, a lovely spot, with such garden roofs and such a farmhouse and buildings! The spot where we landed is shown in the woodcut. The river was of the most beautiful soda-water-bottle colour, the wooden buildings topped with the mountain ash in all its gala beauty of bright clusters of berries. The beams used in the construction of the houses were very old and remarkably massive, and the size of the Sea House suggests the importance of this locality as a centre for general merchandise. We arrived here about three in the morning, and the servant at the farmhouse showed us to our rooms, which had a weird ghostly appearance from their bareness, size, and height. The old staircase testified that it had once been well kept up; and then, as we looked about for some indication of date, we at last found a good specimen of a snaphance pistol of about 1625, which tallied well with the period we had already assigned to the house. We had now left the sea for a time, and after a few hours’ rest the Tentmaster-general reported everything ready for a start; and soon we were en route for Sande.

Sande is a place of sweet waters to the traveller. After rough roads, bad beds, sparse food, and occasional parasites, what a change! The probability is that a stranger would pass the comfortable-looking house, with its creepers over the porch, its well-stocked garden, English home life, and generally inviting appearance. The geniality and kindly welcome offered by the master of the house are most delightful, and every one who visits it has a strong wish to rest for awhile in such agreeable quarters. The valley is very bold and grand, and good expeditions can be made in all directions. The Paymaster-general, with honest pride, pointed out to us where, on a former visit, he had killed a fine fish, and seemed to realise the fact that, having once experienced that gratification, you can go on killing the same fish, with all its pleasant associations, for the rest of your life. But we soon had to leave this inviting spot for rougher quarters, being bound due north, to be up for August 1st and reindeer; and as time, tide, and August 1st wait for no man, we started for our next station—Nedre Vasenden, on the Jolster Vand.

On arriving there no luxuriant garden growth welcomed us. Instead of a south aspect, it was a north one. The atmosphere was changed, and we missed our beloved Sande. As it was Saturday night, we looked forward to a quiet Sunday, with church, the meeting of the peasants, and a good chance of seeing all the costumes of the district, which is wild, barren, and uncultivated. The Sunday morning was inviting, and we took the opportunity of going to the lake, at a retired spot where the mountain path came down to the water’s edge, for a quiet bathe; but no sooner were we in the water than a troop of peasant girls came slowly down the path. Confusion and dismay! Norwegians do not understand our amphibious tendencies. However, No. 1, with his characteristic retiring disposition, dived, leaving a certain disturbance of the water after his plunge, which attracted attention. Beyond this, only the smallest possible part of two heads might be seen. Now came the anxiety of wondering what the spectators would do. Would they throw stones at us, to make us run, or examine the contents of the chief’s pockets, or try on some of our garments? No; while wishing we had the epidermis of a Captain Webb the whole group suddenly laughed, and moved slowly off, evidently thinking how curious the English were in their habits. We afterwards met at the church porch.

EVERY traveller taking to pony travelling in Norway implicitly believes that there is no danger of the animal ever falling; and it is a happy and comfortable faith. The blakken are rare good animals, cream-coloured, with dark points; hog manes like hat-brushes, with white down the centre, the black being outside; and their hind legs rather zebra marked. From the first they are petted, and their intelligence and stolid kindliness requite the care of the owners. They trot well; and how they can go down a hill! As they crouch and run close to the ground they need never be handed: no “’ands” required, as the British groom would describe it. Still, exception proves the rule, and we met with an instance in this stolkjær trip.

We were going over the crest of a grand mountain road, below us a large lake, and beyond a glorious range of mountains. The deep tone of the fir forest added solemnity to the scene, and our good health and enjoyment of such company made it a happy moment. The Paymaster-general was leading—driving fast, as was his wont; for his driving was like the driving of Jehu. The Tentmaster-general was next, with a huge Norwegian sitting by his side. In a second came the transformation scene—nothing visible to the Patriarchal eye but the soles of the boots of the two persons in the stolkjær, the expanse of the huge Norwegian foot forming a contrast to the small neat extremity of the Tentmaster, who was shot out with great velocity, and stunned by his unavoidable concussion with the earth. We laid him in the heather by the side of the road, anxious for his recovery. Happily he soon came round, but was much shaken; it was, therefore, necessary to proceed very gently to avoid further shaking, and we purposed halting for a day or two, until we could get the advice of a doctor. It assumes the form of real travel when doctors are two days distant or more, and you carry your own lint and medicine. Thankful were we to see the return of the old smile on the Tentmaster’s face, and to hear from his own lips the welcome bulletin, “I am better.” The pony was not hurt, while the big Norwegian had a skaal of whiskey, and, we fancied, was ready to be thrown out again to obtain a second remedy. Soon afterwards we arrived at Jolster Vand by Nedre Vasenden.

The station here is a huge—may we say dreary—wooden house. The next morning, however, brought its joys and happy combination of circumstances: the invalid was much better, the bright July morning perfect; there was service at the annex kirk along the vand, or lake; and we purposed going by boat with some peasants, and a most enjoyable row it was. As we neared the church we found many boats already arrived, and, invited by the loveliness of the morning, the beauties of Jolster had congregated and were looking their best. Many stolkjærs were standing round the walls of the churchyard, and the ponies were enjoying themselves, nibbling the short grass as far round as their tether would allow them. There were some quaint costumes. These good church-going peasantry arrive early; and, as many dwell so far apart, and seldom meet except on these occasions or on some special business, we cannot be surprised to find that, instead of opening the meeting with prayer, the practice on the part of the men is to indulge in a little worldly talk before church, while the girls, according to custom, complete their toilettes from the contents of their tines, or travelling boxes, the said contents being a mixture of old silver brooches, silk handkerchiefs, and fladbrod: in some cases the butter is carried separately in a small tine. One incident struck us very forcibly—the kindly interest the girls took in the neatness and finish of each other’s dress. Only fancy three nice-looking piger, or girls, sitting one behind the other, each plaiting the hair of the girl in front of her. What absence of mystery as to capillary arrangements! No “Lady Audley’s Secret” (which Punch said was her back hair). No; each girl wished her friend to look her best, and carefully adjusted a string here or a brooch elsewhere, for there were no looking-glasses about. Then there were several other objects of interest. The black caps of the Jolster women are very curious, with a little white showing all round the edge. The covering up or hiding of the hair has a very mediæval appearance, but the nice little stand-up collars give a more modern character to the neck. The plaiting of their homespun dresses is very close indeed.

On this occasion there were two or three knots of people, suggestive of something of unusual interest; and we found the centre of each to be a little baby brought to be christened, surrounded by admiring relatives. Such babies! such funny little chrysalis-looking pets, swaddled and rolled up! the swaddling-bands being of many colours, the more brilliant the better—red, white, green, and crimson—with the cross frequently introduced, and generally so worked as to come uppermost in the band. The swaddling process seems much the same as in Brittany, where a ring is sometimes fastened at the back by which to hang the child up while the mother goes to work. No one could have seen this peaceful Sunday morning without being struck with the beautifully clean appearance of every one there—the homespun (vadmel) looked so sound, and so likely to wear well; the old silver ornaments so respectable and heirloomy. Of course on week-days, when the women are seen in the roughest of their outdoor life, it would be unreasonable to expect to find them as neat and prim as on Sunday. What a contrast, too, did this glorious sunshine and joyous meeting present to the bleak dark days of winter, when perhaps a hundred and fifty pairs of snow shoes, eight feet long, are set up round the church, waiting their owners’ bidding to start home!

After this cheerful interlude we went on to the next station—if such it could be called. We intended making a meal there, and rather looked forward to it; but nothing, not a single thing, could be had. We therefore made a fire, and into a black pot put some portable soup, with slices of Brand’s gravy-looking biscuits. Whilst the Tentmaster tried to do the soup the Patriarch in vain sought a wooden spoon; not even that was to be got; so the soup was stirred and tasted with a birch twig. But he made a discovery: whilst spoon-hunting in a drawer, which would only partly open, he saw the end of a mutton bone; perseverance was rewarded, the drawer was opened; but the result worse than a blank, for the shoulder-blade bone of mutton was bare, save the green fluffy mould in which it was mantled. Some people may say, “Not so bad; soup and biscuit, biscuit and soup, is a change.” Still, in long journeys with stolkjærs over rough ground, you can form no idea how shaky and restless it becomes. Moral: always carry a spoon, and, above all things, never start anywhere without a nosebag with plenty in it.

This Nordfjord district is one of special interest now, as recent discoveries have corroborated the old traditions of its close association with the Viking period—a period bearing so powerfully on our own national character, that the subject should be fully investigated, and the extant remains of the Sea Kings’ real life placed carefully before us. For the nonce it will suffice to refer to one particular tumulus, recently discovered and opened in Nordfjord. As Denmark rejoices in, and is much indebted to, the archæological enthusiasm, deep research, and sound knowledge of Professor Worsaae, so Norway is fortunate in having the devotion of M. Lorange, who not only tries to lay these precious earthbound relics before us, but actually rescues them for our benefit and that of posterity; not only interests the dry antiquarian and connoisseur, but in a far larger way draws more closely together the bonds of union and interest between nations. It is remarkable that a Roman emperor was the means of developing the sea powers of the Scandinavians rather than they themselves; for only recently some interesting coins of Marcus Aurelius have been found in a tumulus in Denmark.

The contents of the Nordfjord tumulus were as follows:—Boat with iron rivets twenty-five mètres long; a bit; fifty-four bosses of shields, or umbos; stirrup; a drinking bowl of immense interest, and well enamelled; sword, with silver work; key of treasure chest, spear head, bone comb inlaid with colour, gold ring, dice, arrows, deck marbles, beads and amulets, bones of horse and kid, belt of bronze, and belt-knife.

Having heard what tradition says about the funeral rites of the great ones, the contents of this tumulus, as well as the numismatic discoveries in Denmark, are especially interesting, as corroborative of history. We are much indebted to pagan customs and rites for the valuable materials brought to light in connection with this period. With Odin for their Mars, or god of war, and Thor for their god of air and storm, they believed that their mighty men and heroes would pass to Walhalla, and there enjoy the future in the same way, but more perfectly, that they enjoyed themselves here upon earth—strong symptoms of their belief in the resurrection of the body. For this purpose they buried with the defunct all his implements of war and chase; the horse was killed and placed in readiness, and, should he be pleased to row, his boat was there too. In the Nordfjord case the bowl is especially fine. Notice the delicate work in the base of it: in the woodcut the upper subject is the bottom of the bowl. The enamel is very minute; the “chequer” design, one might say, very Scotch. The enamel is only on the base of the bowl; the body is of bronze, and the upper rim is ornamented by three heads, one of which is shown in the centre of the illustration. This is drawn full size, and the base of the bowl one quarter size.

The two buttons are of single wire, very rudely but cleverly arranged, with shanks not likely to be pulled away from the body. These are of gold.

The key of the treasure chest would suggest that many good things had been stored therein. Still the list is so complete that we could hardly expect more items than those recorded.

The ivory or bone comb is a fine specimen, and the coloured work well preserved.

The dice also are rather curious, as being a little longer than quite square.

One of the most remarkable features, however, in the contents of this tumulus is a set of bone marbles about one inch in diameter. The sphere or marble is flat at the bottom, and has a small hole in it. These marbles were used by men who spent their lives in ships, and were played with on deck, the flat base being intended to keep them steady, while the holes at the bottom, fitting on to small pegs in the deck or board, prevented them from sliding as the vessel lurched. There was a most interesting discussion on this matter at the Society of Arts. Deck marbles were a novelty. Professor Bryce suggested that deck draughts would be a solution of the difficulty; and after referring to the antiquity of the game of draughts and the modes of playing, Professor Maguierson gave a dissertation on the ancient game of “merelles,” known in Iceland and Scandinavia as “mylla;” and even in the present day the shepherds and boys on our South Downs cut the same pattern in the close turf, and play the same game. We therefore come to the conclusion that these bone treasures had been used on board the vessels of the mighty Sea Kings of old, the little pegs, as just observed, preventing their slipping, and also the hero from losing his temper and using “pure Saxon.” The same precaution is in these days applied to railway chessmen, and also those intended for use on shipboard, each figure having its peg for safety and security. “Nothing new under the sun,” said the wise man, and true is it.

Eleven o’clock at night, four thousand feet above the sea, we find ourselves at the top of the pass, just above Udvig, looking over Nordfjord. After a long day, and a very hard one, pleasantly tired, we enjoy the scene before us: peace and tranquillity, with snow poles all along to suggest what winter made it. The happy moment has arrived to commence the descent. “Half the pleasure is in the anticipation,” has often been remarked: we all thought this about half-way down this precipitous descent in the twilight. The torrent path seemed filled with boulders, the ponies slid, the bipeds stumbled, and by the time we were half-way down we had no knees left. This is one of the roughest ascents and descents in Norway, and is hardly practicable for any kind of carriage: still it is one of the things to be done, and one of the charms of the country. Lazy people lose much of the grand scenery with which it abounds. Steady going tells best, and those who try to spurt early in the day are much the worse for it afterwards. How steadily an old Swiss guide starts off, and keeps at his pace, on and on! That is the only way to last. By this time we see a flickering light down below: we long for it, and soon arrive, but very late—about one o’clock a.m. We knock at the door of the station, which is really a private house, like that at Aurjhem, but selected by the Government to facilitate the wanderings of travellers. We are therefore the more indebted for the kind welcome we receive. Down comes the young son Jules, who immediately recognises our Tentmaster-general. Soon we have some refreshment; and not long afterwards Master Jules says, “Jeg schal go seng” (“I shall go to bed”). So said all of us—and we went.

In the morning we were up early. A bathe in the fjord was our first thought, although the big stones are much against it, and the seaweed spoils it: the only way is to take a header out of the boat. After breakfast we espied a novelty in water travel: a large birch bough was seen approaching, which we soon discerned to be the postman availing himself of a fair wind after the usual custom here, a sail being too dangerous even with sheet in hand. The original and simple practice of cutting a large birch bough, and putting it in the bow of the boat, serves the purpose better, the fresh foliage holding the light air, and helping very materially the rower, who is frequently, as in the present case, of the gentler sex, but very strong. The postman sits complacently in the stern of the boat, with his bugle just announcing his arrival, and rousing up the inhabitants of the quiet village of Udvig. The bag is not large, but most important in appearance—a huge leathern mass, locked, barred, and bolted. The boat speedily comes to land, and the well-known sound and scrape are heard. The bag is soon out, and the postman also: the post has arrived at Udvig.

We rowed out on the fjord to look up at the pass we had come down so early in the morning; the view was very grand, backed by the higher ranges of the Justedal snow. We had next to visit one spot which seemed a great favourite with the host and hostess, and therefore started off, and soon reached a position, having followed a strong stream or burn which came above a saw-mill, looking over which the whole fjord lay at our feet, the mountains on the other side looming stupendously.

Returning, we visited the church and lych gate (see p. 82), the latter narrower and higher than usual. When we regained our station a new phase of life awaited and burst upon us. An invitation to a dance! It was somebody’s birthday—the nineteenth—a young visitor from Stockholm. Would we join in the festivities? We were delighted to have the opportunity of visiting a family on such an occasion; but the dancing element alarmed us when we thought of our rough boots and our walk down, we being rather particular, and knowing what boots should be. What was to be done? We shall see.

In the meantime two boats were watched with much interest: one contained the domine and family, the other some well-to-do friends. The hearty welcome they received was beautiful; their sweet simplicity and genuine affection were charming, and certainly will never be forgotten by us, their visitors. Soon after the arrival the repast or dinner was announced, and the real Norwegian customs were well placed before us. After one course the master and lady of the house waited on us, every guest getting a knife and fork; and at the end of each we went and shook hands with the host and hostess, the children kissing their parents.[3] After the fish and various solids we adjourned to another room for fruit, patisserie, coffee, and, not an unwise thing in Norway, a cigar. The next event was to adjourn to the garden to see a glorious sunset over the fjord, and to finish the cigar. During this agreeable part of the evening the youthful Jules, with his nice fair face, came and asked if the “English gentlemen would come and play with the girls in the garden.” The Patriarch of our party sent his two young bachelor companions, who readily accepted the invitation with a spontaneous “Oh jag!” Report says the amusements in the garden were a combination of hide-and-seek, Tom Tiddler’s ground, and prisoner’s base. Anyhow they all seemed to have enjoyed them; in fact, the Patriarch often regretted afterwards he did not join the youthful throng instead of remaining with the seniors. Still there was much festivity in store, and the Patriarch took kindly to the dance, which included schottisches, mazourkas, and valses. This brings us to the boot question. The dance commenced. The evening began merrily. The piano (for there was a piano, and a good one, from Christiania) was in tune, and all were thoroughly enjoying themselves, when attention was drawn to one dancer in particular. Sage as an owl, how silently this youthful Achilles glided! How softly yet firmly he trod the polished boards, for no juniper tips were scattered that evening on the floor! Why was it? The Paymaster-general, equal to the occasion, was dancing in goloshes! O shades of Scandinavian gods! O Thor and Odin! that this should be the result of civilisation in Kjære Gamle Norge!

Another great feature in the evening was the singing and the national music—and how we did enjoy it! Need we say how they sang, and we tried to sing, “The Hardanger,” by H. Kjerulf, and the chorus song of “Norsk Sjømandssang,” by Grieg, which goes with such grand emphasis; and the light tripping sweetness of “Ingrids Vise,” also by Kjerulf, with its chorus of “Over Lynget, over Lynget?”[4] Another, specially bright and cheery, touched the Patriarch very deeply; he is often heard still humming this air “without words,” which the merry dancer described as being all about some beautiful creature with large blue eyes and golden hair. If she had but been with us to have danced with the goloshes, what would she have thought?

It was a delightful opportunity for us to see the vie intime of a nice family in Norway. The welcome was most cordial; and thankful were we to find ourselves unexpectedly in a spot which every one tried to make us feel to be our home. Long may Herr Hammer, Madame Hammer, and their kindly family enjoy health and prosperity! and, might we say, continue their kindness and attention to those who go to Udvig?—for it seems a perfect pleasure to them to do so.

There was a disinclination to hurry from Udvig in spite of the fine trip before us, for it is a lovely row up the Nordfjord. The Tentmaster-general seemed loath to leave, he was so pleased with Jules; he thought he had grown—had so improved; and he determined on several good openings for him in London. The Paymaster-general had evidently made a great impression, and no wonder, with the happy combination of youth, a petite, petted dark moustache, and enthusiastic forehead and goloshes, to say nothing of really good firework execution on the Christiania piano. We were horrified afterwards to find that all this had induced the young ladies to ask him to write all our names on a pane of glass. In a weak moment he yielded; but why did he? How often have complaints been made by ourselves of the creatures who carved and wrote names! There were, perhaps, extenuating circumstances in this case. So farewell to Udvig and its pleasant associations.

And now for a start up the Nordfjord to Faleidet. Such a good boat was supplied by Herr Hammer! How we enjoyed it, looking forward to our drive from Faleidet! We soon came upon a number of boats fishing for lyth, a fish caught in large numbers, easily taken, readily consumed: there were a great many boats, and they fish with a deep-sea single line, feeling the bite over the forefinger, as in Scotland. We wanted much to have seen some of the red sea-fish taken, which are much larger than the mullet, but redder in tone and of splendid colour: a noble fish to look at when caught, but poor on table.

Faleidet is a good station, beautifully clean, and well situated over the water. Here we were much interested in specimens of copper ore, on the richness of which our native held forth most fluently. The ore was decidedly good, and I think in his own mind the Tentmaster had promoted a company, and probably thought of the youthful Jules as assistant secretary and foreign correspondent. No time was to be lost, so we hastened to our stolkjærs, but hardly had we reached the top of the hill when the Patriarch’s gimlet eye saw a long birch horn near a shed by the roadside. This could not be resisted. “Halt!” was the word, whilst the others went on. They soon pulled up, for the too-tooing was noisy, if deficient in harmony; still there was a certain satisfaction in the fact that one had elicited sound from a long birch horn, as used by the good people of Faleidet, inferior as these horns are in force to steam fog-horns, as now used at the Foreland, or the steamboat whistle which skewers the tympanum of every traveller at every stopping place, be it where it may. There is a great charm in all these old-fashioned ways of doing things. Again the girls call to their cows, singing to them in very sweet strains, and the cows follow them. It is no question of a subtle tin-tack looking them up, which, like the county of Buckingham, runs into Oxon and Herts. The whole treatment of animals in Norway is a good example: the kindness is consistent and the care unceasing. The early training of the children has much to do with this; at all events the youthful impressions and the influence of the parents have never lost one iota of good.

The Nordfjord is a great inlet of the sea which runs up an immense distance, and greatly favoured the Viking tendencies. Many fine remains have been discovered, and the contents of one tumulus in particular, now carefully preserved in the museum at Bergen, have been already laid before the reader.

LEAVING the Nordfjord and passing through much that is grand, we start from Faleidet, and when we arrive at Haugen have a glorious view of the Horningdals Vand. Our hopes are buoyant, for it is a “fast” station; and our appetites are good. What natural beauty around us! To be happy, however, requires a combination that is seldom realised. In this case one thing was wanting, and to travellers such as ourselves it was a most important item—namely, food. The station was fair to view. On the stone steps young children were playing; and the numerous family were nursing each other—rollicking, chubby-faced, and unwashed: for Norwegian children they were merry. In the road in front of the house was standing a gaunt figure in knee-breeches and stockings; and, with his braces hauling on to the short waist, his long hair, and his straggling beard, he made a good type of what he really was—a slayer of bears. Above the entrance, over the merry group of children, were two bears’ skulls—the triumph, joy, and pride of the slayer. Being short of provisions, we soon went on a voyage of discovery, and investigated the interior; but what a blank it proved! The fast station folk knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing. “A cradle” of good carved wood, a bed in the corner of the room, and a fireplace seemed to be all in this homestead. The only fladbrod we could procure was of that unwelcome class prepared for travelling, which means that it is flabby and tough enough to be rolled up and folded without breaking. When the practical reader thinks of the shaking, jolting, convulsive jerking action of stolkjærs, and even carrioles, no wonder this food is left rather doughy for its journey. Happy the man who, when he meets with this material, can set it up on end! Dry it to the oat-cake condition, then it is good indeed—very good. Still we made the best of it, and came to the conclusion that one of the charms of travel is the variety of situation; and then, after all, with pleasant companions, anything short of bad accidents is only the kind of thing which the true traveller must expect, and almost seeks. So we looked forward to the next good meal we could get, but which must be very late in the day.

Some one suggested the advisability of smoking down our appetites. That was declined as injudicious, and we longed to reach Hellesylt. The second stage on, near Haugen, we saw a wonderful peak. Some idea of its towering grandeur may be formed by setting its printed name on end. It has no end of a name: here it is—Horningdalskrakken. What a pity one cannot have time to “do” all these peaks, this one especially, isolated as it is, and commanding a most interesting range, with so many fjords at its feet, and the Hjørrendfjord and its shriven peaks bristling below! In these days of express trains, fish torpedoes going twenty knots an hour, telegrams, and instantaneous photographs, people will not give sufficient time to do anything with steady enjoyment. Skurry and scuttle are too prominent by far.

As we approach Hellesylt the mountains become higher, more bluff, their formation more tortuous, and we anxiously begin to look out for our descent to the station—town one cannot call it; in fact, hardly a village. Arrived at the top of the pass, with the river dashing and splashing, the zigzag of the road is like patent cucumber scissors—twenty zigzags or more. At one’s feet lie the Storfjord, the Geiranger district, and Søndmur. Of course there is the usual church, most prominently posted, with a good station, to welcome those who escape from Haugen’s natural grandeur to the stomachic comfort of Hellesylt. What a good meal we all thought supper was that night! It was not the mere pleasure of going in for a meal, but we had felt the want of it, and now were thankful to enjoy thoroughly the good cheer before us. There are very few parts of Norway which exceed the grandeur of the neighbourhood of this place. The Storfjord is immensely grand, but the Geiranger is a climax. The steamer from Hellesylt to Aalesund goes down the Storfjord, affording a great variety of scenery, with considerable comfort to passengers, as the vessels are well served; and in this case the steamer has a captain known to all who have travelled here, and always remembered with the most pleasing associations. Captain Dahl has done much for this district, and has opened up the unparalleled Geiranger fjord. Are not his good qualities recognised and noticed throughout Norway by ladies? Having said so much, we hope to visit Geiranger again under the captain’s kind care.

At Hellesylt we all noticed a prevalence of brass-mounted belts among the men. Norwegian belts have invaded England and taken it by storm, from the luxurious productions of a Thornhill, regardless of price, to the other extreme, the Birmingham wholesale harum-scarum article, which loses its gloss in a few hours. The Norwegian belt is a national characteristic, adopted by both sexes, being worn on all occasions and for various purposes. An instance occurred when two were used during a trip to keep on a linseed poultice; but this was a modern innovation.

We were up early indeed the morning after arrival at Hellesylt. What a morning! Hardly a breath as the steamer lay at the little pier waiting for us. We had arranged with Captain Dahl to go up the Geiranger as far as Maraak, so as to pass the glorious fall of the “Seven Sisters,” and see it in all its beauty. We were very fortunate in all the circumstances connected with this visit—weather fine, scenery grand, cicerone full of enthusiasm and information, companions reliable, food, after Haugen, one may say “good, plentiful and good.” The characteristic features of this Geiranger, which has only been known to travellers during the last few years, are the extremely precipitous façade of rocks that enclose it, the paucity of landing places, and its beautiful fall, the Seven Sisters. We arrived at the foot of it about six o’clock a.m., and, as the sun was well to the eastward, the effect was fairylike—the prismatic rays seemed to pervade the base of the fall. The Seven Sisters come over and take their first flight some two thousand feet above the fjord, and the streams, seven in number, according to the pressure of melted snow above, combine and separate, lose themselves in spray and spoondrift, and then collect again from the dripping face of the rock, and finally the whole base is “gauzed,” so to speak, with the dash of mist and the prismatic rays called by sailors “blossoms”—really portions of rainbows. We wanted to linger over the beauty of this spot—such delicacy of form, as the streams shot forth some of the rocket jets, losing themselves for a time, and then collecting with renewed energy for the final dash into the fjord; but at last even Captain Dahl goes ahead, and we steam on for Maraak, at the end of the fjord. Opposite to the falls we see a relic of old Scandinavian paganism. Jutting from steep rocks, of two thousand or three thousand feet, above a solitary boathouse, is shown a prominent rock, called the “Pulpit,” and above that the gigantic profile of a Viking; while higher still are situated some farms, well away from modern improvements. If any one dies there during the winter the inhabitants keep the body until the snow is sufficiently melted to allow of its being brought down for conveyance to Hellesylt. It is their custom also to tether their children, for the “go-cart” conveyance of the seventeenth century, as shown in Quarles’s “Emblems,” would soon be over the edge, urging its wild career to the depths below. The very thought of such a position would be enough to frighten some people; but how happy in themselves are these poor folks in their simple belief and faith, their home love and trust! How difficult is it to consider this kind of happiness, when the same family goes on in the same position in life for three or four hundred years, in the same costume, and with the same old silver ornaments! “How bad for trade!” some would say. “What stagnation! how slow!” Yet how enviable when we have tasted the bitters of overstrained brain-work, and the furious competition of millions of people, all massed and arrayed for the daily struggle of modern times! It is from this latter that men retire for awhile to take a refresher, a change of air and circumstance becoming a matter of necessity; and so London, after a season of gaiety and rush, is left in favour of outlandish places, simple fare, and, in fact, to get away from the daily jostle of life, to be ready for the next bout.