Part 14

Before leaving the _gravested_ the grave-boards must be noted, they being so remarkable in form, so quaint, and also so Bosphoric. Sometimes a white butterfly is introduced, as typical of the soul. How different from the present association with the allegory of their transient nothingness! After the funeral we had to pay two or three visits. All the farmers wanted us to visit them—some to tell of sport, others to offer us _aqua vitæ_ and stamped cakes like the Dutch _waffles_; and when we returned to Ole Erikson Boe’s he gave me an old Norske belt as a memento of our visit, which we need hardly say is most carefully treasured.

So passed away Ingeborg, Erichsdatter of Griseth, while Ingrana remained waiting her bidding.

Isterdal is full of interest and character, with a wild river, precipitous mountains on either side, snow on the high peaks above, a rushing of waters below, hardly any track, and shut in by a façade of rock at the end of the valley; and yet it is the way from Romsdal to Valdal. Let us, therefore, explore it, and do so in two fyttes—a short carriole ride to the _sæter_ with the ladies, and beyond, high, high up, for real research without the ladies.

_Place aux dames._ We tried the short journey with two carrioles, and for an English mile or two we did pretty well, as they will go anywhere and over anything; but as we got into the scrubwood and underwood the road grew worse, the wheels going sometimes over a boulder one or two feet in height, the axle assuming an alarming angle, and the _skyd-gut_ hanging on the high side to keep the vehicle from turning over—first one side and then the other—till the fair occupants of the machine were shaken to a jelly, and would fain try to walk. Still we all persevere, and soon arrive at the meal-mill, given in the accompanying page illustration. What a retired spot for business! Who would ever think of it as a centre to draw customers and found a business—as a likely spot for a man beginning with the conventional half-crown becoming the architect of his own fortune?

The water seen here is the Ister—ever thick and muddy, and always in violent motion. What a contrast to the calm dignity of the adjacent mountains in all their graduated phases! A little above this is a shoot which brings down water to turn the mill. On our arrival the miller comes out with a quiet kind of welcome, and very kindly shows us the stones doing their share of work to bring about _fladbrod_ for the people of the valley during their summer visit: it is for the _sæter_ people they work principally.

Leaving the mill, we pass on to the denser scrub and brushwood. We had with us an old Skye terrier, full of noble traits of character—courage and endurance—but being as blind as Belisarius, and running against some of the rocks in the track, he was not only thrown on his haunches, but his nerve was shaken—that Highland nerve which is of such rare stuff. Let us immortalise our blind Norwegian canine traveller by a description. If lost, an advertisement should run thus:—“Lost, a brindled Skye terrier, answering to the name of ‘Kyle.’ Rough broken hair, broad chest, short-legged, bow-legged, middle-aged and strong, and carries his tail high. True to the core, with a head as large as a deerhound’s. Teeth to match.” The Norwegians at first thought it would be well to shoot him, but when they came to know him better he soon enlisted them all among his many ardent admirers.

Perhaps the idea may flit across the mind of some, Why bring a blind Scotch terrier into a work on Norway? This is why: old Kyle was taken that day for a young bear by a simple-minded Norwegian cow. Never were fear and fright more vividly portrayed than by the action of that animal, and of her tail especially, on the first glimpse of the brown brindled terrier. Hearing his name mentioned, he has just wagged his tail, which is quite flat, like an otter’s, and when very pleased he wags it with the flat side on to the floor to produce more sound.

By this time we are at the _sæter_, where the _piger_ have come to look after the cows until September. Having driven on to the only flat piece of grass, we unpack for lunch, when the produce of the aforesaid cows comes to our comfort in an unadulterated form, and thoroughly is the simple fare enjoyed. After lunch we visit the interior of the _sæter_, and find spinning going on steadily, a little national tune being hummed to the whirring wheel accompaniment. The weaving is done during the winter months. In the summer a little spinning is done, but only by the most industrious.

To see Isterdal the only way is to walk. Let us, therefore, continue on from the _sæter_ in the direction of the Valdal. This was done with Ole Fiva. Soon we began to ascend, for the end of the valley is precipitous, with a fine fall, the top of which must be reached before arriving at the plateau, _botten_, or _balloch_. On commencing the ascent Ole pointed out in the river below a spot where a bear had been killed; and higher up again where a bear lived, for he had seen it there. Some idea of the situation is given by the opposite woodcut, with the _aiguilles_ on the right. This is looking down Isterdal. The path was effaced the day before we passed by the descent of a quantity of rough stuff, more than sufficient to have carried us with it into the valley beneath. The _aiguilles_ are of a similar formation to the Troltinderne in Romsdal, and seem to be a nursery of trolds for future ages.

The evening glows on these pinnacles are marvellously and beautifully grand, and the transitions of hue from one to the other beyond imagination and conception. Still we work up. Ole, ignoring the slightly defined regular track, goes up really awful places, hauling himself up, and astonishing his follower and companion by displaying the most unnecessary and enviable agility. All honour to such strength and energy! By this time we had reached the plateau from which the murky Ister takes a header into the valley which lay at our feet. Once on the plateau, we could get along better over the stunted flora and bare rocks, with snow here and there, especially on the south-west side. The track is indicated by a few pieces of rock, put here and there in a pile, which being of the same formation as the rock we are walking on, the similarity of colour makes them very indistinct at times: the best way is to look out for one on the sky-line, if possible. After a long tramp we crossed the Ister again, and found it still more turbid, which was puzzling, as it seemed to come from a glacier above; but of this more anon. We worked on until we could look down Valdal, and having drunk in nature in that direction, took a little food from our wallets, and lay down for an _al fresco_ siesta on a handsome natural carpet of _fjelde reis_ and other vegetation.

After that, Ole began telling of expeditions, traditions, and excursions to the Jager’s Steen, and formally wound up with the report of a frozen lake which a hunter had seen, but which had not been visited since. Could we find it? Was the Herr inclined to go? “Most certainly.” So we started.

There is a wonderful sense of freedom, and yet of a closer commune with one’s Creator, in wandering over almost untrodden ground to admire some portion of his works that have been rarely visited by man. It is suggestive of drawing aside the veil of the tabernacle of nature; and happy is the man who derives comfort and soul strength in so doing! Ole led straight up over rocks bare and betumbled; not a symptom of vegetation; above us a glacier coming to the edge of a precipice, and the melting ice forming a fringed fall. We lay down, looking over the side on a bed of scarlet and crimson _fjelde reis_, a kind of cotoneaster. Beyond this ledge we saw the glacier imperceptibly coming on, backed in the long perspective of glacial blocks by a huge bare mass of rock, the Biskop, and the Drönningen. This was the source of the Ister. The water, some distance from the foot of the fall, passed over a soft deposit, which sullied its pristine purity right down to the sea, the “murky Ister,” thus acquiring near its origin its characteristic turbidity.

Now for a try for the unknown lake. Ole keeps on, thinking he has his bearings all right. At last, having climbed up by the side of a fall dashing down through bare rocks, came the summit, and creeping round a boulder, before us lies a lake intensely deep in colour, and full of icebergs and floes of old ice. Where we stood there was snow, with tracks of reindeer; but in places the former had melted, the _lemmings_ had been there, and the reindeer-flowers were coming up. These we eat with _fladbrod og smör_ after a time, for we could not at once settle down to a snack without paying a tribute of respect to the majesty of nature before us. Beginning our meal in earnest, in the midst of it we heard a noise like a roll of thunder, the direction of which we soon discovered. On the left side of the lake the vast expanse of snow was riven by a gigantic avalanche, which ploughed its way down, and, coming to the edge of the rocks, plunged headlong into the lake, agitating all the ice, and causing the icebergs to jostle each other; but both water and ice soon regained their equilibrium, and nature lay before us in solemn silence and undisturbed majesty. It can well be imagined that having once attained such a spot—some 5,000 feet above the sea—there was a desire to linger, though the day was fading, and we had five and a half hours’ walk home. However, “En route!” was the word. Straight down from bare rock to rock simply ends in no knees after a time, and one’s legs become something between strips of asparagus and sea-kale. There was, however, one thing in store: once on a fair road, we could make some running. It was a lovely evening: we were late, it was true, but, as horses go freely with their noses towards home, we both took to the road very kindly, and went along with a will. Ole did not talk much. It is the pace that kills, and after sixteen hours’ trudge with our provisions, he no doubt felt that he had done enough. With health and strength, such a day amidst grand scenery is a joy for ever.

VIII. CEREMONIES, WEDDINGS, ETC.

WEDDINGS—COSTUME—THE PROCESSION TO THE CHURCH—THE BRIDE’S RETURN—MOTTOES—BETROTHAL AND MARRIAGE—CONFIRMATION—FUNERALS—THEIR “ONLY ONE”—GRAVE-BOARD INSCRIPTIONS—HOME LIFE—ANTIPATHY TO VENTILATION—NEW CURRENCY—GEOLOGY—VARIATIONS IN TEMPERATURE—WATERFALLS—POPULATION—WOOD-CARVING—OLD SILVER.

In all climes and in all stages of civilisation a wedding is an object of special interest, and is likely to bring forward some traits of national character. The bride is always the great attraction, of course, whether plain or old—not that any bride should ever be plain, however uncomely featured she may be, for on that day of all others, the spirit should shine through the clay, with every hope of happiness before her; and if there be happiness in the world, surely it must be when the bride becomes the better-half of him she loves. Let us, then, attend a Norske wedding.

Weddings are not now as they used to be in the “good old days,” when knives and winding-sheets were a part of the programme—when grim rehearsals of the “Grapplers” were frequently repeated, and two combatants, with one belt round the two waists, grappled and struck until one was vanquished. No; Scandinavian ferocity is subsiding; they think more now of “bleeding” their foreign visitors, and the weddings are sobered down; but the arch-fiend of inebriation tightens his grip, and Norwegian weddings in the provinces are characterized by deep libations and their wretched consequences. Now, having noticed the worst feature of these Northern domestic gatherings, let us turn cheerily to the brighter side of them.

Naturally costume immensely assists a ceremony like this, and should the bride not have old silver enough of her own, everybody is ready to contribute towards the general result, and is only too glad to do anything in his power to add to the brightness of the occasion. In Norway the bride wears a silver crown, which varies a little in form according to date, the most modern crowns branching out all round more than the older ones. The silver crowns are generally made with hinges, four or six in number, so that they may fold up into a small space for carrying in a _tine_, or box. The oldest forms are silver-gilt; the more recent are partially gilt, some parts being left bright silver. The bride also wears a thick curb chain, with a medal, which is sometimes set in filigree-work; but in the case under notice the medal was one cast with a fine bust of Nelson. Tidemand, the Norwegian genre painter, has portrayed many scenes of the “Bride preparing to start,” “Dressing the Bride,” &c.

The procession to the church is generally all-important. First comes the fiddler, next the _kander_ or tankard man, then best man, bride and bridegroom, fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, relations, and many others—all the children of the place swarming round the church door. We should observe that there is a stolid immobility about some of the Norwegian _piger_ which seems to become intensified on these occasions; but when they do melt there must be a great overflow of spirit and reaction.

The picturesque group at the altar of the church takes one back to the Middle Ages: the bride resplendent in costume—in some cases quaint to a degree, especially in Sætersdalen—with the old silver brooches, rings, and pendants of generations long gathered to their fathers; the bridegroom also, most likely, in costume, with his best man close by to look after the bridesmaid; in the centre, the Elizabethan ruff, pure white as in Queen Elizabeth’s time, thrown vigorously up by the sombre black gown, renders the priest a prominent figure; while perhaps a ray from the sun, descending on the group, shines upon the bride at the very moment when that ray only is wanted to complete the pictorial effect of the grouping and its surroundings. The verger, or clerk, with his long red pole—the functionary described in a former chapter—is not on active service to-day to awake the sleepers; in fact, the congregation seems rather inclined to turn the tables and wake him up. The church floor is, as usual, strewn with juniper tips, and after the ceremony the bride and bridegroom start home. Walk, ride, drive, or boat—that depends on the distance and character of the road to be traversed. They are all picturesque: the water, however, carries the palm, and, as we have before remarked, the whole scene causes one to revert to early days, before carriages were used, or roads were uninviting for travel, and when locomotion was a difficulty.

What an evening it was, “the bride’s return!” As usual in Norway, you cannot go far without crossing a fjord: this the bride had to do. A twenty-oared sea-boat was her water carriage. What peace—what colour—what harmony! Was it typical of her future married life? A zephyr just filled the broad sail, the large prow rearing grandly in front, with a huge bunch of flowers and green things innumerable on the top; then a large flag and more flowers at the mast-head; and the rowers every now and then bursting out into a refrain, which as one leaves off the other takes up. And how these Norsemen do row—always together! It is generally allowed, by men of experience in Norway, that so long as the rower is not too “arch-fiended” to sit up, he will always keep time with his oar. The dip of the oars in the calm is delightfully refreshing, and the regular sweep gives an idea of power. Fun is going on at the other end of the boat; for the bride is there on a raised seat, with the bridegroom, supported by their friends. The second boat is being left behind, so the _kander-man_ is holding a large silver tankard to encourage and at the same time joke them. Doubtless a spurt will be put on after this, and another race commenced for the run home; or they may just stop for one more _skaal_ (the bride’s health), and when they have once commenced, be undecided as to going home.

One thing is a comfort, at all events; all through the country there is strong evidence of family affection, and these weddings are only the beginning of a new era of happiness. In Thelemarken, as we have already had occasion to remark, one custom is for the bridegroom to elaborately carve the _stabur_, or family treasure-house, with excellent designs and cunning work, which he effects with his tolle-knife; and another is to carve good mottoes on the large beds and over the doors of the rooms. The following are some from Thelemarken district, that quaint land of short waists, shoulder-blades, and white jackets—a land abounding with grand old conscientious work; huge timbers made into solid houses; no hurry-skurry, no slurriness, no giving as little as possible for wages received—real good timber-work; while inside may be found carved chests, some of them family treasures handed down for generations. Motto over bed, carved in: “This is my bed and resting-place, where God gives me peace and rest, that I may healthy arise and serve Him.” Over the entrance to a house: “Stand, house, in the presence of our Lord, assured from all danger, from fire and theft. Save it, thou, O God; bless also all who go in and all who go out here.” The ale-bowls, too, have good mottoes: “Of me you must drink; but swear not, nor ever drink too much.” This motto we would recommend to the licensed victuallers of England, as good for their “pewters.” Another drinking-bowl: “I am as a star unto you, and all the girls drink of me willingly.” Another: “Taste of the fruit of the corn-field, and thank God from your inmost heart.” This one again: “Drink me forthwith, and be thankful, for I shall soon be no more.” These, we say, are good sentiments, and worthy of note; and they must be the outcome of deeply rooted honest hearts, anxious to benefit not only those about them, but those who may follow.

When the bride returns home there are great doings, with firing of guns, and, as we have before observed, libations and dancing; the latter doing good and giving pleasure, the former, to say the least of them, producing the next day what is known in Scotland as the “blacksmith’s hammer on the forehead.”

What a contrast to a Norwegian wedding, carried out with all its details, is the modern civilisation of being married before a “Registrar”—a process which must be sudden death to sentiment, and destructive of all the sacred associations so closely linked with the solemnity of marriage in Norway! Marriage takes time. The Lutheran Church has two distinct services or ceremonies, which conduce to the steady-going of the young people concerned, and tend to develop prudent and careful living. There is first the betrothal, and then the wedding. Circumstances decide the particular period between the two events—one year generally, sometimes two or more; in any case the betrothal is a good preparation for the responsibilities of married life, and certainly works well. One thing is beyond denial—it affords an opportunity to discover latent objections and bad habits, which might not crop out all at once while the lover is offering a concentrated essence of courtship. By the betrothal system a girl enters upon a certain and marked position, being as it were an aspirant to the honour and dignity of marriage; and this training has generally a most wholesome effect. The same system is likewise carried out by the provincial peasants, though these simple folk are sometimes a little impatient of the second ceremony; but the law of Norway has alleviated any difficulty which might arise from such impetuosity, and taken the same _status_ as that of Scotland.

The wedding festival will frequently last a week—early and late. It is not “What a day we are having!” but “What a week we are having!” The home love of the people is prominently shown on occasions like these; their simple affection and general kindliness can only be the outcome of tenderness and sympathy in their every-day life, when the mothers are so motherly, the fathers so fatherly. No “iceberg dads” are to be found in Norway; they are more like the stoves which every one gathers round for comfort when the chills of life are likely to be forthcoming. And the priest comes out strongly on these occasions, for, as we have previously noticed, he is a part of every family; he shares the troubles of the flocks, and enhances their joys. He is no kill-joy; on the contrary, he enters into all that is going on, joins in the songs, is generally convivial at table, and is not shy of tobacco; he is, in fact, a practical, genial Christian, and consequently does good service to the cause he represents and to his flock.

We now come to the last ceremonies of the Church, only remarking on our way the very great importance attached by the Lutheran Church to confirmation. In this the Church does well, and sows good seed at the right time—seed which is to be the joy of riper years and the backbone of posterity.

A Norwegian funeral is surrounded by an unwholesome atmosphere of intense melancholy; hope and faith seem trampled down for the moment by the weight of present grief. The Norwegians certainly do not look upon the arrival of the reaper who puts in the sickle as the “order of release” from the trammels of our lower state. Perhaps their intensity of feeling is a certain relief from which they rebound to a lighter burden in after-life. Their quiet, secluded life encourages this; the very sombreness of the country develops it; and the almost oppressive grandeur of the scenery sustains it; while the absence of birds with joyous song certainly adds to it.

Funerals in this country take many forms. First, in towns, for plump, portly burghers, as well as for men of note in letters, politics, or art, there is the old form of coffin chariot, with cock-hatted driver, the horses clothed in all the panoply of funereal darkness, the road sprinkled with juniper or yew twigs, the Death’s head blended with a flame rising from the urn as decoration; the latter the only cheerful, hopeful thought in the whole arrangement. We regret to add that, like weddings, funerals are characterized by heavy libations. As to military obsequies, they are much the same in all lands, and therefore we need say nothing concerning them. And now, away from towns and cemeteries, to the more simple method of taking farewell of passing spirits and lifeless clay.