GULDBRANDSDAL AND THE DOVRE FJELD.

We left Lillehammer on a heavenly Sabbath morning.  There was scarcely a cloud in the sky, the air was warm and balmy, and the verdure of the valley, freshened by the previous day’s rain, sparkled and glittered in the sun.  The Miosen Lake lay blue and still to the south, and the bald tops of the mountains which inclose Guldbrandsdal stood sharp and clear, and almost shadowless, in the flood of light which streamed up the valley.  Of Lillehammer, I can only say that it is a commonplace town of about a thousand inhabitants.  It had a cathedral and bishop some six hundred years ago, no traces of either of which now remain.  We drove out of it upon a splendid new road, leading up the eastern bank of the river, and just high enough on the mountain side to give the loveliest views either way.  Our horses were fast and spirited, and the motion of our carrioles over the firmly macadamised road was just sufficient to keep the blood in nimble circulation.  Rigid Sabbatarians may be shocked at our travelling on that day; but there were few hearts in all the churches of Christendom whose hymns of praise were more sincere and devout than ours.  The Lougen roared an anthem for us from his rocky bed; the mountain streams, flashing down their hollow channels, seemed hastening to join it; the mountains themselves stood silent, with uncovered heads; and over all the pale-blue northern heaven looked lovingly and gladly down ­a smile of God upon the grateful earth.  There is no Sabbath worship better than the simple enjoyment of such a day.

Toward the close of the stage, our road descended to the banks of the Lougen, which here falls in a violent rapid ­almost a cataract ­over a barrier of rocks.  Masses of water, broken or wrenched from the body of the river, are hurled intermittently high into the air, scattering as they fall, with fragments of rainbows dancing over them.  In this scene I at once recognised the wild landscape by the pencil of Dahl, the Norwegian painter, which had made such an impression upon me in Copenhagen.  In Guldbrandsdal, we found at once what we had missed in the scenery of Ringerike ­swift, foaming streams.  Here they leapt from every rift of the upper crags, brightening the gloom of the fir-woods which clothed the mountain-sides, like silver braiding upon a funeral garment.  This valley is the pride of Norway, nearly as much for its richness as for its beauty and grandeur.  The houses were larger and more substantial, the fields blooming, with frequent orchards of fruit-trees, and the farmers, in their Sunday attire showed in their faces a little more intelligence than the people we had seen on our way thither.  Their countenances had a plain, homely stamp; and of all the large-limbed, strong-backed forms I saw, not one could be called graceful, or even symmetrical.  Something awkward and uncouth stamps the country people of Norway.  Honest and simple-minded they are said to be, and probably are; but of native refinement of feeling they can have little, unless all outward signs of character are false.

We changed horses at Moshuus, and drove up a level splendid road to Holmen, along the river-bank.  The highway, thus far, is entirely new, and does great credit to Norwegian enterprise.  There is not a better road in all Europe; and when it shall be carried through to Drontheim, the terrors which this trip has for timid travellers will entirely disappear.  It is a pity that the skyds system should not be improved in equal ratio, instead of becoming even more inconvenient than at present.  Holmen, hitherto a fast station, is now no longer so; and the same retrograde change is going on at other places along the road.  The waiting at the tilsigelse stations is the great drawback to travelling by skyds in Norway.  You must either wait two hours or pay fast prices, which the people are not legally entitled to ask.  Travellers may write complaints in the space allotted in the post-books for such things, but with very little result, if one may judge from the perfect indifference which the station-masters exhibit when you threaten to do so.  I was more than once tauntingly asked whether I would not write a complaint.  In Sweden, I found but one instance of inattention at the stations, during two months’ travel, and expected, from the boasted honesty of the Norwegians, to meet with an equally fortunate experience.  Travellers, however, and especially English, are fast teaching the people the usual arts of imposition.  Oh, you hard-shelled, unplastic, insulated Englishmen!  You introduce towels and fresh water, and tea, and beefsteak, wherever you go, it is true; but you teach high prices, and swindling, and insolence likewise!

A short distance beyond Holmen, the new road terminated, and we took the old track over steep spurs of the mountain, rising merely to descend and rise again.  The Lougen River here forms a broad, tranquil lake, a mile in width, in which the opposite mountains were splendidly reflected.  The water is pale, milky-green colour, which, under certain effects of light, has a wonderful aerial transparency.  As we approached Losnas, after this long and tedious stage, I was startled by the appearance of a steamer on the river.  It is utterly impossible for any to ascend the rapids below Moshuus; and she must therefore have been built there.  We could discover no necessity for such an undertaking in the thin scattered population and their slow, indifferent habits.  Her sudden apparition in such a place was like that of an omnibus in the desert.

The magnificent vista of the valley was for a time closed by the snowy peaks of the Rundan Fjeld; but as the direction of the river changed they disappeared, the valley contracted, and its black walls, two thousand feet high, almost overhung us.  Below, however, were still fresh meadows, twinkling birchen groves and comfortable farm-houses.  Out of a gorge on our right, plunged a cataract from a height of eighty or ninety feet, and a little further on, high up the mountain, a gush of braided silver foam burst out of the dark woods, covered with gleaming drapery the face of a huge perpendicular crag, and disappeared in the woods again, My friend drew up his horse in wonder and rapture.  “I know all Switzerland and the Tyrol,” he exclaimed, “but I have never seen a cataract so wonderfully framed in the setting of a forest.”  In the evening, as we approached our destination, two streams on the opposite side of the valley, fell from a height of more than a thousand feet, in a series of linked plunges, resembling burnished chains hanging dangling from the tremendous parapet of rock.  On the meadow before us, commanding a full view of this wild and glorious scene, stood a stately gaard, entirely deserted, its barns, out-houses and gardens utterly empty and desolate.  Its aspect saddened the whole landscape.

We stopped at the station of Lillehaave, which had only been established the day before, and we were probably the first travellers who had sojourned there.  Consequently the people were unspoiled, and it was quite refreshing to be courteously received, furnished with a trout supper and excellent beds, and to pay therefor an honest price.  The morning was lowering, and we had rain part of the day; but, thanks to our waterproofs and carriole aprons, we kept comfortably dry.  During this day’s journey of fifty miles, we had very grand scenery, the mountains gradually increasing in height and abruptness as we ascended the Guldbrandsdal, with still more imposing cataracts “blowing their trumpets from the steeps.”  At Viik, I found a complaint in the post-book, written by an Englishman who had come with us from Hull, stating that the landlord had made him pay five dollars for beating his dog off his own.  The complaint was written in English, of course, and therefore useless so far as the authorities were concerned.  The landlord whom I expected, from this account, to find a surly, swindling fellow, accosted us civilly, and invited us into his house to see some old weapons, principally battle-axes.  There was a cross-bow, a battered, antique sword, and a buff coat, which may have been stripped from one of Sinclair’s men in the pass of Kringelen.  The logs of his house, or part of them, are said to have been taken from the dwelling in which the saint-king Olaf ­the apostle of Christianity in the North, ­was born.  They are of the red Norwegian pine, which has a great durability; and the legend may be true, although this would make them eight hundred and fifty years old.

Colonel Sinclair was buried in the churchyard at Viik, and about fifteen miles further we passed the defile of Kringelen, where his band was cut to pieces.  He landed in Romsdal’s Fjord, on the western coast, with 900 men intending to force his way across the mountains to relieve Stockholm, which was then (1612) besieged by the Danes.  Some three hundred of the peasants collected at Kringelen, gathered together rocks and trunks of trees on the brow of the cliff, and, at a concerted signal, rolled the mass down upon the Scotch, the greater part of whom were crushed to death or hurled into the river.  Of the whole force only two escaped.  A wooden tablet on the spot says, as near as I could make it out, that there was never such an example of courage and valour known in the world, and calls upon the people to admire this glorious deed of their fathers.  “Courage and valour;” cried Braisted, indignantly; “it was a cowardly butchery!  If they had so much courage, why did they allow 900 Scotchmen to get into the very heart of the country before they tried to stop them?” Well, war is full of meanness and cowardice.  If it were only fair fighting on an open field, there would be less of it.

Beyond Laurgaard, Guldbrandsdal contracts to a narrow gorge, down which the Lougen roars in perpetual foam.  This pass is called the Rusten; and the road here is excessively steep and difficult.  The forests disappear; only hardy firs and the red pine cling to the ledges of the rocks; and mountains, black, grim, and with snow-streaked summits, tower grandly on all sides.  A broad cataract, a hundred feet high, leaped down a chasm on our left, so near to the road that its sprays swept over us, and then shot under a bridge to join the seething flood in the frightful gulf beneath.  I was reminded of the Valley of the Reuss, on the road to St. Gothard, like which, the pass of the Rusten leads to a cold and bleak upper valley.  Here we noticed the blight of late frost on the barley fields, and were for the first time assailed by beggars.  Black storm-clouds hung over the gorge, adding to the savage wildness of its scenery; but the sun came out as we drove up the Valley of Dovre, with its long stretch of grain-fields on the sunny sweep of the hill-side, sheltered by the lofty Dovre Fjeld behind them.  We stopped for the night at the inn of Toftemoen, long before sunset, although it was eight o’clock, and slept in a half-daylight until morning.

The sun was riding high in the heavens when we left, and dark lowering clouds slowly rolled their masses across the mountain-tops.  The Lougen was now an inconsiderable stream, and the superb Guldbrandsdal narrowed to a bare, bleak dell, like those in the high Alps.  The grain-fields had a chilled, struggling appearance; the forests forsook the mountain-sides and throve only in sheltered spots at their bases; the houses were mere log cabins, many of which were slipping off their foundation-posts and tottering to their final fall; and the people, poorer than ever, came out of their huts to beg openly and shamelessly as we passed.  Over the head of the valley, which here turns westward to the low water-shed dividing it from the famous Romsdal, rose two or three snow-streaked peaks of the Hurunger Fjeld; and the drifts filling the ravines of the mountains on our left descended lower and lower into the valley.

At Dombaas, a lonely station at the foot of the Dovre Fjeld, we turned northward into the heart of the mountains.  My postillion, a boy of fifteen, surprised me by speaking very good English.  He had learned it in the school at Drontheim.  Sometimes, he said, they had a schoolmaster in the house, and sometimes one at Jerkin, twenty miles distant.  Our road ascended gradually through half-cut woods of red pine, for two or three miles, after which it entered a long valley, or rather basin, belonging to the table land of the Dovre Fjeld.  Stunted heath and dwarfed juniper-bushes mixed with a grey, foxy shrub-willow, covered the soil, and the pale yellow of the reindeer moss stained the rocks.  Higher greyer and blacker ridges hemmed in the lifeless landscape; and above them, to the north and west, broad snow-fields shone luminous under the heavy folds of the clouds.  We passed an old woman with bare legs and arms, returning from a soter, or summer chalet of the shepherds.  She was a powerful but purely animal specimen of humanity, ­“beef to the heel,” as Braisted said.  At last a cluster of log huts, with a patch of green pasture-ground about them, broke the monotony of the scene.  It was Fogstuen, or next station, where we were obliged to wait half an hour until the horses had been caught and brought in.  The place had a poverty stricken air; and the slovenly woman who acted as landlady seemed disappointed that we did not buy some horridly coarse and ugly woolen gloves of her own manufacture.

Our road now ran for fourteen miles along the plateau of the Dovre, more than 3000 feet above the level of the sea.  This is not a plain or table land, but an undulating region, with hills, valleys, and lakes of its own; and more desolate landscapes one can scarcely find elsewhere.  Everything is grey, naked, and barren, not on a scale grand enough to be imposing, nor with any picturesqueness of form to relieve its sterility.  One can understand the silence and sternness of the Norwegians, when he has travelled this road.  But I would not wish my worst enemy to spend more than one summer as a solitary herdsman on these hills.  Let any disciple of Zimmerman try the effect of such a solitude.  The statistics of insanity in Norway exhibit some of its effects, and that which is most common is most destructive.  There never was a greater humbug than the praise of solitude:  it is the fruitful mother of all evil, and no man covets it who has not something bad or morbid in his nature.

By noon the central ridge or comb of the Dovre Fjeld rose before us, with the six-hundred-year old station of Jerkin in a warm nook on its southern side.  This is renowned as the best post-station in Norway, and is a favourite resort of English travellers and sportsmen, who come hither to climb the peak of Snaehatten, and to stalk reindeer.  I did not find the place particularly inviting.  The two women who had charge of it for the time were unusually silent and morose, but our dinner was cheap and well gotten up, albeit the trout were not the freshest.  We admired the wonderful paintings of the landlord, which although noticed by Murray, give little promise for Norwegian art in these high latitudes.  His cows, dogs, and men are all snow-white, and rejoice in an original anatomy.

The horses on this part of the road were excellent, the road admirable, and our transit was therefore thoroughly agreeable.  The ascent of the dividing ridge, after leaving Jerkin, is steep and toilsome for half a mile, but with this exception the passage of the Dovre Fjeld is remarkably easy.  The highest point which the road crossed is about 4600 feet above the sea, or a little higher than the Brenner Pass in the Tyrol.  But there grain grows and orchards bear fruit, while here, under the parallel of 62 deg., nearly all vegetation ceases, and even the omnivorous northern sheep can find no pasturage.  Before and behind you lie wastes of naked grey mountains, relieved only by the snow-patches on their summits.  I have seen as desolate tracts of wilderness in the south made beautiful by the lovely hues which they took from the air; but Nature has no such tender fancies in the north.  She is a realist of the most unpitying stamp, and gives atmospheric influences which make that which is dark and bleak still darker and bleaker.  Black clouds hung low on the horizon, and dull grey sheets of rain swept now and then across the nearer heights.  Snaehatten, to the westward, was partly veiled, but we could trace his blunt mound of alternate black rock and snow nearly to the apex.  The peak is about 7700 feet above the sea, and was until recently considered the highest in Norway, but the Skagtolstind has been ascertained to be 160 feet higher, and Snaehatten is dethroned.

The river Driv came out of a glen on our left, and entered a deep gorge in front, down which our road lay, following the rapid descent of the foaming stream.  At the station of Kongsvold, we had descended to 3000 feet again, yet no trees appeared.  Beyond this, the road for ten miles has been with great labour hewn out of the solid rock, at the bottom of a frightful defile, like some of those among the Alps.  Formerly, it climbed high up on the mountain-side, running on the brink of almost perpendicular cliffs, and the Vaarsti, as it is called, was then reckoned one of the most difficult and dangerous roads in the country.  Now it is one of the safest and most delightful.  We went down the pass on a sharp trot, almost too fast to enjoy the wild scenery as it deserved.  The Driv fell through the cleft in a succession of rapids, while smaller streams leaped to meet him in links of silver cataract down a thousand feet of cliff.  Birch and fir now clothed the little terraces and spare corners of soil, and the huge masses of rock, hanging over our heads, were tinted with black, warm brown, and russet orange, in such a manner as to produce the most charming effects of colour.  Over the cornices of the mountain-walls, hovering at least two thousand feet above, gleamed here and there the scattered snowy jotuns of the highest fjeld.

The pass gradually opened into a narrow valley, where we found a little cultivation again.  Here was the post of Drivstuen, kept by a merry old lady.  Our next stage descended through increasing habitation and culture to the inn of Rise, where we stopped for the night, having the Dovre Fjeld fairly behind us.  The morning looked wild and threatening, but the clouds gradually hauled off to the eastward, leaving us the promise of a fine day.  Our road led over hills covered with forests of fir and pine, whence we looked into a broad valley clothed with the same dark garment of forest, to which the dazzling white snows of the fjeld in the background made a striking contrast.  We here left the waters of the Driv and struck upon those of the Orkla, which flow into Drontheim Fjord.  At Stuen, we got a fair breakfast of eggs, milk, cheese, bread and butter.  Eggs are plentiful everywhere, yet, singularly enough, we were nearly a fortnight in Norway before we either saw or heard a single fowl.  Where they were kept we could not discover, and why they did not crow was a still greater mystery.  Norway is really the land of silence.  For an inhabited country, it is the quietest I have ever seen.  No wonder that anger and mirth, when they once break through the hard ice of Norwegian life, are so furious and uncontrollable.  These inconsistent extremes may always be reconciled, when we understand how nicely the moral nature of man is balanced.

Our road was over a high, undulating tract for two stages, commanding wide views of a wild wooded region, which is said to abound with game.  The range of snowy peaks behind us still filled the sky, appearing so near at hand as to deceive the eye in regard to their height.  At last, we came upon the brink of a steep descent, overlooking the deep glen of the Orkla, a singularly picturesque valley, issuing from between the bases of the mountains, and winding away to the northward.  Down the frightful slant our horses plunged and in three minutes we were at the bottom, with flower-sown meadows on either hand, and the wooded sides of the glen sweeping up to a waving and fringed outline against the sky.  After crossing the stream, we had an ascent as abrupt, on the other side; but half-way up stood the station of Bjaerkager, where we left our panting horses.  The fast stations were now at an end, but by paying fast prices we got horses with less delay.  In the evening, a man travelling on foot offered to carry forbud notices for us to the remaining stations, if we would pay for his horse.  We accepted; I wrote the orders in my best Norsk, and on the following day we found the horses in readiness everywhere.

The next stage was an inspiring trot through a park-like country, clothed with the freshest turf and studded with clumps of fir, birch, and ash.  The air was soft and warm, and filled with balmy scents from the flowering grasses, and the millions of blossoms spangling the ground.  In one place, I saw half an acre of the purest violet hue, where the pansy of our gardens grew so thickly that only its blossoms were visible.  The silver green of the birch twinkled in the sun, and its jets of delicate foliage started up everywhere with exquisite effect amid the dark masses of the fir.  There was little cultivation as yet, but these trees formed natural orchards, which suggested a design in their planting and redeemed the otherwise savage character of the scenery.  We dipped at last into a hollow, down which flowed one of the tributaries of the Guul Elv, the course of which we thence followed to Drontheim.

One of the stations was a lonely gaard, standing apart from the road, on a high hill.  As we drove up, a horrid old hag came out to receive us.  “Can I get three horses soon?” I asked.  “No,” she answered with a chuckle.  “How soon?” “In a few hours,” was her indifferent reply, but the promise of paying fast rates got them in less than one.  My friend wanted a glass of wine, but the old woman said she had nothing but milk.  We were sitting on the steps with our pipes, shortly afterwards, when she said:  “Why don’t you go into the house?” “It smells too strongly of paint,” I answered.  “But you had better go in,” said she, and shuffled off.  When we entered, behold! there were three glasses of very good Marsala on the table.  “How do you sell your milk?” I asked her.  “That kind is three skillings a dram,” she answered.  The secret probably was that she had no license to sell wine.  I was reminded of an incident which occurred to me in Maine, during the prevalence of the prohibitory law.  I was staying at an hotel in a certain town, and jestingly asked the landlord:  “Where is the Maine Law?  I should like to see it.”  “Why,” said he, “I have it here in the house;"’ and he unlocked a back room and astonished me with the sight of a private bar, studded with full decanters.

The men folks were all away at work, and our postillion was a strapping girl of eighteen, who rode behind Braisted.  She was gotten up on an immense scale, but nature had expended so much vigour on her body that none was left for her brain.  She was a consummate representation of health and stupidity.  At the station where we stopped for the night I could not help admiring the solid bulk of the landlady’s sister.  Although not over twenty four she must have weighed full two hundred.  Her waist was of remarkable thickness, and her bust might be made into three average American ones.  I can now understand why Mugge calls his heroine Ilda “the strong maiden.”

A drive of thirty-five miles down the picturesque valley of the Guul brought us to Drontheim the next day ­the eighth after leaving Christiania.