Strife and Peace | Page 2

bright plaits of hair, tends them and
sings the while the simple, the gentle melancholy airs of the country;
and like a mirror for that charming picture, there lies in the middle of
the valley a little lake (kjoern), deep, still, and of a clear blue colour, as
is generally peculiar to the glacier water. All breathes an idyllian
peace."
But a presentiment of death appears, even in the morning hour of
creation, to have impressed its seal upon this country. The vast
shadows of the dark mountain masses fall upon valleys where nothing
but moss grows; upon lakes whose still waters are full of never-melted
ice--thus the Cold Valley, the Cold Lake (Koledal and Koldesjö), with
their dead, grey-yellow shores. The stillness of death reigns in this
wilderness, interrupted only by the thunderings of the avalanche and by
the noise which occasions the motion of the glaciers. No bird moves its
wings or raises its twittering in this sorrowful region; only the
melodious sighs of the cuckoo are borne thither by the winds at
Midsummer.
Wilt thou, however, see life in its pomp and fairest magnificence? Then
see the embrace of the winter and the summer in old Norway; descend
into the plain of Svalem, behold the valleys of Aamaadt and Sillejord,
or the paradisaically beautiful Vestfjordal, through which the Mån

flows still and clear as a mirror, and embraces in its course little, bright
green islands, which are overgrown with bluebells and sweet-scented
wood-lilies; see how the silver stream winds itself down from the
mountains, between groups of trees and fruitful fields; see how, behind
the near hills with their leafy woods, the snow-mountains elevate
themselves, and like worthy patriarchs look down upon a younger
generation; observe in these valleys the morning and evening play of
colours upon the heights, in the depths; see the affluent pomp of the
storm; see the calm magnificence of the rainbow, as it vaults itself over
the waterfall,--depressed spirit, see this, understand it, and---- breathe!
From these beautifully, universally known scenes we withdraw
ourselves to a more unknown region, to the great stretch of valley
where the Skogshorn rears itself to the clouds; where Urunda flows
brightly between rocks,--the waterfalls of Djupadahl stream not the less
charmingly and proudly because they are only rarely admired by the
eyes of curious travellers. We set ourselves down in a region whose
name and situation we counsel nobody to seek out in maps, and which
we call--

HEIMDAL.
Knowest thou the deep, cool dale, Where church-like stillness doth
prevail; Where neither flock nor herd you meet; Which hath no name
nor track of feet?
VELHAVEN.
Heimdal, we call a branch of Hallingdal, misplace it in the parish of
Aal, and turn it over to the learned--that they may wonder at our
boldness. Like its mother valley it possesses no historical memories. Of
the old kings of Hallingdal one knows but very little. Only a few
monumental stones, a few burial-mounds, give a dim intelligence of the
mighty who have been. It is true that a people dwelt here, who from
untold ages were renowned as well for their simplicity and their
contentedness under severe circumstances as for their wild

contest-loving disposition; but still, in quiet as in unquiet, built and
dwelt, lived and died here, without tumult and without glory, among
the ancient mountains and the pine-woods, unobserved by the rest of
the world.
One river, the son of Hallen-Jokul, flows through Heimdal. Foaming
with wild rage it comes through the narrow mountain-pass down into
the valley, finds there a freer field, becomes calm, and flows clear as a
mirror between green shores, till its banks become again compressed
together by granite mountains. Then is it again seized upon by disquiet,
and rushes thence in wild curves till it flings itself into the great
Hallingdal river, and there dies.
Exactly there, where the stream spreads itself out in the extended valley,
lies a large estate. A well-built, but somewhat decayed, dwelling-house
of wood stretches out its arms into the depths of the valley. Thence may
be seen a beautiful prospect, far, far into the blue distance. Hills
overgrown with, wood stretch upward from the river, and cottages
surrounded with inclosed fields and beautiful grassy paths, lie scattered
at the foot of the hills. On the other side of the river, a mile-and-half
from the Grange, a chapel raises its peaceful tower. Beyond this the
valley gradually contracts itself.
On a cool September evening, strangers arrived at the Grange, which
had now been long uninhabited. It was an elderly lady, of a noble but
gloomy exterior, in deep mourning. A young, blooming maiden
accompanied her. They were received by a young man, who was called
there "the Steward." The dark-appareled lady vanished in the house,
and after