NORWAY

Of all the countries on our globe, Norway, in some respects, must rank

as the most wonderful. From the North Cape to its most southern limit

the distance is about eleven hundred miles. Nearly one-third of this

great area lies within the Arctic circle. One would expect its climate

to be that of Greenland; but Nature saves it, as a habitation for the

race, by sending thither the mysterious Gulf Stream, which crosses

the Atlantic for five thousand miles, and, although far spent on that

distant shore, fulfills its mission, transforming, by its still warm

breath, an otherwise barren region to a fertile land. But this is

only the beginning of Norway's wonders. Exposed to all the fury of

the North Sea, Arctic and Atlantic, the navigation of its coast would

be well-nigh impossible had not indulgent Nature made here countless

breakwaters, by means of a vast fringe of islands more than a thousand

miles in length, behind which are smooth, sheltered channels for the

largest ships.

[Illustration: KING OSCAR II.]

Again, Norwegian mountains come directly to the sea. On this account,

one might suppose that the interior would be inaccessible. But Nature

does here one more act of kindness, and penetrates these mountain walls

at many points with ocean avenues, sometimes a hundred miles in length,

and with such depth that, at their farthest limits, steamers may come

directly to the shore. Moreover, to enhance its mystery and beauty,

Nature bestows on this, her favorite, a day that is a summer long,—a

light that never elsewhere was on land or sea,—and makes its splendid

vistas still more glorious by a midnight sun.

[Illustration: THE HARBOR OF CHRISTIANIA.]

There have been few experiences in my life more joyous and exhilarating

than my arrival in Christiania. It was six o'clock in the morning as

our steamer glided up its noble harbor. The sky was cloudless; the

water of the deepest blue; a few white sails rose here and there,

like sea-gulls, from the waves. The forest-covered islands, emerald

to the water's edge, seemed gems upon the bosom of the bay. Beyond,

were mountains glistening in an atmosphere, the like of which, for

clearness, I had never seen: while the first breath of that crisp,

aromatic air (a most delicious blending of the odors of mountain, sea,

and forest) can never be forgotten.

"This, this is Norway!" we exclaimed, "and it is all before us; first,

in the joy of exploration; then in the calmer, though perpetual,

pleasure of its retrospection."

[Illustration: THE VICTORIA HOTEL.]

Excited by our anticipations, we disembarked as speedily as possible,

and hastened to the Hotel Victoria. It is a well-kept, comfortable

hostelry, whose chief peculiarity is a spacious courtyard, where

frequently, in summer, _table d'hôte_ is served beneath a mammoth

tent of gorgeous colors. Moreover, it is a pleasant rendezvous for

travelers; for while some tourists are here setting forth upon their

inland journey, others have just completed it, and with bronzed faces

tell strange stories of the North, which sound like tales invented by

Munchausen.

[Illustration: MR. BENNETT, THE TRAVELER'S FRIEND.]

Impatient to arrange our route, after a breakfast in the hotel

courtyard we went directly to the individual known as "Bennett."

"Bennett? Who is Bennett?" the reader perhaps exclaims. My friend,

there is but one Norway, and Bennett is its prophet. Bennett is the

living encyclopædia of Norway; its animated map; its peripatetic

guide-book. Nor is this all. He is the traveler's guide, philosopher,

and friend. He sketches lengthy tours back and forth as easily as

sailors box the compass; tells him which roads to take and which to

avoid; sends word ahead for carriages and horses; engages rooms for him

within the Arctic circle; forwards his letters, so that he may read

them by the midnight sun; gives him a list of carriage-coupons which

the coachmen cry for; and (more important still) so plans his numerous

arrivals and departures on the coast that he may always find a train or

steamer there awaiting him. This is a most essential thing in Norway.

[Illustration: A NORTHERN LANDSCAPE.]

[Illustration: IN NORWAY.]

As a rule, Norwegian time-tables are about as difficult to decipher

as the inscriptions on a Chinese tea-caddy. Even Bradshaw, the author

of that English railway guide which is the cause of so much apoplexy,

came here to Norway a few years ago, and died in trying to make out its

post-road and railway system. Some think that it was a judgment upon

him. At all events, his grave is near Christiania, and he sleeps, while

the "globe-trotter," whom he long befriended, still rushes to and fro.

Although an Englishman by birth, "Bennett" has been for fifty years a

resident of Norway, and is a blessing to all travelers in that country.

At first he gave his services gratuitously; but as the tourists began

to multiply, he found that such disinterestedness was impossible.

He at length made a business of it, and year by year it has steadily

increased.

A new edition of his guide-book comes out every season; and to still

further help the public, he has begotten four young Bennetts, who

act as courteous agents for their father, in Bergen, Trondhjem, and

Christiania. He has no "personally conducted parties." He has no wish

to go outside of Norway. But here, on account of the peculiar style of

traveling, and the difficulty of the language, it certainly is a great

convenience to employ him.

[Illustration: CHRISTIANIA FJORD.]

Our arrangements with this guardian of Norwegian tourists having at

length been concluded, we strolled for some time through Christiania's

streets. It is a clean and cheerful city, though it can boast of

little architectural beauty. The Royal Palace is its finest building,

but even this, on close inspection, proves to be more useful than

ornamental, and well suited to a nation forced to practice strict

economy. In inspecting the structure it is interesting to remember how

independent Norway is of Sweden, although both countries are governed

by one King. The Parliament in Christiania is wholly separate from that

of Stockholm. No Swede may hold political office here. Even the power

of the King is limited; for if a bill is passed three times in the

Norwegian Parliament, then, notwithstanding the royal veto, it becomes

law.

[Illustration: THE PALACE AT CHRISTIANIA.]

[Illustration: A VIEW NEAR CHRISTIANIA.]

Moreover, in accordance with the Constitution, the King of Sweden

and Norway must be crowned in Norway; he must reside here three

months in the year; here, also, he must open Parliament in person,

and hold receptions, for no Norwegian wishes to go to Stockholm for a

presentation to his sovereign. In this portion of his realm, also, he

must be addressed as "King of Norway and Sweden," not of "Sweden and

Norway." A certain rivalry still exists between these two nations.

Norwegians sometimes say: "We love the English, and drink tea; the

Swedes love the French, and drink coffee!"

[Illustration: AN AMBIGUOUS SIGN.]

One of the first things that attracted my attention in my walks

through Christiania was the peculiar sign, "Rum för Resande." Judge

not, however, from appearances in this strange language of the north.

It is said that not long ago an English-speaking traveler of strong

prohibition principles was horrified at seeing this announcement

frequently displayed.

"What does that last word 'Resande' mean?" he asked suspiciously.

"Travelers," was the reply.

"Rum for travelers!" he exclaimed. "Oh, this is terrible! What an

insult to the traveling public! Now I, for one, protest against such

misrepresentation. I am a traveler, but I never take a drop of rum."

[Illustration: A BIT OF NORWAY.]

[Illustration: LAKE MJÖSEN.]

[Illustration: A WISE CAPTAIN.]

"Not quite so fast," rejoined a Norwegian, who was laughing heartily;

"that first word means, not _rum_, but _rooms_; the whole sentence,

therefore, merely signifies, 'lodging for travelers.'" Eager to

start upon our northward journey, we left some interesting features

in Christiania for a later visit, and on a beautiful June morning

set out for the coast. The train conveyed us in two hours to Lake

Mjösen, where we embarked upon a little steamer. From that time on,

although continually traveling, we saw no more railways for a month.

This lovely sheet of water has a marvelous depth, its bed, in places,

being one thousand feet below the level of the sea. This fact grows

more mysterious when we remember that on the occasion of the Lisbon

earthquake, in 1755, the waters of this lake, although so remote from

Portugal, were so terribly disturbed, that they rose suddenly to the

height of twenty feet, and then as suddenly subsided.

[Illustration: A LANDING PIER.]

[Illustration: IN THE HEART OF NORWAY.]

It was while sailing on the waters of Lake Mjösen that we had another

curious linguistic experience. Next to Norwegian or Swedish, English

is best understood and spoken by the natives, especially among the

seafaring population. We did not know this fact at first, and as we had

just come from Germany, it seemed more natural to address the people

in the Teutonic tongue. You know the German word for bright or clear is

"hell." Accordingly, desiring to ask the captain if he thought that the

weather would be fine, my friend stepped up to him, and pointing to the

sky, said interrogatively, "Hell?"

"No," replied the captain, in perfectly good English, "hell doesn't lie

in that direction!"

A sail of several hours here through charming scenery brought us at

last to the place where we were to disembark. Hardly had I set foot

upon the pier, when a man accosted me in good, familiar English:

"Just step this way, sir, if you please," he said; "the carriage

ordered for you by Mr. Bennett is all ready."

This surely was a pleasant introduction. There was no trouble

whatsoever—no bargaining, no delay. In fifteen minutes we had started

on our four days' journey to the sea.

[Illustration: A LOVELY DRIVE.]

Between Christiania and the western coast is a broad mountain range

extending hundreds of miles north and south. No railroad crosses

that gigantic barrier. True, the town of Trondhjem, in the north, can

now be reached circuitously by rail. But all the great southwestern

coast, including the towns of Bergen and Molde, and the large fjords,

can only be approached by several magnificent highways, of which the

finest here awaited us, the one extending for a hundred and sixty

miles from Lake Mjösen to the Songe fjord. And here one naturally asks,

"What is the mode of traveling in Norway? Where do you eat? Where do

you sleep? Do you take horses for the entire journey, or from day to

day?" It is easily explained. All these Norwegian highways are divided

into sections, each about ten miles long. These sections have at one

extremity a "station" (usually a farm-house), the owner of which is

obliged by law to give to travelers food and lodging, and also to

supply them with fresh horses to the next station.

[Illustration: SÆTERSDALEN]

[Illustration: FINE NORWEGIAN STATION.]

These Norwegian post-houses are invariably made of wood, sometimes

elaborately carved and decorated. As you approach the door, some member

of the family greets you, frequently in English, since many of these

people have been in America. If you desire to spend the night, you ask

for rooms. If you merely require dinner, you can be quickly served; or

if your purpose is to drive on still farther, you simply order fresh

horses. For these we never waited more than fifteen minutes, though

sometimes, in the height of the season, serious delays take place. On

this account it is better to precede the crowd of tourists, and visit

Norway early in the summer. Such has been my experience, at least;

and judging from some stories I have heard of tourists sleeping on the

floor and dressing on the back piazza, I should emphatically recommend

this rule to all adventurers in the land of Thor.

[Illustration: A CARIOLE.]

But speaking of Norwegian post-stations reminds one of the

characteristic vehicle of Norway,—the cariole. This is by no means a

"carry-all." It is a little gig, intended for only one person. True,

the boy (or, in some instances, the girl) who takes the horse back

after you have done with it, rides behind. His seat is your valise, and

his weight determines the subsequent condition of its contents! There

is a charming lightness in these carioles. The springs are good, and

the seat is easy. A leather apron reaches to your waist to shield you

from the dust or rain; and, drawn by a Norwegian pony, such a drive is

wonderfully exhilarating.

[Illustration: THE NATIONAL VEHICLE.]

These little carriages have, however, one great fault,—their want

of sociability. The linguistic powers of a Norwegian post-boy are

extremely limited; and when you have ridden ten hours a day, unable to

exchange a word with your friends except by shouting, the drive becomes

a trifle wearisome. But the reader may ask: "Is there not sometimes

great discomfort in traveling by carioles in rainy weather?" Assuredly

there is. But in such weather one is not obliged to take a cariole.

Norway has other vehicles. We drove, for example, about a hundred and

thirty miles in a sort of victoria, the rear of which could be entirely

covered in case of rain. This, all in all, I hold to be the best

conveyance for the tourist in Norway, especially when ladies are of the

party. I know that such a carriage is considered too luxurious by the

English; but I am sure that American ladies will gain more pleasure and

profit from Norwegian travel if they do not attempt to drive all day in

carioles; and if beneath the canopy provided they keep their clothing

dry.

[Illustration: LUXURY IN NORWAY.]

[Illustration: A PEASANT GIRL.]

At home we would not think of driving forty miles a day in an open

wagon through the rain; why, then, should we do it unnecessarily in

Norway, where showers are proverbially both frequent and copious? As

for the fun and novelty of cariole-riding, these can always be had, for

several hours at a time, between one station and another, even if one

has engaged a larger carriage for the entire journey, for the cost of

a cariole and pony for half a day is ludicrously small, and the change

to it, occasionally, well repays the slight expenditure.

[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN PONY.]

[Illustration: A FARM SCENE.]

But in thus speaking of the cariole, I have unwittingly put the cart

before the horse. A word of praise must certainly be given to the

usual Norwegian steed. Of all the ponies I have ever seen, these of

Norway are at once the strongest, prettiest, and most lovable. They

are usually of a delicate cream color, with one dark line along the

back, the mane being always closely cut. These ponies are employed in

Norway almost universally, being not only less expensive but really

more enduring than the larger horses. For weeks we drove behind these

little animals, till we had tested certainly seventy-five of them, and

never once did we observe in any of them the slightest ugliness or a

vicious trait. They are, moreover, wonderfully sure-footed. I never

saw one stumble or go lame. Possibly, later in the season, when much

over-worked, they may not have the spirit which we found in them; but

in our drives of more than two hundred miles there was not one which

did not cheerfully respond to any call.

[Illustration: A MAUD MULLER]

This being premised, let us really begin our journey. At first we

found the scenery more beautiful than grand. In many places I could

have believed myself in portions of either of the American states

of New Hampshire or Vermont. Across the fields I often noticed long,

dark lines which, in the distance, looked like hedges. On examination,

however, these proved to be wooden fences, covered with new-mown grass;

for, in this way, Norwegian farmers "make hay while the sun shines."

Some of these fences are very low, but others have considerable height.

Norwegian farmers claim that grass hung thus, and thoroughly exposed

to wind and sun, will shed the rain and dry more quickly than if left

upon the ground. Their theory seems reasonable, and the extent of the

hay crop, which is very important, further justifies it. There is one

other argument in favor of these hay-racks,—during all other seasons

of the year they serve as clothes-lines for the family washing. But

even more peculiar than the fences were the vehicles used for hauling

the hay into Norwegian barns. We laughed at first sight of these rustic

carts. They are only a trifle larger than a good-sized cradle, and are

perched upon the smallest wheels I ever saw on anything except a toy.

Yet there is good reason for their use, for on Norwegian farms the

loads are drawn, not by stout oxen, but by little ponies. Moreover, the

grass is often cut from the edge of precipices, or in deep ravines, and

these low carts are certainly better adapted than high and heavy ones

for locomotion in such regions.

[Illustration: A HAY CART.]

[Illustration: AT A FARM HOUSE.]

While thus absorbed in agricultural reflections, we drove up to the

house where we were to take supper. A pleasant-featured girl, with a

baby in her arms, invited us to enter. She spoke English perfectly,

having been born, as we learned, in Minneapolis. I shall never forget

that first Norwegian supper. The name for the evening meal in Norway is

"aftenmad," but _often-mad_ would better express it in English. First,

there were placed before us five different kinds of cheese, the most

remarkable of which was a tall monument of chocolate-colored substance

made from goat's milk. This, by Norwegians, is considered perfectly

delicious; but for a month I shuddered at it regularly three times

a day. Next was brought in a jar containing fish. At this my friend

smiled joyfully.

[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN HAY-FIELD.]

"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is fish! Anything in the line of fish I can

eat with a relish."

He drew a specimen from the jar, and put a portion of it in his mouth.

A look of horror instantly overspread his face, and, covering his

features with a napkin, he left the room in haste. I quickly followed

him, and found him in the back yard gazing mournfully at some Norwegian

swine.

"What is the matter?" I asked, "do you prefer pork to fish?"

"I believe I do," he rejoined. Then turning to the girl, who had

followed us, he inquired, "What is the Norwegian word for pork?"

"Griss,"[A] was the reply.

[A] Pronounced as is our English word _grease_.

"Thank you," he faltered, "I don't think I will take any to-day."

"Eh" (in an aside to me), "hadn't we better drive on?"

"Drive on?" I cried. "Drive on, when there is plenty of fish, which you

always eat with so much relish?"

[Illustration: "DO YOU PREFER PORK TO FISH?"]

"Great heavens!" he groaned, "that was too much even for me. It was a

raw anchovy dipped in vinegar."

[Illustration: NORWEGIAN PEASANTS.]

While this colloquy was taking place, we re-entered the dining-room and

asked for bread. We were amazed to see what this request brought forth.

Upon a plate almost as large as the wheel of a Norwegian hay-cart

was brought to us a mound of circular wafers nearly three feet in

circumference, and each about as thick as one of our buckwheat cakes.

They were made of rye meal and water (chiefly water), and were so crisp

that they would break to pieces at a touch. This is called "flatbrod,"

and it is certainly in every sense the flattest article ever invented

for the human stomach. The people, however, are fond of it, and I saw

horses eat it frequently, mistaking it (quite naturally, I am sure) for

tablets of compressed hay.

[Illustration: NORWAY SCENERY.]

But here I shall probably be asked, "Is this the usual state of things

in Norway?" No, this first station was unusually poor. The staple

article of food in Norway (always fresh and good) is salmon. Milk

and sweet butter can also be had, and eggs _ad libitum_. In fact,

the abundance of eggs here is probably responsible for the atrocious

witticism often perpetrated by Norwegian tourists, to the effect

that "if the sun does not set in Norway, hens do." Mutton and beef

are not obtainable, save at the large hotels, their places being

usually supplied by veal, sausage meat, or reindeer hash. I met,

while traveling here, an Englishman, who said to me, "I did intend to

drive on to Christiania; but I really can't, you know; another month

of this would kill me. In the last two weeks I have eaten so many of

these 'blasted eggs' that I'm ashamed to look a hen in the face!" Yet,

notwithstanding the hardships which the traveler meets in Norway in

regard to food, he will find all discomforts easily outweighed by the

enjoyment of the trip. The constant exercise in the open air gives

powers of digestion hitherto unknown, preceded by an appetite which

laughs at everything, ... save cheese. Of course, being so far from any

city, one cannot look for luxuries at these small stations; indeed, I

was surprised to find that the peasants knew enough to give us, during

a meal, several knives and forks, hot plates, and other features of

a well-served table. And as far as prices are concerned, they are so

moderate as to provoke a smile from any one accustomed to travel in

other parts of Europe.

[Illustration: A TRAVELER'S PARADISE.]

Yes, all ordinary discomforts sink into insignificance, as I recall

those memorable drives, day after day and hour after hour, over

lofty mountains, through noble forests, and beside stupendous cliffs,

the only sounds about us being the songs of birds and the perpetual

melody of numberless cascades. Moreover, this mode of travel gave

us the energy of athletes. For how can I describe the invigoration

and sweetness of the air of Norway,—pure from its miles of

mountains,—rich with the fragrance of a billion pines, and freshened

by its passage over northern glaciers and the Arctic sea?

[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN HIGHWAY.]

As for Norwegian roads, they are among the finest in the world. The

majority of them are flanked with telegraph-poles; for not only are

these routes magnificent specimens of man's triumph over nature, but

the lightning also is controlled here, and, swift as light, thought

wings its way upon a metal wire through this inland waste,—a marvel

always wonderful and ever new. Nature has given to these scenes the

trees and rocks which yield to nothing but the wintry blasts. Man

has suspended here a thread of steel, which thrills responsive to the

thoughts of thousands, transmitting through the gloomiest gorges the

messages of love, hope, exultation, or despair. Hence one can never

feel completely isolated here. That little wire enables him at any

point to vanquish space, and by placing, as it were, a finger on the

pulse of life, to feel the heart-beats of the world.

In 1888, two American gentlemen were traveling in Norway, one of whom

grew depressed at his apparent isolation from humanity. His comrade, to

astonish and console him, telegraphed from one of the post-houses where

they had stopped for dinner, to the American consul at Christiania. The

message which he sent was this:

"Who was the Democratic nominee for President yesterday in Chicago?"

Before the meal was finished, the answer had arrived:

"Grover Cleveland."

[Illustration: APPARENT ISOLATION.]

[Illustration: A LAND OF PERPETUAL SUNLIGHT.]

Some of the roads on which we traveled here are cut directly through

the mountains. We found such tunnels quite agreeable, since they

furnished the only genuine darkness to be found. So far as light is

concerned, one may drive through Norway in the summer just as well by

night as by day. Early and late indeed are words which in this region

grow meaningless. I could not keep a diary in Norway, so difficult

was it to tell when yesterday ended and to-day began. At first this

seemed a great economy of time. We felt that we were getting some

advantage over Mother Nature. "Why not drive on another twenty miles?"

we asked; "we can enjoy the scenery just as well;" or, "Why not write

a few letters now? It is still light. In fact, why go to bed at all?"

But after a time this everlasting daylight grew a trifle wearisome.

It thoroughly demoralized both our brains and our stomachs, from the

unheard of hours it occasioned for eating and sleeping. Steamers will

start in Norway at five o'clock in the morning, or even at midnight.

I once sat down to a _table d'hôte_ dinner at half-past nine, and

on another occasion ate a lunch in broad daylight at two o'clock in

the morning. Moreover, even when we went to bed the sun's rays stole

between our eyelids, and dispelled that darkness which induces slumber.

For, strangely enough, there are rarely any blinds or shutters to

Norwegian windows. Only a thin, white curtain screened us usually from

the glare of day. After a while, therefore, I could sympathize with an

American lady, whom I heard exclaim, "O, I would give anything for a

good, pitch-dark night twenty-four hours long!"

[Illustration: NORWEGIAN BOULDERS.]

[Illustration: DISINTEGRATED MOUNTAINS.]

[Illustration: A NORWAY PRECIPICE.]

One characteristic of these roads made on my mind a profound

impression, namely, the boulders that have been split off from

overhanging peaks by frost and avalanche. This is a feature of

Norwegian scenery that I have never seen equaled in the world.

Sometimes we drove through such _débris_ for half an hour. Nor is

there the least exaggeration in the statement that these boulders are

in many instances as large as a house; yet, when compared with the

gigantic cliffs from which they came, even such monsters seemed like

pebbles. Some of these cliffs were frightful in appearance. Again

and again, when we had passed beneath some precipice, one third of

whose mass seemed only waiting for a thunder-peal to bring it down, my

friend and I would draw a long, deep breath, and exchange glances of

congratulation when we had escaped its terrors.

[Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC CASCADE.]

A still more wonderful feature of Norwegian scenery is found in its

imposing waterfalls. Nothing in Norway so astonished me as the unending

number and variety of its cascades,—ribbons of silver, usually, in the

distance, but foaming torrents close at hand. On any of these roads,

halt for a moment and listen, and you will often hear a sound like that

of the surf upon the shore. It is the voice of falling water.

[Illustration: A THING OF BEAUTY.]

On our journey toward the coast, during a drive of three days we

counted one hundred and sixty separate falls, and eighty-six in the

previous ten hours. This was an average of more than two in every

fifteen minutes. True, we saw these cascades in the month of June, when

snow was melting rapidly on the heights; but even in midsummer they

must far outnumber those in any other part of Europe.

[Illustration: VIEW NEAR BORGUND.]

In fact, although familiar with the Alps, and having driven twice

through all the valleys of the Pyrenees, I never knew how many

waterfalls one country could possess until I went to Norway. There are,

of course, magnificent falls in Switzerland, and a great number of them

in the Pyrenees; but where you there see one cascade, in Norway you

see twenty; and many a Norwegian cataract which would in Switzerland

draw thousands of admiring tourists, and make the fortune of hotel

proprietors, is here, perhaps, without a name, and certainly without

renown.

[Illustration: BORGUND CHURCH.]

On our last day's journey toward the sea, we came in sight of an

extraordinary building, on which we gazed in great astonishment, for

it seemed more appropriate to China than to Norway, and was apparently

completely out of place in this wild, desolate ravine. It was the

famous Borgund Church, a place of early Christian worship, built

about eight hundred years ago. It therefore ranks (unless one other

similar church be excepted) as the oldest structure in all Norway. It

is so small that one could almost fancy it a church for dwarfs. Around

the base is a kind of cloister, from which the dim interior receives

its only light. Within is one small room, scarcely forty feet long,

containing now no furniture save a rough-hewn altar. As for its various

roofs and pinnacles, marked now by crosses, now by dragons' heads,

nothing could be more weirdly picturesque, especially as the entire

edifice is black,—in part from age, but chiefly from the coats of tar

with which it has been painted for protection.

[Illustration: A GIRL OF NORWAY.]

[Illustration: AN OPEN-AIR BOUDOIR.]

[Illustration: SELTUNSAASEN IN LAERDAL.]

Leaving this ancient church, we soon found ourselves in one of the

most stupendous of Norwegian gorges. It is hardly possible for any

view to do it justice. But for awe-inspiring grandeur I have never

seen its magnificence surpassed, even in the Via Mala. For miles the

river Laerdal makes its way here through gigantic cliffs, which rise

on either side to a height of from four thousand to five thousand

feet. The space, however, between these mountain sides is barely wide

enough for the river, which writhes and struggles with obstructing

boulders, lashing itself to creamy foam, and filling the chasm with a

deafening roar. Yet, above the river, a roadway has been hewn out of

the mountain-side itself, which is lined with parapets of boulders.

When marking out the route the engineers were often lowered over the

precipice by ropes. One can imagine nothing more exciting than this

drive. When mountains did not actually overshadow us, in looking aloft

we could discern only a narrow rift of sky, like a blue river, curbed

by granite banks. Below us was the seething flood, at once terrible

and glorious to look upon. Shut in by these huge, somber walls, we

followed all the windings of the stream, whirling about their corners

at a speed which seemed the more terrific from our wild surroundings.

There are few things in life that have affected me so powerfully as the

Laerdal gorge, and I would once more go to Norway for that drive alone.

Certain it is that at the end of it we found ourselves exhausted,

not physically, but nervously, from the tremendous tension and

excitement of the last few hours in this wild ravine. Finally, leaving

this sublime mountain scenery, we saw between us and the coast our

destination—the little town of Laerdalsören. Thrilled though we were

with memories of what we had just seen, and grateful, too, that our

long drive from sea to sea had been successfully completed, our serious

reflections vanished at the threshold of this village. My companion had

found it hard to be so long deprived of news from home. Accordingly, he

remarked to me as we came in sight of Laerdalsören:

"I somehow feel to-day a great anxiety about my boys, William and

Henry. I am not superstitious, but I have a presentiment that they need

me. Hark!" he said suddenly, "what's that?"

[Illustration: A LANDING PLACE.]

[Illustration: LAERDALSÖREN.]

We stopped the vehicle and listened. It was the music of an English

hand-organ; and I am speaking only the literal truth when I say that

the tune which we then heard it play was that of "Father, dear father,

come home with me now."

[Illustration: WAITING FOR TOURISTS.]

Early next morning we left our good hotel and hastened to the steamer

which awaited us upon the fjord. "What, precisely, is a fjord?" some

may inquire. In briefest terms, it is a mountain gorge connected with

the ocean, a narrow arm of the sea extending inland, sometimes for one

hundred miles. Moreover, to carry out the simile, at the extremity of

every such long arm are "fingers;" that is, still narrower extensions,

which wind about the bases of the mountains till they seem like

glittering serpents lying in the shadow of tremendous cliffs.

[Illustration: A FJORD.]

Thus in one sense, here at Laerdalsören, we had reached the sea,

but in another, it was still eighty-five miles away. Yet we were now

to embark on a large ocean steamer, lying but a few yards from the

shore, for these mysterious fjords are sometimes quite as deep as

the mountains over them are high. They open thus the very heart of

Norway to the commerce of the world. And as our steamer glided from

one mountain-girdled basin into another, I realized why this western

coast of Norway is one of the most remarkable land-formations on the

globe. If we were able to look down upon it from an elevation, we

should perceive that from the mountain chain, which forms, as it were,

the backbone of the country, a multitude of grooves stretch downward

to the shore between the elevations, like spaces between the teeth of

a comb. Into these mountain crevices, formed in the misty ages of the

past, the sea now makes its way, continually growing narrower, until

at last it winds between frowning cliffs of fearful height, down which

stream numerous waterfalls, the spray from which at times sweeps over

the steamer as it glides along. Traveling, therefore, on these ocean

avenues is like sailing through Switzerland.

[Illustration: AN ARM OF THE SEA.]

[Illustration: SAILING THROUGH SWITZERLAND.]

Delighted beyond measure with this new experience, some two or three

hours after leaving Laerdalsören, we gradually approached the most

sublime of all these ocean highways,—the Naerofjord. No general view

can possibly portray its grandeur. The only way to appreciate the

vastness of its well-nigh perpendicular cliffs is to compare them with

some objects on the banks. In many places, for example, cattle grazing

on the shore, compared with their giant environment, seemed like mice,

and a church steeple appeared no larger than a pine-cone.

[Illustration: THE NAEROFJORD.]

As we sailed further up this beautiful expanse, it was difficult to

realize that we were floating on an arm of the Atlantic. It had the

appearance rather of a gloomy lake shut in by mountains never trodden

by the foot of man. On either side was a solemn array of stupendous

precipices—sheer, awful cliffs—refusing even the companionship of

pines and hemlocks, and frequently resembling a long chain of icebergs

turned to stone. The silence, too, was most impressive. There was, at

times, no sign of life on sea or shore. The influence of this was felt

upon the boat, for if any of us spoke, it was in a tone subdued by the

solemnity of our surroundings.

[Illustration: CONTINUALLY GROWING NARROWER.]

As we pursued our way, sometimes we could discern no outlet whatever;

then, suddenly, our course would turn, and another glorious vista

would appear before us. We sat at the prow of the boat; and there,

with nothing but the awe-inspiring prospect to contemplate, we sailed

along in silence through this liquid labyrinth. So close together were

the cliffs, that when, for the sake of the experiment, I lay down on

the deck and looked directly upward, I could at the same instant see

both sides of the fjord cutting their outlines sharply on the sky!

Mile after mile, these grim, divided mountains stood gazing into each

other's scowling faces, yet kept apart by this enchanting barrier of

the sea, as some fair woman intervenes between two opposing rivals,

each thirsting for the other's blood. It is such scenery as Dante might

describe and Doré illustrate. We wondered what such ravines would look

like without water. They would be terrible to gaze upon. They would

resemble gashes in a dead man's face, or chasms on the surface of the

moon, devoid of atmosphere and life. But water gives to them vitality,

and lights up all their gloomy gorges with a silvery flood, much as a

smile illumines, while it softens, a furrowed face.

[Illustration: WALLS OF A FJORD.]

[Illustration: NÆRÖ VALLEY.]

[Illustration: HEIGHTS AND DEPTHS.]

[Illustration: AN OCEAN AVENUE.]

Nor is the water in these fjords less marvelous than the land.

Its depth, in places, is estimated at three thousand feet. When we

sailed up the Naerofjord, its color was so green, and its surface so

completely motionless, that we seemed to be gliding over a highway

paved with malachite. Whether the coloring of these ocean avenues is

due to their great depth, to the crystal clearness of the atmosphere,

or to the reflection of the forests on their banks, certain it is that

I have nowhere else (save in the blue grotto at Capri) seen water

tinted with such shades of robin's-egg blue and emerald green. In

confirmation of this fact, we noticed with astonishment that whenever

the white seagulls, wheeling round our boat, would sink breast downward

toward the waves, the color of the sea was so intense, that their white

wings distinctly changed their hue in the reflected light, assuming a

most delicate tint, which gradually vanished as they rose again!

[Illustration: A SUBLIME WATERFALL.]

After a sail of several hours, we approached the terminus of the

Naerofjord, at which is located the little hamlet of Gudvangen. So

narrow is the valley here, that through the winter months no ray of

sunlight falls directly on the town, and even in the longest day in

summer it can receive the sunshine only for a few hours. It seemed

depressing to remain in such eternal shadow. Accordingly, we halted

only a few moments at the place, and taking a carriage which awaited

us, we drove beyond the village into the ravine so celebrated for

its grandeur—the Naerodal. One sees at once that this is really a

continuation of the Naerofjord without the water. There can be little

doubt that, formerly, the ocean entered it, and one could then have

sailed where we now had to drive. And what is true of the Naerodal is

also true of other such ravines. In every case the grooved hollows

continue inland and upward, but the gradual elevation of the coast

has caused the ocean to retreat. This is a place of great sublimity.

On either side rise mountains from four to five thousand feet in

height—sometimes without a vestige of vegetation on their precipitous

sides—which are, however, seamed with numberless cascades, apparently

hung upon the cliffs like silver chains.

[Illustration: FJORD SCENERY.]

[Illustration: THE NAERODAL.]

The most remarkable object in the valley we found to be a peculiarly

shaped mountain, called the Jordalsnut. Its form is that of a gigantic

thimble, and as its composition is a silvery feldspar, it fairly

glitters in the sun, or glows resplendent in the evening light,—an

object never to be forgotten. Those who have looked upon this dome by

moonlight say that the effect is indescribable; and, in fact, moonlight

in these awful gorges and fjords must give to them a beauty even more

weird and startling than that of day. Of this, however, I cannot speak

from experience, since moonlight is in summer very faint in Norway, and

it is only earlier or later in the year that one can see this wonderful

country thus transfigured.

In driving up the Naerodal, one sees, at the head of the valley, what

looks like an irregular chalk-line on a blackboard. It is a famous

carriage-road, which has been blasted out of the mountain-side, and

built up everywhere with solid masonry. Even now it is so difficult of

ascent for horses that every traveler who is able usually climbs that

curving road on foot.

[Illustration: THE JORDALSNUT.]

In doing so, we stopped at intervals to enjoy the marvelous scenery,

and especially to behold the two attractive features of the mountain.

For this grand terminus of the Naerodal is flanked on either side by a

magnificent waterfall; and since the path continually curves, one or

the other of these torrents is constantly visible. Either of them is

the equal of any Swiss cascade I ever saw, and makes even the famous

Giessbach sink into insignificance, and yet these are not ranked among

the best Norwegian specimens. We could not, however, appreciate them

as we should have done if they had been the first that we had seen;

for when a tourist has counted eighty-six cascades in one day's drive,

and has just run the gauntlet of some twenty more, in sailing through

the Naerofjord, he becomes surfeited with such splendor, and cannot

properly realize what a glorious wealth in this respect Norwegian

scenery possesses.

[Illustration: STALHEIM.]

Upon the summit of the wooded cliff toward which this driveway leads,

is a speck which at a distance resembles a white flag outlined on the

forest background. It is the Hotel Stalheim. As we approached it, a man

stepped up to us and exclaimed: "Hullo, strangers; are you Americans?"

"I am glad to say that we are," was my reply.

He instantly stretched out his hand and said "Shake!"—"What kind of

business are you in?" he presently inquired.

[Illustration: THE VIEW FROM STALHEIM.]

[Illustration: THE KAISER AT STALHEIM.]

We told him.

"Well," he remarked, "I'm a manufacturer of barrel hoops. Norway's all

right. I took an order for forty thousand yesterday."

At the dinner table, where he had greatly amused every one by his

stories, he suddenly called out: "Waiter, is there anything worth

seeing on that 'ere road down there?"

"It is one of the finest drives in Norway, sir," replied the waiter.

"Well, I reckon I'll have to do it, then," he ejaculated: and soon

after dinner he departed in a cariole. An hour later, as I was sitting

on the piazza gazing on the glorious prospect, I saw him coming back.

"How is this?" I exclaimed; "I thought you were going to Gudvangen."

[Illustration: A SCENE NEAR STALHEIM.]

[Illustration: A LOVELY CASCADE.]

"No," he replied; "I got down here a piece, and met a boy. 'Bub,' says

I, 'what is there to see down here, anyway?'

"'Waterfalls,' said he.

"'Waterfalls!' says I, 'I don't want any more waterfalls. I've seen

ten thousand of them already. Why, our Niagara wouldn't roar one mite

louder, if the whole lot of these Norwegian falls were chucked right

into it.'"

I must not fail to add that there was an extremely pretty girl at

the hotel, to whom our eccentric compatriot paid much attention. Some

English travelers, therefore, looked greatly puzzled when they heard

him say to her on taking leave: "Good-by! I hope _I'll strike you_

again somewhere on the road!"

[Illustration: "GATES AJAR."]

After supper that evening we took an extended walk. It was eleven

o'clock, and yet the snow-capped mountains which surrounded us were

radiant with the sunset glow. We presently encountered two young

peasants returning from their work. To them we spoke a few Norsk words

that we had learned since coming to Norway, whereupon one of the lads

drew from his pocket a pamphlet and presented it to me with a polite

bow. It proved to be a book of phrases, half-English and half-Norsk,

designed to help Norwegian emigrants on landing in America. Not

knowing, however, what it was at first, I opened it and could hardly

believe my eyes, when, in this lonely valley in the heart of Norway,

and by the light of a midnight sun, I read these words: "Wake up! Here

we are in Chicago!" "Change cars for Omaha and the West!" "Don't lean

out of the window, or you'll have your head knocked off!"

[Illustration: ALL READY TO "SHAKE HANDS."]

Both of these bright boys hoped the next summer to "wake up in

Chicago." It is, in fact, the great desire of Norwegian youths to

go to America, and some are brave enough to do so with a capital of

only twenty-five dollars. Their knowledge of the United States is, of

course, limited, but one place there is known to all of them. Again and

again we were subjected to the following questions: "Are you English?"

"No."

"Americans?"

"Yes."

"CHICAGO?"

That was the place for them, evidently. New York is better than

nothing, but Chicago is the El Dorado of the Scandinavians, for to that

place they usually buy through-tickets, as to the doorway of the great

Northwest.

Leaving the Hotel Stalheim, after a short stay, a glorious drive

awaited us down to the Hardanger Fjord. At frequent intervals along

this route we encountered gates designed to keep the cattle within

certain limits. Women and children usually stood near-by to open them,

expecting in return a trifling payment. Yet when I offered them a coin,

I was sometimes surprised to see their hands still lingering near my

own. At first I thought that they, like Oliver Twist, were asking for

more, but presently I discovered that they merely wished to shake hands

and say good-by, for hand-shaking in Norway is universal. If you bestow

a fee upon your cariole-boy, your boot-black, or your chambermaid,

each will offer his or her hand to you and wish you a happy journey.

A pleasant custom, truly, but, on the whole, it is advisable for

travelers in Norway to wear gloves. I usually responded cheerfully to

this mode of salutation, though sometimes, when I saw what kind of a

hand the peasant "held,"—I "passed!"

[Illustration: A PEASANT'S COTTAGE.]

As we drove on, we noticed here and there the houses of the poorer

farmers. They are invariably made of wood, and some, constructed out

of huge spruce logs, look as enduring as the hills that surround them.

The roofs are covered first with pieces of birch-bark, laid on the logs

like shingles. On these are placed two layers of sod—the upper one

with its grassy surface toward the sky. This grass is sometimes mown

for hay. Occasionally a homœopathic crop of grain will grow here. In

almost every case the top of the house looks like a flower-garden; and

I once saw a bearded goat getting his breakfast on his master's roof.

[Illustration: RURAL LIFE.]

Occasionally, a little distance from the house, we saw another smaller

structure, built beside a river; for the water-power of Norway is

made use of in some simple way by almost all the country people. Many

a peasant has a tiny water-wheel which turns a grindstone, or even a

mill, and thus his scythes are sharpened and his grain is ground on

his own premises. Such farmers, therefore, are their own millers, and

frequently their own blacksmiths, too, and they can shoe their ponies

with considerable skill.

[Illustration: A NORWEGIAN YOUTH.]

In traveling through Norway it is most interesting to observe how the

people utilize every available portion of the land. Wire ropes extend

from the valleys up the mountain sides, and are used for letting down

bundles of compressed hay, after it has been reaped, gathered, and

packed on some almost inaccessible plateau. On elevations, where it

seems well-nigh impossible for man to gain a foothold, people will

scramble, at the hazard of their lives, to win a living from the

little earth that has there found lodgment. Seeing with our own eyes

these habitable eyries, we could well believe what we were told, that

goats, and even children, are often tied for safety to the door-posts,

and that the members of a family who die on such elevated farms are

sometimes lowered by ropes a thousand feet down to the valley or fjord.

[Illustration: A BEAST OF BURDEN.]

[Illustration: A FISHING STATION.]

It was on this journey that I took my first and never-to-be-forgotten

cariole-ride in Norway. On this occasion, my driver was a small boy,

ten years old, just young and mischievous enough to laugh at danger and

be reckless. I noticed that his mother cautioned him before we started.

She evidently understood him. I did not. Accordingly, while I took

the reins, I gave him the whip. Springing like a monkey into his place

behind me, he cracked his whip and off we went. The road was good, and

for half an hour I thoroughly enjoyed it. Then we began to descend, and

suddenly dashed across a bridge beneath which was a foaming cataract. I

naturally reined the pony in. But, to my surprise, the more I pulled,

the faster went the pony. "Whoa!" I exclaimed; "whoa!" but whether

prolonged or uttered with staccato emphasis that word made no apparent

difference in the pony's gait. "Whoa," was evidently not in its

vocabulary. My hair began to stand on end. Perceiving this, the demon

of a boy commenced to utter the most unearthly yells, and to crack his

whip until he made the pony actually seem to fly.

[Illustration: THE SCENE OF AN ADVENTURE.]

"Go slowly," I exclaimed. Crack, crack, went the whip.

"Stop that, you young rascal." Crack, crack, crack! I tried to seize

the whip, but my tormentor held it far behind him. I sought to turn and

petrify him with a look, but it was like trying to see a fly between my

shoulder-blades. I saw that I was only making faces at the mountains.

[Illustration: A CHARACTERISTIC LANDSCAPE.]

[Illustration: ENGINEERING SKILL.]

To appreciate my feelings, one should perceive the winding road along

which I was traveling. It was a splendid specimen of engineering

skill, but after twenty-seven of these curves, I felt that I was

getting cross-eyed. Fancy me perched, as it were, upon a good-sized

salad-spoon, flying around the mountain side, with one wheel in the

air at every turn, at the rate of the Chicago Limited going round the

Horse-shoe Bend. I looked back at my companion, whose horse, excited

by my own, was just behind me. His face was deathly pale. Anxiety was

stamped on every feature. His lips moved as if entreating me to slacken

this terrific speed. Finally, he faintly cried: "If you escape, ...

give my love ... to my children, ... William and Henry!"

[Illustration: A VIKING SHIP.]

At last I saw, some little way ahead, a cart half-blocking the road.

"Great heavens!" I thought, "here comes a collision! Well, it might

as well end this way as any other. No more lectures for me!" But,

lo! there issued from the small boy's lips the sound, "Purr-r-r!" The

effect was instantaneous. The horse at once relaxed his speed, and in

a moment came to a full stop. For "purring" is to a Norwegian pony what

the Westinghouse air-brake is to an express train. This secret learned,

we had no further trouble. For "purr," when uttered by American lips,

proved always as effectual as by Norwegian.

[Illustration: A LONELY POINT.]

A few hours after that eventful ride, we found ourselves upon the great

Hardangerfjord, which, with its branches, has a length of one hundred

and forty miles. These ocean avenues possess not merely natural beauty:

they also have historic interest. This part of Norway, for example,

is old Viking ground. Not far from here lived Rollo, conqueror of

Normandy; and from these fjords a thousand years ago went forth those

dauntless warriors of the north, who for two hundred years not only

ravaged England, France, and Ireland, but even crossed the Atlantic to

America hundreds of years before Columbus sailed from Spain.

[Illustration: EIDFJORD IN HARDANGER—EXCURSION BOAT.]

[Illustration: AN ANCIENT BOAT OF NORWAY.]

In this connection, therefore, let me say that, to me, the most

interesting object in Christiania was its Viking ship. This most

impressive relic of the past was found some fourteen years ago

within an ancient mound beside the sea. It had reposed there for ten

centuries, owing its preservation to the hard, blue clay in which it

was entombed. It was made entirely of oak, and was propelled sometimes

by oars, sometimes by a sail. Within it was discovered a well-carved

wooden chair, in which, no doubt, the chieftain sat. Some kettles,

too, were here, and plates and drinking-cups, used by the Vikings when

they landed to prepare a meal. But, more remarkable still, this boat

contained some human bones. For in those early days such boats were

often used as funeral barges for their brave commanders. The vessel,

even when buried, was always headed toward the sea, so that when called

by Odin once more into life, the chief whose body was thus sepulchered

might be ready to start at once and sail again the ocean he had loved

so well.

Occasionally, however, a Viking had a grander form of burial.

Sometimes, when an old Norwegian chieftain felt that he was dying, he

ordered that his body, when lifeless, should be placed within his boat,

which was then filled with light materials and set on fire. The large

sail was then spread, and the dead warrior drifted out before the wind,

his gallant vessel for a funeral pyre, and for his liturgy the chanting

of the waves. As for the Viking himself, he doubtless had faced death,

sustained by an unfaltering belief which, had he been more cultivated,

might have thus expressed itself:

"If my bark sink, 'tis to another sea."

[Illustration: THE LAND OF THE VIKINGS.]

At the extremity of one of the branches of the Hardangerfjord is the

little town of Odde. This was the only place in Norway where we had any

difficulty in securing rooms. As the boat neared the wharf, I heard a

dozen ladies whisper to their husbands: "Now, dear, you stay and look

after the luggage, and I'll run on and get the rooms." Accordingly, I

used the same words to my friend, with the exception of the endearing

epithet. I was afraid that might make him homesick. Then I took my

position near the gang-plank.

[Illustration: A STREET IN BERGEN.]

When we arrived, I was the first to step ashore, and I started at a

brisk walk toward the hotel. Behind me I could hear the rustling of

many skirts, but, hardening my heart like Pharaoh, I kept on. At last,

forgetting drapery and dignity, the ladies passed me on the run. This

time I gallantly gave way, and when, a moment later, I reached the

hotel office, I could have fancied myself on the floor of the Stock

Exchange, since every lady there was fighting nobly for her children

and her absent lord.

"I want two beds," cried one.

"I wish for five beds," screamed another.

"Give me a room with blinds," exclaimed a third.

The female clerk, meantime, having completely lost her head, was

calling off numbers like an auctioneer. Suddenly she turned to me, who

had not yet opened my mouth, and almost paralyzed me with these words:

"Number 20 will do for you, _three beds and one cradle_!"

When I recovered from my swoon, I found that my friend had come up

quietly after the battle, and had secured two single rooms.

[Illustration: THE BERGEN FISH MARKET.]

[Illustration: ODDE.]

Saying farewell to Odde, a day's delightful sail between majestic

mountains brought us to one of Norway's most important cities—Bergen.

Although we lingered here three days, we had the wonderful experience

of continual sunshine. I rightly call it wonderful; for Bergen is the

rainiest city in the world and is sarcastically called "The fatherland

of drizzle." The people in Christiania claim that in Bergen when a

horse sees a man _without_ an umbrella, he shies! It is also said that

a sea-captain, who was born in Bergen, and all his life had sailed

between his native city and the outer world, came one day into its

harbor when by chance the sun was shining. At once he put about and

set forth to sea again, believing that he had made a mistake in his

port. As we approached the pier at Bergen, I saw what, in the distance,

appeared to be a mob. It proved, however, to be the usual crowd which

gathers round the Bergen Fish Market.

This is not, after all, so strange if we reflect that fish is the great

commodity of Bergen, and that this city is the chief distributing

station for Norwegian fish to the entire world. Several centuries

ago, a company of German merchants, who formed the famous Hanseatic

League, established themselves here and held for years within their

hands the monopoly of all the fishing trade of Norway, compelling

even the Norwegian fishermen to send their catch of fish to Bergen for

reshipment to other ports of Europe. It is true the league exists no

longer, but its influence still survives, and nothing can divert the

trade from following in its ancient channel. Over the hills that rise

above the city a splendid driveway has been made. A Bergen resident

spoke of it to me as "The Drink Road."

[Illustration: MONSTERS OF THE DEEP.]

"What is the meaning of so strange a title?" I inquired.

"It is so called," he said, "because it is constructed wholly out of

the profits derived from the sale of ardent spirits." Observing my

astonishment, he added: "Do you not understand our famous liquor law in

Bergen?"