On the day after my arrival, I sent a note to Hans Christian Andersen,

reminding him of the greeting which he had once sent me through a mutual

friend, and asking him to appoint an hour for me to call upon him. The

same afternoon, as I was sitting in my room, the door quietly opened,

and a tall, loosely-jointed figure entered. He wore a neat evening dress

of black, with a white cravat; his head was thrown back, and his plain,

irregular features wore an expression of the greatest cheerfulness and

kindly humour. I recognised him at once, and forgetting that we had

never met--so much did he seem like an old, familiar acquaintance--cried

out "Andersen!" and jumped up to greet him. "Ah," said he stretching out

both his hands, "here you are! Now I should have been vexed if you had

gone through Copenhagen and I had not known it." He sat down, and I had

a delightful hour's chat with him. One sees the man so plainly in his

works, that his readers may almost be said to know him personally. He is

thoroughly simple and natural, and those who call him egotistical forget

that his egotism is only a naïve and unthinking sincerity, like that of

a child. In fact, he is the youngest man for his years that I ever knew.

"When I was sixteen," said he, "I used to think to myself, 'when I am

twenty-four, then will I be old indeed'--but now I am fifty-two, and I

have just the same feeling of youth as at twenty." He was greatly

delighted when Braisted, who was in the room with me, spoke of having

read his "Improvisatore" in the Sandwich Islands. "Why, is it

possible?" he exclaimed: "when I hear of my books going so far around

the earth, I sometimes wonder if it can be really true that I have

written them." He explained to me the plot of his new novel, "To Be, or

Not To Be," and ended by presenting me with the illustrated edition of

his stories. "Now, don't forget me," said he, with a delightful entreaty

in his, voice, as he rose to leave, "for we shall meet again. Were it

not for sea-sickness, I should see you in America; and who knows but I

may come, in spite of it?" God bless you, Andersen! I said, in my

thoughts. It is so cheering to meet a man whose very weaknesses are made

attractive through the perfect candour of his nature!

Goldschmidt, the author of "The Jew," whose acquaintance I made, is

himself a Jew, and a man of great earnestness and enthusiasm. He is the

editor of the "North and South," a monthly periodical, and had just

completed, as he informed me, a second romance, which was soon to be

published. Like most of the authors and editors in Northern Europe, he

is well acquainted with American literature.

Professor Rafn, the distinguished archæologist of Northern lore, is

still as active as ever, notwithstanding he is well advanced in years.

After going up an innumerable number of steps, I found him at the very

top of a high old building in the _Kronprinzensgade_, in a study crammed

with old Norsk and Icelandic volumes. He is a slender old man, with a

thin face, and high, narrow head, clear grey eyes, and a hale red on his

cheeks. The dust of antiquity does not lie very heavily on his grey

locks; his enthusiasm for his studies is of that fresh and lively

character which mellows the whole nature of the man. I admired and

enjoyed it, when, after being fairly started on his favourite topic, he

opened one of his own splendid folios, and read me some ringing stanzas

of Icelandic poetry. He spoke much of Mr. Marsh, our former minister to

Turkey, whose proficiency in the northern languages he considered very

remarkable.

CHAPTER XX.

RETURN TO THE NORTH.--CHRISTIANIA.

I was obliged to visit both Germany and England, before returning to

spend the summer in Norway. As neither of those countries comes within

the scope of the present work, I shall spare the reader a recapitulation

of my travels for six weeks after leaving Copenhagen. Midsummer's Day

was ten days past before I was ready to resume the journey, and there

was no time to be lost, if I wished to see the midnight sun from the

cliffs of the North Cape. I therefore took the most direct route, from

London, by the way of Hull, whence a steamer was to sail on the 3rd of

July for Christiania.

We chose one of the steamers of the English line, to our subsequent

regret, as the Norwegian vessels are preferable, in most respects. I

went on board on Friday evening, and on asking for my berth, was taken

into a small state-room, containing ten. "Oh, there's only _seven_

gentleman goin' in here, this time," said the steward, noticing my look

of dismay, "and then you can sleep on a sofa in the saloon, if you like

it better." On referring to the steamer's framed certificate, I found

that she was 250 tons' burden, and constructed to carry 171 cabin and

230 deck passengers! The state-room for ten passengers had a single

wash-basin, but I believe we had as many as four small towels, which was

a source of congratulation. "What a jolly nice boat it is!" I heard one

of the English passengers exclaim. The steward, who stood up for the

dignity of the vessel, said: "Oh, you'll find it very pleasant; we 'ave

only twenty passengers, and we once 'ad heighty-four."

In the morning we were upon the North Sea, rolling with a short,

nauseating motion, under a dismal, rainy sky. "It always rains when you

leave Hull," said the mate, "and it always rains when you come back to

it." I divided my time between sea sickness and Charles Reade's novel of

"Never too Late to Mend," a cheery companion under such circumstances.

The purposed rowdyism of the man's style shows a little too plainly, but

his language is so racy and muscular, his characters so fairly and

sharply drawn, that one must not be censorious. Towards evening I

remembered that it was the Fourth, and so procured a specific for

sea-sickness, with which Braisted and I, sitting alone on the main

hatch, in the rain, privately remembered our Fatherland. There was on

board an American sea-captain, of Norwegian birth, as I afterwards

found, who would gladly have joined us. The other passengers were three

Norwegians, three fossil Englishmen, two snobbish do., and some jolly,

good-natured, free-and-easy youths, bound to Norway, with dogs, guns,

rods, fishing tackle, and oil-cloth overalls.

We had a fair wind and smooth sea, but the most favourable circumstances

could not get more than eight knots an hour out of our steamer. After

forty-eight hours, however, the coast of Norway came in sight--a fringe

of scattered rocks, behind which rose bleak hills, enveloped in mist and

rain. Our captain, who had been running on this route some years, did

not know where we were, and was for putting to sea again, but one of the

Norwegian passengers offered his services as pilot and soon brought us

to the fjord of Christiansand. We first passed through a

_Skärgaard_--archipelago, or "garden of rocks," as it is picturesquely

termed in Norsk--and then between hills of dark-red rock, covered by a

sprinkling of fir-trees, to a sheltered and tranquil harbour, upon which

lay the little town. By this time the rain came down, not in drops, but

in separate threads or streams, as if the nozzle of an immense

watering-pot had been held over us. After three months of drouth, which

had burned up the soil and entirely ruined the hay-crops, it was now

raining for the first time in Southern Norway. The young Englishmen

bravely put on their waterproofs and set out to visit the town in the

midst of the deluge; but as it contains no sight of special interest, I

made up my mind that, like Constantinople, it was more attractive from

without than within, and remained on board. An amphitheatre of rugged

hills surrounds the place, broken only by a charming little valley,

which stretches off to the westward.

The fishermen brought us some fresh mackerel for our breakfast. They are

not more than half the size of ours, and of a brighter green along the

back; their flavour, however, is delicious. With these mackerels, four

salmons, a custom-house officer, and a Norwegian parson, we set off at

noon for Christiania. The coast was visible, but at a considerable

distance, all day. Fleeting gleams of sunshine sometimes showed the

broken inland ranges of mountains with jagged saw-tooth peaks shooting

up here and there. When night came there was no darkness, but a strong

golden gleam, whereby one could read until after ten o'clock. We reached

the mouth of Christiania Fjord a little after midnight, and most of the

passengers arose to view the scenery. After passing the branch which

leads to Drammen, the fjord contracts so as to resemble a river or one

of our island-studded New England lakes. The alternation of bare rocky

islets, red-ribbed cliffs, fir-woods, grey-green birchen groves, tracts

of farm land, and red-frame cottages, rendered this part of the voyage

delightful, although, as the morning advanced, we saw everything through

a gauzy veil of rain. Finally, the watering-pot was turned on again,

obliging even oil cloths to beat a retreat to the cabin, and so

continued until we reached Christiania.

After a mild custom-house visitation, not a word being said about

passports, we stepped ashore in republican Norway, and were piloted by a

fellow-passenger to the Victoria Hotel, where an old friend awaited me.

He who had walked with me in the colonnades of Karnak, among the sands

of Kôm-Ombos, and under the palms of Philæ, was there to resume our old

companionship on the bleak fjelds of Norway and on the shores of the

Arctic Sea. We at once set about preparing for the journey. First, to

the banker's who supplied me with a sufficient quantity of small money

for the post-stations on the road to Drontheim; then to a seller of

_carrioles_, of whom we procured three, at $36 apiece, to be resold to

him for $24, at the expiration of two months; and then to supply

ourselves with maps, posting-book, hammer, nails rope, gimlets, and

other necessary helps in case of a breakdown. The carriole (_carry-all,

lucus a non lucendo_, because it only carries one) is the national

Norwegian vehicle, and deserves special mention. It resembles a

reindeer-pulk, mounted on a pair of wheels, with long, flat, flexible

ash shafts, and no springs. The seat, much like the stern of a canoe,

and rather narrow for a traveller of large basis, slopes down into a

trough for the feet, with a dashboard in front. Your single valise is

strapped on a flat board behind, upon which your postillion sits. The

whole machine resembles an American sulky in appearance, except that it

is springless, and nearly the whole weight is forward of the axle. We

also purchased simple and strong harness, which easily accommodates

itself to any horse.

Christiania furnishes a remarkable example of the progress which Norway

has made since its union with Sweden and the adoption of a free

Constitution. In its signs of growth and improvement, the city reminds

one of an American town. Its population has risen to 40,000, and though

inferior to Gottenburg in its commerce, it is only surpassed by

Stockholm in size. The old log houses of which it once was built have

almost entirely disappeared; the streets are broad, tolerably paved, and

have--what Stockholm cannot yet boast of--decent side-walks. From the

little nucleus of the old town, near the water, branch off handsome new

streets, where you often come suddenly from stately three-story blocks

upon the rough rock and meadow land. The broad _Carl-Johansgade_,

leading directly to the imposing white front of the Royal Palace, upon

an eminence in the rear of the city, is worthy of any European capital.

On the old market square a very handsome market hall of brick, in

semi-Byzantine style, has recently been erected, and the only apparent

point in which Christiania has not kept up with the times, is the want

of piers for her shipping. A railroad, about forty miles in length, is

already in operation as far as Eidsvold, at the foot of the long Miösen

Lake, on which steamers ply to Lillehammer, at its head, affording an

outlet for the produce of the fertile Guldbrandsdal and the adjacent

country. The Norwegian Constitution is in almost all respects as free as

that of any American state, and it is cheering to see what material

well-being and solid progress have followed its adoption.

The environs of Christiania are remarkably beautiful. From the quiet

basin of the fjord, which vanishes between blue, interlocking islands to

the southward, the land rises gradually on all sides, speckled with

smiling country-seats and farm-houses, which trench less and less on the

dark evergreen forests as they recede, until the latter keep their old

dominion and sweep in unbroken lines to the summits of the mountains on

either hand. The ancient citadel of Aggershus, perched upon a rock,

commands the approach to the city, fine old linden trees rising above

its white walls and tiled roofs; beyond, over the trees of the palace

park, in which stand the new Museum and University, towers the long

palace-front, behind which commences a range of villas and gardens,

stretching westward around a deep bight of the fjord, until they reach

the new palace of Oscar-hall, on a peninsula facing the city. As we

floated over the glassy water, in a skiff, on the afternoon following

our arrival, watching the scattered sun-gleams move across the lovely

panorama, we found it difficult to believe that we were in the latitude

of Greenland. The dark, rich green of the foliage, the balmy odours

which filled the air, the deep blue of the distant hills and islands,

and the soft, warm colors of the houses, all belonged to the south. Only

the air, fresh without being cold, elastic, and exciting, not a

delicious opiate, was wholly northern, and when I took a swim under the

castle walls, I found that the water was northern too. It was the height

of summer, and the showers of roses in the gardens, the strawberries and

cherries in the market, show that the summer's best gifts are still

enjoyed here.

The English were off the next day with their dogs, guns, fishing tackle,

waterproofs, clay pipes, and native language, except one, who became

home-sick and went back in the next steamer. We also prepared to set out

for Ringerike, the ancient dominion of King Ring, on our way to the

Dovre-fjeld and Drontheim.

CHAPTER XXI.

INCIDENTS OF CARRIOLE TRAVEL.

It is rather singular that whenever you are about to start upon a new

journey, you almost always fall in with some one who has just made it,

and who overwhelms you with all sorts of warning and advice. This has

happened to me so frequently that I have long ago ceased to regard any

such communications, unless the individual from whom they come inspires

me with more than usual confidence. While inspecting our carrioles at

the hotel in Christiania, I was accosted by a Hamburg merchant, who had

just arrived from Drontheim, by way of the Dovre Fjeld and the Miösen

Lake. "Ah," said he, "those things won't last long. That oil-cloth

covering for your luggage will be torn to pieces in a few days by the

postillions climbing upon it. Then they hold on to your seat and rip the

cloth lining with their long nails; besides, the rope reins wear the

leather off your dashboard, and you will be lucky if your wheels and

axles don't snap on the rough roads." Now, here was a man who had

travelled much in Norway, spoke the language perfectly, and might be

supposed to know something; but his face betrayed the croaker, and I

knew, moreover, that of all fretfully luxurious men, merchants--and

especially North-German merchants--are the worst, so I let him talk and

kept my own private opinion unchanged.

At dinner he renewed the warnings. "You will have great delay in getting

horses at the stations. The only way is to be rough and swaggering, and

threaten the people--and even that won't always answer." Most likely, I

thought.--"Of course you have a supply of provisions with you?" he

continued. "No," said I, "I always adopt the diet of the country in

which I travel."--"But you can't do it here!" he exclaimed in horror,

"you can't do it here! They have no wine, nor no white bread, nor no

fresh meat; and they don't know how to cook anything!" "I am perfectly

aware of that," I answered; "but as long as I am not obliged to come

down to bread made of fir-bark and barley-straw, as last winter in

Lapland, I shall not complain."--"You possess the courage of a hero if

you can do such a thing; but you will not start now, in this rain?" We

answered by bidding him a polite adieu, for the post-horses had come,

and our carrioles were at the door. As if to reward our resolution, the

rain, which had been falling heavily all the morning, ceased at that

moment, and the grey blanket of heaven broke and rolled up into loose

masses of cloud.

I mounted into the canoe-shaped seat, drew the leathern apron over my

legs, and we set out, in single file, through the streets of

Christiania. The carriole, as I have already said, has usually no

springs (ours had none at least), except those which it makes in

bounding over the stones. We had not gone a hundred yards before I was

ready to cry out--"Lord, have mercy upon me!" Such a shattering of the

joints, such a vibration of the vertebræ, such a churning of the

viscera, I had not felt since travelling by banghy-cart in India.

Breathing went on by fits and starts, between the jolts; my teeth struck

together so that I put away my pipe, lest I should bite off the stem,

and the pleasant sensation of having been pounded in every limb crept on

apace. Once off the paving-stones, it was a little better; beyond the

hard turnpike which followed, better still; and on the gravel and sand

of the first broad hill, we found the travel easy enough to allay our

fears. The two _skydsbonder_, or postillions, who accompanied us, sat

upon our portmanteaus, and were continually jumping off to lighten the

ascent of the hills. The descents were achieved at full trotting speed,

the horses leaning back, supporting themselves against the weight of the

carrioles, and throwing out their feet very firmly, so as to avoid the

danger of slipping. Thus, no matter how steep the hill, they took it

with perfect assurance and boldness, never making a stumble. There was

just sufficient risk left, however, to make these flying descents

pleasant and exhilarating.

Our road led westward, over high hills and across deep valleys, down

which we had occasional glimpses of the blue fjord and its rocky

islands. The grass and grain were a rich, dark green, sweeping into a

velvety blue in the distance, and against this deep ground, the bright

red of the houses showed with strong effect--a contrast which was

subdued and harmonised by the still darker masses of the evergreen

forests, covering the mountain ranges. At the end of twelve or thirteen

miles we reached the first post-station, at the foot of the mountains

which bound the inland prospect from Christiania on the west. As it was

not a "_fast_" station, we were subject to the possibility of waiting

two or three hours for horses, but fortunately were accosted on the road

by one of the farmers who supply the _skyds_, and changed at his house.

The Norwegian _skyds_ differs from the Swedish _skjuts_ in having horses

ready only at the fast stations, which are comparatively few, while at

all others you must wait from one to three hours, according to the

distance from which the horses must be brought. In Sweden there are

always from two to four horses ready, and you are only obliged to wait

after these are exhausted. There, also, the regulations are better, and

likewise more strictly enforced. It is, at best, an awkward mode of

travelling--very pleasant, when everything goes rightly, but very

annoying when otherwise.

We now commenced climbing the mountain by a series of terribly steep

ascents, every opening in the woods disclosing a wider and grander view

backward over the lovely Christiania Fjord and the intermediate valleys.

Beyond the crest we came upon a wild mountain plateau, a thousand feet

above the sea, and entirely covered with forests of spruce and fir. It

was a black and dismal region, under the lowering sky: not a house or a

grain field to be seen, and thus we drove for more than two hours, to

the solitary inn of Krogkleven, where we stopped for the night in order

to visit the celebrated King's View in the morning. We got a tolerable

supper and good beds, sent off a messenger to the station of Sundvolden,

at the foot of the mountain, to order horses for us, and set out soon

after sunrise, piloted by the landlord's son, Olaf. Half an hour's walk

through the forest brought us to a pile of rocks on the crest of the

mountain, which fell away abruptly to the westward. At our feet lay the

Tyri Fjord, with its deeply indented shores and its irregular, scattered

islands, shining blue and bright in the morning sun, while away beyond

it stretched a great semicircle of rolling hills covered with green

farms, dotted with red farm-houses, and here and there a white church

glimmering like a spangle on the breast of the landscape. Behind this

soft, warm, beautiful region, rose dark, wooded hills, with lofty

mountain-ridges above them, until, far and faint, under and among the

clouds, streaks of snow betrayed some peaks of the Nore Fjeld, sixty or

seventy miles distant. This is one of the most famous views in Norway,

and has been compared to that from the Righi, but without sufficient

reason. The sudden change, however, from the gloomy wilderness through

which you first pass to the sunlit picture of the enchanting lake, and

green, inhabited hills and valleys, may well excuse the raptures of

travellers. Ringerike, the realm of King Ring, is a lovely land, not

only as seen from this eagle's nest, but when you have descended upon

its level. I believe the monarch's real name was Halfdan the Black. So

beloved was he in life that after death his body was divided into four

portions, so that each province might possess some part of him. Yet the

noblest fame is transitory, and nobody now knows exactly where any one

of his quarters was buried.

A terrible descent, through a chasm between perpendicular cliffs some

hundreds of feet in height, leads from Krogkleven to the level of the

Tyri Fjord. There is no attempt here, nor indeed upon the most of the

Norwegian roads we travelled, to mitigate, by well-arranged curves, the

steepness of the hills. Straight down you go, no matter of how breakneck

a character the declivity may be. There are no drags to the carrioles

and country carts, and were not the native horses the toughest and

surest-footed little animals in the world, this sort of travel would be

trying to the nerves.

Our ride along the banks of the Tyri Fjord, in the clear morning

sunshine, was charming. The scenery was strikingly like that on the lake

of Zug, in Switzerland, and we missed the only green turf, which this

year's rainless spring had left brown and withered. In all Sweden we had

seen no such landscapes, not even in Norrland. There, however, the

_people_ carried off the palm. We found no farm-houses here so stately

and clean as the Swedish, no such symmetrical forms and frank, friendly

faces. The Norwegians are big enough, and strong enough, to be sure, but

their carriage is awkward, and their faces not only plain but ugly. The

countrywomen we saw were remarkable in this latter respect, but nothing

could exceed their development of waist, bosom and arms. Here is the

stuff of which Vikings were made, I thought, but there has been no

refining or ennobling since those times. These are the rough primitive

formations of the human race--the bare granite and gneiss, from which

sprouts no luxuriant foliage, but at best a few simple and hardy

flowers. I found much less difficulty in communicating with the

Norwegians than I anticipated. The language is so similar to the Swedish

that I used the latter, with a few alterations, and easily made myself

understood. The Norwegian dialect, I imagine, stands in about the same

relation to pure Danish as the Scotch does to the English. To my ear,

it is less musical and sonorous than the Swedish, though it is often

accented in the same peculiar sing-song way.

Leaving the Tyri Fjord, we entered a rolling, well-cultivated country,

with some pleasant meadow scenery. The crops did not appear to be

thriving remarkably, probably on account of the dry weather. The hay

crop, which the farmers were just cutting, was very scanty; rye and

winter barley were coming into head, but the ears were thin and light,

while spring barley and oats were not more than six inches in height.

There were many fields of potatoes, however, which gave a better

promise. So far as one could judge from looking over the fields,

Norwegian husbandry is yet in a very imperfect state, and I suspect that

the resources of the soil are not half developed. The whole country was

radiant with flowers, and some fields were literally mosaics of blue,

purple, pink, yellow, and crimson bloom. Clumps of wild roses fringed

the road, and the air was delicious with a thousand odours. Nature was

throbbing with the fullness of her short midsummer life, with that

sudden and splendid rebound from the long trance of winter which she

nowhere makes except in the extreme north.

At Kläkken, which is called a _lilsigelse_ station, where horses must be

specially engaged, we were obliged to wait two hours and a half, while

they were sent for from a distance of four miles. The utter coolness and

indifference of the people to our desire to get on faster was quite

natural, and all the better for them, no doubt, but it was provoking to

us. We whiled away a part of the time with breakfast, which was composed

mainly of boiled eggs and an immense dish of wild strawberries, of very

small size but exquisitely fragrant flavour. The next station brought us

to Vasbunden, at the head of the beautiful Randsfjord, which was luckily

a fast station, and the fresh horses were forthcoming in two minutes.

Our road all the afternoon lay along the eastern bank of the Fjord,

coursing up and down the hills through a succession of the loveliest

landscape pictures. This part of Norway will bear a comparison with the

softer parts of Switzerland, such as the lakes of Zurich and Thun. The

hilly shores of the Fjord were covered with scattered farms, the

villages being merely churches with half a dozen houses clustered about

them.

At sunset we left the lake and climbed a long wooded mountain to a

height of more than two thousand feet. It was a weary pull until we

reached the summit, but we rolled swiftly down the other side to the inn

of Teterud, our destination, which we reached about 10 P.M. It was quite

light enough to read, yet every one was in bed, and the place seemed

deserted, until we remembered what latitude we were in. Finally, the

landlord appeared, followed by a girl, whom, on account of her size and

blubber, Braisted compared to a cow-whale. She had been turned out of

her bed to make room for us, and we two instantly rolled into the warm

hollow she had left, my Nilotic friend occupying a separate bed in

another corner. The guests' room was an immense apartment; eight sets of

quadrilles might have been danced in it at one time. The walls were hung

with extraordinary pictures of the Six Days of Creation, in which the

Almighty was represented as an old man dressed in a long gown, with a

peculiarly good-humoured leer, suggesting a wink, on his face. I have

frequently seen the same series of pictures in the Swedish inns. In the

morning I was aroused by Braisted exclaiming, "There she blows!" and the

whale came up to the surface with a huge pot of coffee, some sugar

candy, excellent cream, and musty biscuit.

It was raining when we started, and I put on a light coat, purchased in

London, and recommended in the advertisement as being "light in texture,

gentlemanly in appearance, and impervious to wet," with strong doubts of

its power to resist a Norwegian rain. Fortunately, it was not put to a

severe test; we had passing showers only, heavy, though short. The

country, between the Randsfjord and the Miösen Lake was open and

rolling, everywhere under cultivation, and apparently rich and

prosperous. Our road was admirable, and we rolled along at the rate of

one Norsk mile (seven miles) an hour, through a land in full blossom,

and an atmosphere of vernal odours. At the end of the second station we

struck the main road from Christiania to Drontheim. In the station-house

I found translations of the works of Dickens and Captain Chamier on the

table. The landlord was the most polite and attentive Norwegian we had

seen; but he made us pay for it, charging one and a half marks apiece

for a breakfast of boiled eggs and cheese.

Starting again in a heavy shower, we crossed the crest of a hill, and

saw all at once the splendid Miösen Lake spread out before us, the lofty

Island of Helge, covered with farms and forests, lying in the centre of

the picture. Our road went northward along the side of the vast,

sweeping slope of farm-land which bounds the lake on the west. Its rough

and muddy condition showed how little land-travel there is at present,

since the establishment of a daily line of steamers on the lake. At the

station of Gjövik, a glass furnace, situated in a wooded little dell on

the shore, I found a young Norwegian who spoke tolerable English, and

who seemed astounded at our not taking the steamer in preference to our

carrioles. He hardly thought it possible that we could be going all the

way to Lillehammer, at the head of the lake, by the land road. When we

set out, our postillion took a way leading up the hills in the rear of

the place. Knowing that our course was along the shore, we asked him if

we were on the road to Sveen, the next station. "Oh, yes; it's all

right," said he, "this is a new road." It was, in truth, a superb

highway; broad and perfectly macadamised, and leading along the brink of

a deep rocky chasm, down which thundered a powerful stream. From the top

of this glen we struck inland, keeping more and more to the westward.

Again we asked the postillion, and again received the same answer.

Finally; when we had travelled six or seven miles, and the lake had

wholly disappeared, I stopped and demanded where Sveen was. "Sveen is

not on this road," he answered; "we are going to Mustad!" "But," I

exclaimed, "we are bound for Sveen and Lillehammer!" "Oh," said he, with

infuriating coolness, "_you can go there afterwards!_" You may judge

that the carrioles were whirled around in a hurry, and that the only

answer to the fellow's remonstrances was a shaking by the neck which

frightened him into silence.

We drove back to Gjövik in a drenching shower, which failed to cool our

anger. On reaching the station I at once made a complaint against the

postillion, and the landlord called a man who spoke good English, to

settle the matter. The latter brought me a bill of $2 for going to

Mustad and back. Knowing that the horses belonged to farmers, who were

not to blame in the least, we had agreed to pay for their use; but I

remonstrated against paying the full price when we had not gone the

whole distance, and had not intended to go at all. "Why, then, did you

order horses for Mustad?" he asked. "I did no such thing!" I exclaimed,

in amazement. "You did!" he persisted, and an investigation ensued,

which resulted in the discovery that the Norwegian who had advised us to

go by steamer, had gratuitously taken upon himself to tell the landlord

to send us to the Randsfjord, and had given the postillion similar

directions! The latter, imagining, perhaps, that we didn't actually know

our own plans, had followed his instructions. I must say that I never

before received such an astonishing mark of kindness. The ill-concealed

satisfaction of the people at our mishap made it all the more

exasperating. The end of it was that two or three marks were taken off

the account, which we then paid, and in an hour afterwards shipped

ourselves and carrioles on board a steamer for Lillehammer. The

Norwegian who had caused all this trouble came along just before we

embarked, and heard the story with the most sublime indifference,

proffering not a word of apology, regret, or explanation. Judging from

this specimen, the King of Sweden and Norway has good reason to style

himself King of the Goths and Vandals.

I was glad, nevertheless, that we had an opportunity of seeing the

Miösen, from the deck of a steamer. Moving over the glassy pale-green

water, midway between its shores, we had a far better exhibition of its

beauties than from the land-road. It is a superb piece of water, sixty

miles in length by from two to five in breadth, with mountain shores of

picturesque and ever-varying outline. The lower slopes are farm land,

dotted with the large _gaards_, or mansions of the farmers, many of

which have a truly stately air; beyond them are forests of fir, spruce,

and larch, while in the glens between, winding groves of birch, alder,

and ash come down to fringe the banks of the lake. Wandering gleams of

sunshine, falling through the broken clouds, touched here and there the

shadowed slopes and threw belts of light upon the water--and these

illuminated spots finely relieved the otherwise sombre depth of colour.

Our boat was slow, and we had between two and three hours of unsurpassed

scenery before reaching our destination. An immense raft of timber,

gathered from the loose logs which are floated down the Lougen Elv, lay

at the head of the lake, which contracts into the famous Guldbrandsdal.

On the brow of a steep hill on the right lay the little town of

Lillehammer, where we were ere long quartered in a very comfortable

hotel.

CHAPTER XXII.

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 Miösen 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 Moshûûs, 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 Lösnäs,

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 Moshûûs; 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 _söter_, or summer châlet 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 Snæhätten, 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°, 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. Snæhätten, 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 Snæhätten 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 _jötuns_ 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 Bjærkager, 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 _förbud_ 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 Gûûl 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 Mügge calls his

heroine Ilda "the strong maiden."

A drive of thirty-five miles down the picturesque valley of the Gûûl

brought us to Drontheim the next day--the eighth after leaving

Christiania.

CHAPTER XXIII.

DRONTHEIM.--VOYAGE UP THE COAST OF NORWAY.

Our first view of Drontheim (or _Trondhjem_, as it should properly be

written) was from the top of the hill behind the town, at the

termination of six miles of execrable road, and perhaps the relief

springing from that circumstance heightened the agreeable impression

which the scene made upon our minds. Below us, at the bottom of a

crescent-shaped bay, lay Drontheim--a mass of dark red, yellow, and

brown buildings, with the grey cathedral in the rear. The rich, well

cultivated valley of the Nid stretched behind it, on our right, past the

Lierfoss, whose column of foam was visible three miles away, until the

hills, rising more high and bleak behind each other, completely enclosed

it. The rock-fortress of Munkholm, in front of the city, broke the

smooth surface of the fjord, whose further shores, dim with passing

showers, swept away to the north-east, hiding the termination of this

great sea-arm, which is some fifty miles distant. The panorama was

certainly on a grand scale, and presented very diversified and

picturesque features; but I can by no means agree with Dr. Clarke, who

compares it to the Bay of Naples. Not only the rich colours of the

Mediterranean are wanting, but those harmonic sweeps and curves of the

Italian shores and hills have nothing in common with these rude, ragged,

weather beaten, defiant forms.

Descending the hill between rows of neat country-houses, we passed a

diminutive fortification, and entered the city. The streets are

remarkably wide and roughly paved, crossing each other at right angles,

with a Philadelphian regularity. The houses are all two stories high,

and raised upon ample foundations, so that the doors are approached by

flights of steps--probably on account of the deep snows during the

winter. They are almost exclusively of wood, solid logs covered with

neat clap-boards, but a recent law forbids the erection of any more

wooden houses, and in the course of time, the town, like Christiania,

will lose all that is peculiar and characteristic in its architecture. A

cleaner place can scarcely be found, and I also noticed, what is quite

rare in the North, large square fountains or wells, at the intersection

of all the principal streets. The impression which Drontheim makes upon

the stranger is therefore a cheerful and genial one. Small and

unpretending though it be, it is full of pictures; the dark blue fjord

closes the vista of half its streets; hills of grey rock, draped with

the greenest turf, overlook it on either side, and the beautiful valley

of the Nid, one of the loveliest nooks of Norway, lies in its rear.

We drove to the Hotel de Belle-Vue, one of the two little caravanserais

of which the town boasts, and were fortunate in securing the two vacant

rooms. The hotel business in Norway is far behind that of any other

country, except in regard to charges, where it is far in advance.

Considering what one gets for his money, this is the most expensive

country in the world for foreigners. Except where the rates are fixed by

law, as in posting, the natives pay much less; and here is an instance

of double-dealing which does not harmonise with the renowned honesty of

the Norwegians. At the Belle-Vue, we were furnished with three very

meagre meals a day, at the rate of two dollars and a half. The

attendance was performed by two boys of fourteen or fifteen, whose

services, as may be supposed, were quite inadequate to the wants of near

twenty persons. The whole business of the establishment devolved on

these two fellows, the landlady, though good-humoured and corpulent, as

was meet, knowing nothing about the business, and, on the whole, it was

a wonder that matters were not worse. It is singular that in a pastoral

country like Norway one gets nothing but rancid butter, and generally

sour cream, where both should be of the finest quality. Nature is

sparing of her gifts, to be sure; but what she does furnish is of the

best, as it comes from her hand. Of course, one does not look for much

culinary skill, and is therefore not disappointed, but the dairy is the

primitive domestic art of all races, and it is rather surprising to find

it in so backward a state.

My friend, who received no letters, and had no transatlantic interests

to claim his time, as I had, applied himself to seeing the place, which

he accomplished, with praiseworthy industry, in one day. He walked out

to the falls of the Nid, three miles up the valley, and was charmed with

them. He then entered the venerable cathedral, where he had the

satisfaction of seeing a Protestant clergyman perform high mass in a

scarlet surplice, with a gold cross on his back. The State Church of

Norway, which, like that of Sweden, is Lutheran of a very antiquated

type, not only preserves this ritual, but also the form of confession

(in a general way, I believe, and without reference to particular sins)

and of absolution. Of course, it is violently dogmatic and illiberal,

and there is little vital religious activity in the whole country. Until

within a very few years, no other sects were tolerated, and even yet

there is simply freedom of conscience, but not equal political rights,

for those of other denominations. This concession has perhaps saved the

church from becoming a venerable fossil, yet one still finds persons who

regret that it should have been made, not knowing that all truth, to

retain its temper, must be whetted against an opposing blade. According

to the new constitution of Norway, the king must be crowned in the

cathedral of Drontheim. Bernadotte received the proper consecration, but

Oscar, though King of Norway, has not yet seen fit to accept it. I once

heard a Norwegian exclaim, with a sort of jealous satisfaction: "Oscar

calls himself King of Norway, but he is a king without a crown!" I

cannot see, however, that this fact lessens his authority as sovereign,

in the least.

There is a weekly line of steamers, established by the Storthing

(Legislative Assembly), to Hammerfest and around the North Cape. The

"Nordkap," the largest and best of these boats, was to leave Drontheim

on Saturday evening, the 18th of July, and we lost no time in securing

berths, as another week would have made it too late for the perpetual

sunshine of the northern summer. Here again, one is introduced to a

knowledge of customs and regulations unknown elsewhere. The ticket

merely secures you a place on board the steamer, but neither a berth nor

provisions. The latter you obtain from a restaurateur on board,

according to fixed rates; the former depends on the will of the captain,

who can stow you where he chooses. On the "Nordkap" the state-rooms were

already occupied, and there remained a single small saloon containing

eight berths. Here we did very well so long as there were only English

and American occupants, who at once voted to have the skylight kept

open; but after two Norwegians were added to our company, we lived in a

state of perpetual warfare, the latter sharing the national dread of

fresh air; and yet one of them was a professor from the University of

Christiania, and the other a physician, who had charge of the hospital

in Bergen! With this exception, we had every reason to be satisfied with

the vessel. She was very stanch and steady-going, with a spacious airy

saloon on deck; no captain could have been more kind and gentlemanly,

and there was quite as much harmony among the passengers as could

reasonably have been expected. Our party consisted of five Americans,

three English, two Germans, and one Frenchman (M. Gay, Membre de

l'Academie), besides a variety of Norwegians from all parts of the

country.

Leaving our carrioles and part of our baggage behind us, we rowed out to

the steamer in a heavy shower. The sun was struggling with dark grey

rain-clouds all the evening, and just as we hove anchor, threw a

splendid triumphal iris across the bay, completely spanning the town,

which, with the sheltering hills, glimmered in the rosy mist floating

within the bow. Enclosed by such a dazzling frame the picture of

Drontheim shone with a magical lustre, like a vision of Asgaard,

beckoning to us from the tempestuous seas. But we were bound for the

north, the barriers of Niflhem, the land of fog and sleet, and we

disregarded the celestial token, though a second perfect rainbow

overarched the first, and the two threw their curves over hill and

fortress and the bosom of the rainy fjord, until they almost touched our

vessel on either side. In spite of the rain, we remained on deck until a

late hour, enjoying the bold scenery of the outer fjord--here,

precipitous woody shores, gashed with sudden ravines; there, jet-black

rocky peaks, resembling the porphyry hills of the African deserts; and

now and then, encircling the sheltered coves, soft green fields glowing

with misty light, and the purple outlines of snow-streaked mountains in

the distance.

The morning was still dark and rainy. We were at first running between

mountain-islands of bare rock and the iron coast of the mainland, after

which came a stretch of open sea for two hours, and at noon we reached

Björö, near the mouth of the Namsen Fjord. Here there was half a dozen

red houses on a bright green slope, with a windmill out of gear crowning

the rocky hill in the rear. The sky gradually cleared as we entered the

Namsen Fjord, which charmed us with the wildness and nakedness of its

shores, studded with little nooks and corners of tillage, which sparkled

like oases of tropical greenness, in such a rough setting. Precipices of

dark-red rock, streaked with foamy lines of water from the snows melting

upon their crests, frowned over the narrow channels between the islands,

and through their gaps and gorges we caught sight of the loftier ranges

inland. Namsos, at the head of the fjord, is a red-roofed town of a few

hundred inhabitants, with a pleasant background of barley-fields and

birchen groves. The Namsen valley, behind it, is one of the richest in

this part of Norway, and is a great resort of English salmon-fishers.

There was a vessel of two hundred tons on the stocks, and a few coasting

crafts lying at anchor.

We had a beautiful afternoon voyage out another arm of the fjord, and

again entered the labyrinth of islands fringing the coast. Already, the

days had perceptibly lengthened, and the increased coldness of the air

at night indicated our approach to the Arctic Circle. I was surprised at

the amount of business done at the little stations where we touched. Few

of these contained a dozen houses, yet the quantity of passengers and

freight which we discharged and took on board, at each, could only be

explained by the fact that these stations are generally outlets for a

tolerably large population, hidden in the valleys and fjords behind,

which the steamer does not visit. Bleak and desolate as the coast

appears, the back country has its fertile districts--its pasture-ground,

its corn-land and forests, of which the voyager sees nothing, and thus

might be led to form very erroneous conclusions. Before we had been

twenty-four hours out from Drontheim, there was a marked change in the

appearance of the people we took on board. Not even in the neighborhood

of Christiania or in the rich Guldbrandsdal were the inhabitants so

well-dressed, so prosperous (judging from outward signs, merely), or so

intelligent. They are in every respect more agreeable and promising

specimens of humanity than their brothers of Southern Norway,

notwithstanding the dark and savage scenery amidst which their lot is

cast.

Toward midnight, we approached the rock of Torghätten, rising 1200 feet

high, in the shape of a tall-crowned, battered "wide-awake," above the

low, rocky isles and reefs which surround it. This rock is famous for a

natural tunnel, passing directly through its heart--the path of an arrow

which the Giant Horseman (of whom I shall speak presently) shot at a

disdainful maiden, equally colossal, in the old mythological times, when

Odin got drunk nightly in Walhalla. We were all on the look-out for this

tunnel, which, according to Murray, is large enough for a ship to go

through--if it were not some six hundred feet above the sea-level. We

had almost passed the rock and nothing of the kind could be seen; but

Capt. Riis, who was on deck, encouraged us to have a little patience,

changed the steamer's course, and presently we saw a dark cavern yawning

in the face of a precipice on the northern side. It was now midnight,

but a sunset light tinged the northern sky, and the Torghätten yet stood

in twilight. "Shall we see through it?" was the question; but while we

were discussing the chances, a faint star sparkled in the midst of the

cavernous gloom. "You see it because you imagine it," cried some; yet,

no, it was steadfast, and grew broad and bright, until even the most

sceptical recognised the pale midnight sky at the bottom of the gigantic

arch.

My friend aroused me at five in the morning to see the Seven

Sisters--seven majestic peaks, 4000 feet high, and seated closely side

by side, with their feet in the sea. They all wore nightcaps of gray

fog, and had a sullen and sleepy air. I imagined they snored, but it

was a damp wind driving over the rocks. They were northern beauties,

hard-featured and large-boned, and I would not give a graceful southern

hill, like Monte Albano or the Paphian Olympus, for the whole of them.

So I turned in again, and did not awake until the sun had dried the

decks, and the split, twisted and contorted forms of the islands gave

promise of those remarkable figures which mark the position of the

Arctic Circle. There was already a wonderful change in the scenery. The

islands were high and broken, rising like towers and pyramids from the

water, and grouped together in the most fantastic confusion. Between

their jagged pinnacles, and through their sheer walls of naked rock, we

could trace the same formation among the hills of the mainland, while in

the rear, white against the sky, stretched the snowy table-land which

forms a common summit for all. One is bewildered in the attempt to

describe such scenery. There is no central figure, no prevailing

character, no sharp contrasts, which may serve as a guide whereby to

reach the imagination of the reader. All is confused, disordered,

chaotic. One begins to understand the old Norse myth of these stones

being thrown by the devil in a vain attempt to prevent the Lord from

finishing the world. Grand as they are, singly, you are so puzzled by

their numbers and by the fantastic manner in which they seem to dance

around you, as the steamer threads the watery labyrinth, that you

scarcely appreciate them as they deserve. Take almost any one of these

hundreds, and place it inland, anywhere in Europe or America, and it

will be visited, sketched and sung to distraction.

At last we saw in the west, far out at sea, the four towers of Threnen,

rising perpendicularly many hundred feet from the water. Before us was

the _Hestmand_, or Horseman, who bridles his rocky steed with the polar

circle. At first, he appeared like a square turret crowning an irregular

mass of island-rock, but, as we approached a colossal head rounded

itself at the top, and a sweeping cloak fell from the broad shoulder,

flowing backward to the horse's flanks. Still, there was no horse; but

here again our captain took the steamer considerably out of her course,

so that, at a distance of a mile the whole enormous figure, 1500 feet in

height, lay clearly before us. A heavy beard fell from the grand,

Jupitolian head; the horse, with sharp ears erect and head bent down,

seemed to be plunging into the sea, which was already above his belly;

the saddle had slipped forward, so that the rider sat upon his

shoulders, but with his head proudly lifted, as if conscious of his

fate, and taking a last look at the world. Was it not All-Father Odin,

on his horse Sleipner, forsaking the new race which had ceased to

worship him? The colossi of the Orient--Rameses and Brahma and

Boodh--dwindle into insignificance before this sublime natural monument

to the lost gods of the North.

At the little fishing-village of Anklakken, near the Horseman, a fair

was being held, and a score or more of coasting craft, gay with

Norwegian flags, lay at anchor. These _jægts_, as they are called, have

a single mast, with a large square sail, precisely like those of the

Japanese fishing junks, and their hulls are scarcely less heavy and

clumsy. They are the Norwegian boats of a thousand years ago; all

attempt to introduce a better form of ship-building having been in

vain. But the romantic traveller should not suppose that he beholds the

"dragons" of the Vikings, which were a very different craft, and have

long since disappeared. The _jægts_ are slow, but good seaboats, and as

the article haste is not in demand anywhere in Norway, they probably

answer every purpose as well as more rational vessels. Those we saw

belonged to traders who cruise along the coast during the summer,

attending the various fairs, which appear to be the principal recreation

of the people. At any rate, they bring some life and activity into these

silent solitudes. We had on board the effects of an Englishman who went

on shore to see a fair and was left behind by a previous steamer. He had

nothing with him but the clothes on his back, and spoke no Norsk: so the

captain anxiously looked out for a melancholy, dilapidated individual at

every station we touched at--but he looked in vain, for we neither saw

nor heard anything of the unfortunate person.

All the afternoon, we had a continuation of the same wonderful

scenery--precipices of red rock a thousand feet high, with snowy,

turreted summits, and the loveliest green glens between. To the east

were vast snow-fields, covering the eternal glaciers of the Alpine

range. As we looked up the Salten Fjord, while crossing its mouth, the

snows of Sulitelma, the highest mountain in Lappmark, 6000 feet above

the sea, were visible, about fifty miles distant. Next came the little

town of Bodö where we stopped for the night. It is a cluster of wooden

houses, with roofs of green sod, containing about three hundred

inhabitants. We found potatoes in the gardens, some currant bushes, and

a few hardy vegetables, stunted ash trees and some patches of barley.

The sun set a little before eleven o'clock, but left behind him a glory

of colours which I have never seen surpassed. The snowy mountains of

Lappmark were transmuted into pyramids of scarlet flame, beside which

the most gorgeous sunset illuminations of the Alps would have been pale

and tame. The sky was a sheet of saffron, amber and rose, reduplicated

in the glassy sea, and the peaked island of Landegode in the west, which

stood broad against the glow, became a mass of violet hue, topped with

cliffs of crimson fire. I sat down on deck and tried to sketch this

superb spectacle, in colours which nobody will believe to be real.

Before I had finished, the sunset which had lighted one end of Landegode

became sunrise at the other, and the fading Alps burned anew with the

flames of morning.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LOFODEN ISLES.

The northern summer soon teaches one fashionable habits of life. Like

the man whose windows Sidney Smith darkened, and who slept all day

because he thought it was night, you keep awake all night because you

forget that it is not day. One's perception of time contracts in some

mysterious way, and the sun, setting at eleven, seems to be no later

than when he set at seven. You think you will enjoy the evening twilight

an hour or two before going to bed, and lo! the morning begins to dawn.

It seems absurd to turn in and sleep by daylight, but you sleep,

nevertheless, until eight or nine o'clock, and get up but little

refreshed with your repose. You miss the grateful covering of darkness,

the sweet, welcome gloom, which shuts your senses, one after one, like

the closing petals of a flower, in the restoring trance of the night.

The light comes through your eyelids as you sleep, and a certain nervous

life of the body that should sleep too keeps awake and active. I soon

began to feel the wear and tear of perpetual daylight, in spite of its

novelty and the many advantages which it presents to the traveller.

At Bodö we were in sight of the Lofoden Islands, which filled up all

the northern and western horizon, rising like blue saw-teeth beyond the

broad expanse of the West Fjord, which separates them from the group of

the shore islands. The next morning, we threaded a perfect labyrinth of

rocks, after passing Grotö, and headed across the fjord, for Balstad, on

West-Vaagöe, one of the outer isles. This passage is often very rough,

especially when the wind blows from the south-west, rolling the heavy

swells of the Atlantic into the open mouth of the fjord. We were very

much favoured by the weather, having a clear sky, with a light north

wind and smooth sea. The long line of jagged peaks, stretching from

Væröe in the south west to the giant ridges of Hindöe in the north east,

united themselves in the distance with the Alpine chain of the mainland

behind us, forming an amphitheatre of sharp, snowy summits, which

embraced five-sixths of the entire circle of the horizon, and would have

certainly numbered not less than two hundred. Von Buch compares the

Lofodens to the jaws of a shark, and most travellers since his time have

resuscitated the comparison, but I did not find it so remarkably

applicable. There are shark tooth peaks here and there, it is true, but

the peculiar conformation of Norway--extensive plateaus, forming the

summit-level of the mountains--extends also to these islands, whose only

valleys are those which open to the sea, and whose interiors are

uninhabitable snowy tracts, mostly above the line of vegetation.

On approaching the islands, we had a fair view of the last outposts of

the group--the solid barriers against which the utmost fury of the

Atlantic dashes in vain. This side of Væröe lay the large island of

Mosköe, between which and a large solitary rock in the middle of the

strait dividing them, is the locality of the renowned Maelström--now,

alas! almost as mythical as the kraaken or great sea snake of the

Norwegian fjords. It is a great pity that the geographical illusions of

our boyish days cannot retrain. You learn that the noise of Niagara can

be heard 120 miles off, and that "some Indians, in their canoes, have

ventured down it, with safety." Well, one could give up the Indians

without much difficulty; but it is rather discouraging to step out of

the Falls Depôt for the first time, within a quarter of a mile of the

cataract, and hear no sound except "Cab sir?" "Hotel, sir?" So of the

Maelström, denoted on my schoolboy map by a great spiral twist, which

suggested to me a tremendous whirl of the ocean currents, aided by the

information that "vessels cannot approach nearer than seven miles." In

Olney, moreover, there was a picture of a luckless bark, half-way down

the vortex. I had been warming my imagination, as we came up the coast,

with Campbell's sonorous lines:

"Round the shores where runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale;

Round the isles where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale;"

and, as we looked over the smooth water towards Mosköe, felt a renewed

desire to make an excursion thither on out return from the north. But,

according to Captain Riis, and other modern authorities which I

consulted, the Maelström has lost all its terrors and attractions. Under

certain conditions of wind and tide, an eddy is formed in the strait it

is true, which may be dangerous to small boats--but the place is by no

means so much dreaded as the Salten Fjord, where the tide, rushing in,

is caught in such a manner as to form a _bore_, as in the Bay of Fundy,

and frequently proves destructive to the fishing craft. It is the

general opinion that some of the rocks which formerly made the Maelström

so terrible have been worn away, or that some submarine convulsion has

taken place which has changed the action of the waters; otherwise it is

impossible to account for the reputation it once possessed.

It should also be borne in mind that any accident to a boat among these

islands is more likely to prove disastrous than elsewhere, since there

are probably not a score out of the twenty thousand Lofoden fishermen

who pass half their lives on the water, who know how to swim. The water

is too cold to make bathing a luxury, and they are not sufficiently

prepossessed in favour of cleanliness to make it a duty. Nevertheless,

they are bold sailors, in their way, and a tougher, hardier, more

athletic class of men it would be difficult to find. Handsome they are

not, but quite the reverse, and the most of them have an awkward and

uncouth air; but it is refreshing to look at their broad shoulders,

their brawny chests, and the massive muscles of their legs and arms.

During the whole voyage, I saw but one man who appeared to be diseased.

Such men, I suspect, were the Vikings--rough, powerful, ugly, dirty

fellows, with a few primitive virtues, and any amount of robust vices.

We noticed, however, a marked change for the better in the common

people, as we advanced northward. They were altogether better dressed,

better mannered, and more independent and intelligent, but with a hard,

keen, practical expression of face, such as one finds among the shoremen

of New-England. The school system of Norway is still sadly deficient,

but there is evidently no lack of natural capacity among these people.

Their prevailing vice is intemperance, which here, as in all other parts

of the country, is beginning to diminish since restrictions have been

placed upon the manufacture and sale of spirituous liquors,

simultaneously with the introduction of cheap and excellent fermented

drinks. The statistics of their morality also show a better state of

things than in the South. There is probably no country population in the

world where licentiousness prevails to such an extent as in the

districts of Guldbrandsdal and Hedemark.

A voyage of four hours across the West Fjord brought us to the little

village of Balstad, at the southern end of West-Vaagöe. The few red,

sod-roofed houses were built upon a rocky point, behind which were some

patches of bright green pasture, starred with buttercups, overhung by a

splendid peak of dark-red rock, two thousand feet in height. It was a

fine frontispiece to the Lofoden scenery which now opened before us.

Running along the coast of West and East Vaagöe, we had a continual

succession of the wildest and grandest pictures--thousand feet

precipices, with turrets and needles of rock piercing the sky, dazzling

snow-fields, leaking away in cataracts which filled the ravines with

foam, and mazes of bald, sea-worn rocks, which seem to have been thrown

down from the scarred peaks in some terrible convulsion of nature. Here

and there were hollows, affording stony pasturage for a few sheep and

cows and little wooden fisher-huts stood on the shore in the arms of

sheltered coves. At the village of Svolvær, which is built upon a pile

of bare stones, we took on board a number of ladies in fashionable

dresses, with bonnets on the backs of their heads and a sufficiency of

cumbrous petticoats to make up for the absence of hoops, which have not

yet got further north than Drontheim. In seeing these unexpected

apparitions emerge from such a wild corner of chaos I could not but

wonder at the march of modern civilisation. Pianos in Lapland, Parisian

dresses among the Lofodens, billiard-tables in Hammerfest--whither shall

we turn to find the romance of the North!

We sailed, in the lovely nocturnal sunshine, through the long,

river-like channel--the Rasksund, I believe, it is called--between the

islands of East-Vaagöe and Hindöe, the largest of the Lofodens. For a

distance of fifteen miles the strait was in no place more than a mile in

breadth, while it was frequently less than a quarter. The smooth water

was a perfect mirror, reflecting on one side the giant cliffs, with

their gorges choked with snow, their arrowy pinnacles and white lines of

falling water--on the other, hills turfed to the summit with emerald

velvet, sprinkled with pale groves of birch and alder, and dotted, along

their bases, with the dwellings of the fishermen. It was impossible to

believe that we were floating on an arm of the Atlantic--it was some

unknown river, or a lake high up among the Alpine peaks. The silence of

these shores added to the impression. Now and then a white sea-gull

fluttered about the cliffs, or an eider duck paddled across some glassy

cove, but no sound was heard: there was no sail on the water, no human

being on the shore. Emerging at last from this wild and enchanting

strait, we stood across a bay, opening southward to the Atlantic, to the

port of Steilo, on one of the outer islands. Here the broad front of the

island, rising against the roseate sky, was one swell of the most

glorious green, down to the very edge of the sea, while the hills of

East-Vaagöe, across the bay, showed only naked and defiant rock, with

summit-fields of purple-tinted snow. In splendour of coloring, the

tropics were again surpassed, but the keen north wind obliged us to

enjoy it in an overcoat.

Toward midnight, the sun was evidently above the horizon, though hidden

by intervening mountains. Braisted and another American made various

exertions to see it, such as climbing the foremast, but did not succeed

until about one o'clock, when they were favoured by a break in the

hills. Although we had daylight the whole twenty-four hours, travellers

do not consider that their duty is fulfilled unless they see the sun

itself, exactly at midnight. In the morning, we touched at Throndenaes,

on the northern side of Hindöe, a beautiful bay with green and wooded

shores, and then, leaving the Lofodens behind us, entered the

archipelago of large islands which lines the coast of Finmark. Though

built on the same grand and imposing scale as the Lofodens, these

islands are somewhat less jagged and abrupt in their forms, and exhibit

a much more luxuriant vegetation. In fact, after leaving the Namsen

Fjord, near Drontheim, one sees very little timber until he reaches the

parallel of 69°. The long straits between Senjen and Qvalö and the

mainland are covered with forests of birch and turfy slopes greener than

England has ever shown. At the same time the snow level was not more

than 500 feet above the sea, and broad patches lay melting on all the

lower hills. This abundance of snow seems a singular incongruity, when

you look upon the warm summer sky and the dark, mellow, juicy green of

the shores. One fancies that he is either sailing upon some lofty inland

lake, or that the ocean-level in these latitudes must be many thousand

feet higher than in the temperate zone. He cannot believe that he is on

the same platform with Sicily and Ceylon.

After a trip up the magnificent Maans Fjord, and the sight of some

sea-green glaciers, we approached Tromsöe, the capital of Finmark. This

is a town of nearly 3000 inhabitants, on a small island in the strait

between Qvalö and the mainland. It was just midnight when we dropped

anchor, but, although the sun was hidden by a range of snowy hills in

the north, the daylight was almost perfect. I immediately commenced

making a sketch of the harbour, with its fleet of coasting vessels. Some

Russian craft from Archangel, and a Norwegian cutter carrying six guns,

were also at anchor before the town. Our French traveller, after amusing

himself with the idea of my commencing a picture at sunset and finishing

it at sunrise, started for a morning ramble over the hills. Boats

swarmed around the steamer; the coal-lighters came off, our crew

commenced their work, and when the sun's disc appeared, before one

o'clock, there was another day inaugurated. The night had vanished

mysteriously, no one could tell how.

CHAPTER XXV.

FINMARK AND HAMMERFEST.

The steamer lay at Tromsöe all day, affording us an opportunity to visit

an encampment of Lapps in Tromsdal, about four miles to the eastward. So

far as the Lapps were concerned, I had seen enough of them, but I joined

the party for the sake of the northern summer. The captain was kind

enough to despatch a messenger to the Lapps, immediately on our arrival,

that their herd of reindeer, pasturing on the mountains, might be driven

down for our edification, and also exerted himself to procure a horse

for the American lady. The horse came, in due time, but a side saddle is

an article unknown in the arctic regions, and the lady was obliged to

trust herself to a man's saddle and the guidance of a Norseman of the

most remarkable health, strength, and stupidity.

Our path led up a deep valley, shut in by overhanging cliffs, and

blocked up at the eastern end by the huge mass of the fjeld. The

streams, poured down the crags from their snowy reservoirs, spread

themselves over the steep side of the hill, making a succession of

quagmires, over which we were obliged to spring and scramble in

breakneck style. The sun was intensely hot in the enclosed valley, and

we found the shade of the birchen groves very grateful. Some of the

trees grew to a height of forty feet, with trunks the thickness of a

man's body. There were also ash and alder trees, of smaller size, and a

profusion of brilliant wild flowers. The little multeberry was in

blossom; the ranunculus, the globe-flower, the purple geranium, the

heath, and the blue forget-me-not spangled the ground, and on every

hillock the young ferns unrolled their aromatic scrolls written with

wonderful fables of the southern spring. For it was only spring here, or

rather the very beginning of summer. The earth had only become warm

enough to conceive and bring forth flowers, and she was now making the

most of the little maternity vouchsafed to her. The air was full of

winged insects, darting hither and thither in astonishment at finding

themselves alive; the herbage seemed to be visibly growing under your

eyes; even the wild shapes of the trees were expressive of haste, lest

the winter might come on them unawares; and I noticed that the year's

growth had been shot out at once, so that the young sprays might have

time to harden and to protect the next year's buds. There was no lush,

rollicking out-burst of foliage, no mellow, epicurean languor of the

woods, no easy unfolding of leaf on leaf, as in the long security of our

summers; but everywhere a feverish hurry on the part of nature to do

something, even if it should only be half done. And above the valley,

behind its mural ramparts, glowered the cold white snows, which had

withdrawn for a little while, but lay in wait, ready to spring down as

soon as the protecting sunshine should fail.

The lady had one harmless tumble into the mud, and we were all pretty

well fatigued with our rough walk, when we reached the Lapp encampment.

It consisted only of two families, who lived in their characteristic

_gammes_, or huts of earth, which serve them also for winter dwellings.

These burrows were thrown up on a grassy meadow, beside a rapid stream

which came down from the fjeld; and at a little distance were two folds,

or _corrals_ for their reindeer, fenced with pickets slanting outward. A

number of brown-haired, tailless dogs, so much resembling bear-cubs that

at first sight we took them for such, were playing about the doors. A

middle-aged Lapp, with two women and three or four children, were the

inmates. They scented profit, and received us in a friendly way,

allowing the curious strangers to go in and out at pleasure, to tease

the dogs, drink the reindeer milk, inspect the children, rock the baby,

and buy horn spoons to the extent of their desire. They were smaller

than the Lapps of Kautokeino--or perhaps the latter appeared larger in

their winter dresses--and astonishingly dirty. Their appearance is much

more disgusting in summer than in winter, when the snow, to a certain

extent, purifies everything. After waiting an hour or more, the herd

appeared descending the fjeld, and driven toward the fold by two young

Lapps, assisted by their dogs. There were about four hundred in all,

nearly one-third being calves. Their hoarse bleating and the cracking

noise made by their knee-joints, as they crowded together into a dense

mass of grey, mossy backs, made a very peculiar sound; and this combined

with their ragged look, from the process of shedding their coats of

hair, did not very favourably impress those of our party who saw them

for the first time. The old Lapp and his boy, a strapping fellow of

fifteen, with a ruddy, olive complexion and almost Chinese features,

caught a number of the cows with lassos, and proceeded to wean the young

deer by anointing the mothers' dugs with cow-dung, which they carried in

pails slung over their shoulders. In this delightful occupation we left

them, and returned to Tromsöe.

As we crossed the mouth of the Ulvsfjord, that evening we had an open

sea horizon toward the north, a clear sky, and so much sunshine at

eleven o'clock that it was evident the Polar day had dawned upon us at

last. The illumination of the shores was unearthly in its glory, and the

wonderful effects of the orange sunlight, playing upon the dark hues of

the island cliffs, can neither be told nor painted. The sun hung low

between Fuglöe, rising like a double dome from the sea, and the tall

mountains of Arnöe, both of which islands resembled immense masses of

transparent purple glass, gradually melting into crimson fire at their

bases. The glassy, leaden-coloured sea was powdered with a golden bloom,

and the tremendous precipices at the mouth of the Lyngen Fjord, behind

us, were steeped in a dark red, mellow flush, and touched with

pencillings of pure, rose-coloured light, until their naked ribs seemed

to be clothed in imperial velvet. As we turned into the Fjord and ran

southward along their bases, a waterfall, struck by the sun, fell in

fiery orange foam down the red walls, and the blue ice-pillars of a

beautiful glacier filled up the ravine beyond it. We were all on deck,

and all faces, excited by the divine splendour of the scene, and tinged

by the same wonderful aureole, shone as if transfigured. In my whole

life I have never seen a spectacle so unearthly beautiful.

Our course brought the sun rapidly toward the ruby cliffs of Arnöe, and

it was evident that he would soon be hidden from sight. It was not yet

half-past eleven, and an enthusiastic passenger begged the captain to

stop the vessel until midnight. "Why," said the latter, "it is midnight

now, or very near it; you have Drontheim time, which is almost forty

minutes in arrears." True enough, the real time lacked but five minutes

of midnight, and those of us who had sharp eyes and strong imaginations

saw the sun make his last dip and rise a little, before he vanished in a

blaze of glory behind Arnöe. I turned away with my eyes full of dazzling

spheres of crimson and gold, which danced before me wherever I looked,

and it was a long time before they were blotted out by the semi-oblivion

of a daylight sleep.

The next morning found us at the entrance of the long Alten Fjord. Here

the gashed, hacked, split, scarred and shattered character of the

mountains ceases, and they suddenly assume a long, rolling outline, full

of bold features, but less wild and fantastic. On the southern side of

the fjord many of them are clothed with birch and fir to the height of a

thousand feet. The valleys here are cultivated to some extent, and

produce, in good seasons, tolerable crops of potatoes, barley, and

buckwheat. This is above lat. 70°, or parallel with the northern part of

Greenland, and consequently the highest cultivated land in the world. In

the valley of the Alten River, the Scotch fir sometimes reaches a

height of seventy or eighty feet. This district is called the Paradise

of Finmark, and no doubt floats in the imaginations of the settlers on

Mageröe and the dreary Porsanger Fjord, as Andalusia and Syria float in

ours. It is well that human bliss is so relative in its character.

At Talvik, a cheerful village with a very neat, pretty church, who

should come on board but Pastor Hvoslef, our Kautokeino friend of the

last winter! He had been made one of a Government Commission of four,

appointed to investigate and report upon the dissensions between the

nomadic Lapps and those who have settled habitations. A better person

could not have been chosen than this good man, who has the welfare of

the Lapps truly at heart, and in whose sincerity every one in the North

confides.

We had on board Mr. Thomas, the superintendent of the copper works at

Kaafjord, who had just resigned his seat in the Storthing and given up

his situation for the purpose of taking charge of some mines at Copiapo,

in Chili. Mr. Thomas is an Englishman, who has been for twenty years

past one of the leading men of Finmark, and no other man, I venture to

say, has done more to improve and enlighten that neglected province. His

loss will not be easily replaced. At Talvik, his wife, a pleasant,

intelligent Norwegian lady, came on board; and, as we passed the rocky

portals guarding the entrance to the little harbour of Kaafjord, a gun,

planted on a miniature battery above the landing-place, pealed forth a

salute of welcome. I could partly understand Mr. Thomas's long residence

in those regions, when I saw what a wild, picturesque spot he had chosen

for his home. The cavernous entrances to the copper mines yawned in the

face of the cliff above the outer bay below, on the water's edge, stood

the smelting works, surrounded by labourers' cottages; a graceful white

church crowned a rocky headland a little further on; and beyond, above a

green lawn, decked with a few scattering birches, stood a comfortable

mansion, with a garden in the rear. The flag of Norway and the cross of

St. George floated from separate staffs on the lawn. There were a number

of houses, surrounded with potato-fields on the slope stretching around

the bay, and an opening of the hills at its head gave us a glimpse of

the fir forests of the inland valleys. On such a cloudless day as we

had, it was a cheerful and home-like spot.

We took a friendly leave of Mr. Thomas and departed, the little battery

giving us I don't know how many three-gun salutes as we moved off. A

number of whales spouted on all sides of us as we crossed the head of

the fjord to Bosekop, near the mouth of the Alten River. This is a

little village on a bare rocky headland, which completely shuts out from

view the rich valley of the Alten, about which the Finmarkers speak with

so much enthusiasm. "Ah, you should see the farms on the Alten," say

they; "there we have large houses, fields, meadows, cattle, and the

finest timber." This is Altengaard, familiar to all the readers of

Mügge's "Afraja." The _gaard_, however, is a single large estate, and

not a name applied to the whole district, as those unfamiliar with Norsk

nomenclature might suppose. Here the Catholics have established a

mission--ostensibly a missionary boarding-house, for the purpose of

acclimating arctic apostles; but the people, who regard it with the

greatest suspicion and distrust, suspect that the ultimate object is the

overthrow of their inherited, venerated, and deeply-rooted Lutheran

faith. At Bosekop we lost Pastor Hvoslef, and took on board the chief of

the mission, the Catholic Bishop of the Arctic Zone--for I believe his

diocese includes Greenland, Spitzbergen, and Polar America. Here is a

Calmuck Tartar, thought I, as a short, strongly-built man, with sallow

complexion, deep-set eyes, broad nostrils, heavy mouth, pointed chin,

and high cheek-bones, stepped on board; but he proved to be a Russian

baron, whose conversion cost him his estates. He had a massive head,

however, in which intellect predominated, and his thoroughly polished

manners went far to counteract the effect of one of the most

unprepossessing countenances I ever saw.

M. Gay, who had known the bishop at Paris, at once entered into

conversation with him. A short time afterwards, my attention was drawn

to the spot where they stood by loud and angry exclamations. Two of our

Norwegian _savans_ stood before the bishop, and one of them, with a face

white with rage, was furiously vociferating: "It is not true! it is not

true! Norway is a free country!" "In this respect, it is not free,"

answered the bishop, with more coolness than I thought he could have

shown, under such circumstances: "You know very well that no one can

hold office except those who belong to your State Church--neither a

Catholic, nor a Methodist, nor a Quaker: whereas in France, as I have

said, a Protestant may even become a minister of the Government." "But

we do not believe in the Catholic faith:--we will have nothing to do

with it!" screamed the Norwegian. "We are not discussing our creeds,"

answered the bishop: "I say that, though Norway is a free country,

politically, it does _not_ secure equal rights to all its citizens, and

so far as the toleration of religious beliefs is concerned, it is behind

most other countries of Europe." He thereupon retreated to the cabin,

for a crowd had gathered about the disputants, and the deck-passengers

pressing aft, seemed more than usually excited by what was going on. The

Norwegian shaking with fury, hissed through his set teeth: "How dare he

come here to insult our national feeling!" Yes, but every word was true;

and the scene was only another illustration of the intense vanity of the

Norwegians in regard to their country. Woe to the man who says a word

against Norway, though he say nothing but what everybody knows to be

true! So long as you praise everything--scenery, people, climate,

institutions, and customs--or keep silent where you cannot praise, you

have the most genial conversation; but drop a word of honest dissent or

censure, and you will see how quickly every one draws back into his

shell. There are parts of our own country where a foreigner might make

the same observation. Let a Norwegian travel in the Southern States, and

dare to say a word in objection to slavery!

There is nothing of interest between Alten and Hammerfest, except the

old sea-margins on the cliffs and a small glacier on the island of

Seiland. The coast is dismally bleak and barren. Whales were very

abundant; we sometimes saw a dozen spouting at one time. They were of

the hump-backed species, and of only moderate size; yet the fishery

would doubtless pay very well, if the natives had enterprise enough to

undertake it. I believe, however, there is no whale fishery on the whole

Norwegian coast. The desolate hills of Qvalö surmounted by the pointed

peak of the Tjuve Fjeld, or "Thief Mountain,"--so called because it

steals so much of the winter sunshine,--announced our approach to

Hammerfest, and towards nine o'clock in the evening we were at anchor in

the little harbour. The summer trade had just opened, and forty Russian

vessels, which had arrived from the White Sea during the previous week

or two, lay crowded before the large fish warehouses built along the

water. They were all three-masted schooners, the main and mizen masts

set close together, and with very heavy, square hulls. Strong Muscovite

faces, adorned with magnificent beards, stared at us from the decks, and

a jabber of Russian, Finnish, Lapp, and Norwegian, came from the rough

boats crowding about our gangways. The north wind, blowing to us off the

land, was filled with the perfume of dried codfish, train oil, and

burning whale-"scraps," with which, as we soon found, the whole place is

thoroughly saturated.

There is one hotel in the place, containing half a dozen chambers of the

size of a state-room. We secured quarters here with a great deal of

difficulty, owing to slowness of comprehension on the part of an old

lady who had charge of the house. The other American, who at first took

rooms for himself and wife, gave them up again very prudently; for the

noises of the billiard-room penetrated through the thin wooden

partitions, and my bed, at least, had been slept in by one of the

codfish aristocracy, for the salty odour was so pungent that it kept me

awake for a long time. With our fare, we had less reason to complain.

Fresh salmon, arctic ptarmigan, and reindeer's tongue were delicacies

which would have delighted any palate, and the wine had really seen

Bordeaux, although rainy weather had evidently prevailed during the

voyage thence to Hammerfest. The town lies in a deep bight, inclosed by

precipitous cliffs, on the south-western side of the island, whence the

sun, by this time long past his midsummer altitude, was not visible at

midnight. Those of our passengers who intended returning by the

_Nordkap_ climbed the hills to get another view of him, but

unfortunately went upon the wrong summit, so that they did not see him

after all. I was so fatigued, from the imperfect sleep of the sunshiny

nights and the crowd of new and exciting impressions which the voyage

had given me, that I went to bed; but my friend sat up until long past

midnight, writing, with curtains drawn.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

Most of the travellers who push as far north as Hammerfest content

themselves with one experience of the midnight sun, and return with the

same steamer to Drontheim. A few extend their journey to the North Cape,

and, once a year, on an average, perhaps, some one is adventurous enough

to strike across Lapland to Torneå. The steamers, nevertheless, pass the

North Cape, and during the summer make weekly trips to the Varanger

Fjord, the extreme eastern limit of the Norwegian territory. We were

divided in opinion whether to devote our week of sunshine to the North

Cape, or to make the entire trip and see something of the northern coast

of Europe, but finally decided that the latter, on the whole, as being

unfamiliar ground, would be most interesting. The screw-steamer Gyller

(one of Odin's horses) was lying in the harbour when we arrived, and was

to leave in the course of the next night; so we lost no time in securing

places, as she had but a small cabin and no state-rooms. Nevertheless,

we found her very comfortable, and in every respect far superior to the

English vessels which ply between Hull and Christiania. Our fellow

travellers were all returning to Drontheim--except three Norwegian

officers on their way to make an official inspection of the fortress of

Wardöhuus--and the last we saw of them was their return, an hour past

midnight, from making a second attempt to see the sun from the hills.

The night was somewhat obscured, and I doubt if they were successful.

When I went on deck on the morning after our departure, we were in the

narrow strait between the island of Mageröe, the northern extremity of

which forms the North Cape, and the mainland. On either side, the shores

of bare bleak rock, spotted with patches of moss and stunted grass, rose

precipitously from the water, the snow filling up their ravines from the

summit to the sea. Not a tree nor a shrub, nor a sign of human

habitation was visible; there was no fisher's sail on the lonely waters,

and only the cries of some sea-gulls, wheeling about the cliffs, broke

the silence. As the strait opened to the eastward, a boat appeared,

beating into Kjelvik, on the south-eastern corner of the island; but the

place itself was concealed from us by an intervening cape. This is the

spot which Von Buch visited in the summer of 1807, just fifty years ago,

and his description would be equally correct at the present day. Here,

where the scurvy carries off half the inhabitants,--where pastors coming

from Southern Norway die within a year,--where no trees grow, no

vegetables come to maturity, and gales from every quarter of the Icy Sea

beat the last faint life out of nature, men will still persist in

living, in apparent defiance of all natural laws. Yet they have at least

an excuse for it, in the miraculous provision which Providence has made

for their food and fuel. The sea and fjords are alive with fish, which

are not only a means of existence but of profit to them, while the

wonderful Gulf Stream, which crosses 5000 miles of the Atlantic to die

upon this Ultima Thule in a last struggle with the Polar Sea, casts up

the spoils of tropical forests to feed their fires. Think of arctic

fishers burning upon their hearths the palms of Hayti, the mahogany of

Honduras, and the precious woods of the Amazon and the Orinoco!

In the spring months, there are on an average 800 vessels on the

northern coast, between the North Cape and Vadsö, with a fishing

population of 5000 men on board, whose average gains, even at the scanty

prices they receive amount to $30 apiece, making a total yield of

$150,000. It is only within a very few years that the Norwegian

Government has paid any attention to this far corner of the peninsula.

At present, considering the slender population, the means of

communication are well kept up during eight months in the year, and the

result is an increase (perceptible to an old resident, no doubt) in the

activity and prosperity of the country.

On issuing from the strait, we turned southward into the great Porsanger

Fjord, which stretches nearly a hundred miles into the heart of Lapland,

dividing Western from Eastern Finmark. Its shores are high monotonous

hills, half covered with snow, and barren of vegetation except patches

of grass and moss. If once wooded, like the hills of the Alten Fjord,

the trees have long since disappeared, and now nothing can be more bleak

and desolate. The wind blew violently from the east, gradually lifting a

veil of grey clouds from the cold pale sky, and our slow little steamer

with jib and fore-topsail set, made somewhat better progress. Toward

evening (if there is such a time in the arctic summer), we reached

Kistrand, the principal settlement on the fjord. It has eight or nine

houses, scattered along a gentle slope a mile in length, and a little

red church, but neither gardens, fields, nor potato patches. A strip of

grazing ground before the principal house was yellow with dandelions,

the slope behind showed patches of brownish green grass, and above this

melancholy attempt at summer stretched the cold, grey, snow-streaked

ridge of the hill. Two boats, manned by sea-Lapps, with square blue

caps, and long ragged locks of yellow hair fluttering in the wind,

brought off the only passenger and the mails, and we put about for the

mouth of the fjord.

Running along under the eastern shore, we exchanged the dreadful

monotony through which we had been sailing for more rugged and

picturesque scenery. Before us rose a wall of dark cliff, from five to

six hundred feet in height, gaping here and there with sharp clefts or

gashes, as if it had cracked in cooling, after the primeval fires. The

summit of these cliffs was the average level of the country; and this

peculiarity, I found, applies to all the northern shore of Finmark,

distinguishing the forms of the capes and islands from those about Alten

and Hammerfest, which, again, are quite different from those of the

Lofodens. "On returning from Spitzbergen," said a Hammerfest merchant to

me, "I do not need to look at chart or compass, when I get sight of the

coast; I know, from the formation of the cliffs, exactly where I am."

There is some general resemblance to the chalk bluffs of England,

especially about Beachy Head, but the rock here appears to be

mica-slate, disposed in thin, vertical strata, with many violent

transverse breaks.

As we approached the end of the promontory which divides the Porsanger

from the Laxe Fjord, the rocks became more abrupt and violently

shattered. Huge masses, fallen from the summit, lined the base of the

precipice, which was hollowed into cavernous arches, the home of myriads

of sea-gulls. The rock of Sværholtklub, off the point, resembled a

massive fortress in ruins. Its walls of smooth masonry rested on three

enormous vaults, the piers of which were buttressed with slanting piles

of rocky fragments. The ramparts, crenelated in some places, had

mouldered away in others, and one fancied he saw in the rents and scars

of the giant pile the marks of the shot and shell which had wrought its

ruin. Thousands of white gulls, gone to their nightly roost, rested on

every ledge and cornice of the rock; but preparations were already made

to disturb their slumbers. The steamer's cannon was directed towards the

largest vault, and discharged. The fortress shook with the crashing

reverberation; "then rose a shriek, as of a city sacked"--a wild,

piercing, maddening, myriad-tongued cry, which still rings in my ears.

With the cry, came a rushing sound, as of a tempest among the woods; a

white cloud burst out of the hollow arch-way, like the smoke of an

answering shot, and, in the space of a second, the air was filled with

birds, thicker than autumn leaves, and rang with one universal, clanging

shriek. A second shot, followed by a second outcry and an answering

discharge from the other caverns, almost darkened the sky. The whirring,

rustling and screaming, as the birds circled overhead, or dropped like

thick scurries of snow-flakes on the water, was truly awful. There could

not have been less than fifty thousand in the air at one time, while as

many more clung to the face of the rock, or screamed from the depth of

the vaults. Such an indignation meeting I never attended before; but,

like many others I have heard of, the time for action was passed before

they had decided what to do.

It was now eleven o'clock, and Sværholt glowed in fiery bronze lustre as

we rounded it, the eddies of returning birds gleaming golden in the

nocturnal sun, like drifts of beech leaves in the October air. Far to

the north, the sun lay in a bed of saffron light over the clear horizon

of the Arctic Ocean. A few bars of dazzling orange cloud floated above

him, and still higher in the sky, where the saffron melted through

delicate rose-colour into blue, hung light wreaths of vapour, touched

with pearly, opaline flushes of pink and golden grey. The sea was a web

of pale slate-colour, shot through and through with threads of orange

and saffron, from the dance of a myriad shifting and twinkling ripples.

The air was filled and permeated with the soft, mysterious glow, and

even the very azure of the southern sky seemed to shine through a net of

golden gauze. The headlands of this deeply-indented coast--the capes of

the Laxe and Porsanger Fjords, and of Mageröe--lay around us, in

different degrees of distance, but all with foreheads touched with

supernatural glory. Far to the north-east was Nordkyn, the most northern

point of the mainland of Europe, gleaming rosily and faint in the full

beams of the sun, and just as our watches denoted midnight the North

Cape appeared to the westward--a long line of purple bluff, presenting

a vertical front of nine hundred feet in height to the Polar Sea. Midway

between those two magnificent headlands stood the Midnight Sun, shining

on us with subdued fires, and with the gorgeous colouring of an hour for

which we have no name, since it is neither sunset nor sunrise, but the

blended loveliness of both--but shining at the same moment, in the heat

and splendour of noonday, on the Pacific Isles.

This was the midnight sun as I had dreamed it--as I had hoped to see it.

Within fifteen minutes after midnight, there was a perceptible increase

of altitude, and in less than half an hour the whole tone of the sky had

changed, the yellow brightening into orange, and the saffron melting

into the pale vermilion of dawn. Yet it was neither the colours, nor the

same character of light as we had had, half an hour _before_ midnight.

The difference was so slight as scarcely to be described; but it was the

difference between evening and morning. The faintest transfusion of one

prevailing tint into another had changed the whole expression of heaven

and earth, and so imperceptibly and miraculously that a new day was

already present to our consciousness. Our view of the wild cliffs of

Sværholt, less than two hours before, belonged to yesterday, though we

had stood on deck, in full sunshine, during all the intervening time.

Had the sensation of a night slipped through our brains in the momentary

winking of the eyes? Or was the old routine of consciousness so firmly

stereotyped in our natures, that the view of a morning was sufficient

proof to them of the preëxistence of a night? Let those explain the

phenomenon who can--but I found my physical senses utterly at war with

those mental perceptions wherewith they should harmonise. The eye saw

but one unending day; the mind notched the twenty-four hours on its

calendar, as before.

Before one o'clock we reached the entrance of the Kiöllefjord, which in

the pre-diluvial times must have been a tremendous mountain gorge, like

that of Gondo, on the Italian side of the Simplon. Its mouth is about

half a mile in breadth, and its depth is not more than a mile and a

half. It is completely walled in with sheer precipices of bare rock,

from three to five hundred feet in height, except at the very head,

where they subside into a stony heap, upon which some infatuated mortals

have built two or three cabins. As we neared the southern headland, the

face of which was touched with the purest orange light, while its

yawning fissures lay in deep-blue gloom, a tall ruin, with shattered

turrets and crumbling spires, detached itself from the mass, and stood

alone at the foot of the precipice. This is the _Finnkirka_, or "Church

of the Lapps," well known to all the northern coasters. At first it

resembles a tall church with a massive square spire; but the two parts

separate again, and you have a crag-perched castle of the middle-ages,

with its watch-tower--the very counterpart of scores in Germany--and a

quaint Gothic chapel on the point beyond. The vertical strata of the

rock, worn into sharp points at the top and gradually broadening to the

base, with numberless notched ornaments and channels fluted by the rain,

make the resemblance marvellous, when seen under the proper effects of

light and shade. The lustre in which we saw it had the effect of

enchantment. There was a play of colours upon it, such as one sees in

illuminated Moorish halls, and I am almost afraid to say how much I was

enraptured by a scene which has not its equal on the whole Norwegian

coast, yet of which none of us had ever heard before.