BERGEN AND CHRISTIANIA
CHRISTIANIA, NORWAY,
September 5, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
Last Tuesday I left Aalesund by steamer for Bergen, where I arrived
early the following morning. Like practically all of the larger towns
of Norway, Bergen is situated upon a fiord and has a very attractive
approach from the water. It is the place which is said to have thirteen
months of rain per year; and I believe that it deserves the reputation,
for did the year contain thirteen months, the Bergen weather clerk
would certainly deluge them all. Rain was pouring down when I arrived;
it drizzled or poured throughout my stay; and was tapping drearily
against the car windows when I departed.
As the Bergen market is particularly famous, I was anxious to see it,
and lost no time after my arrival in going there. A great variety
of things were being bought and sold:—fruit and flowers—potted
and cut—vegetables, dishes, carved trinkets, brushes, brooms; but
especially fish; Bergen specializes upon fish. There were dozens and
dozens of different kinds of fish; some alive and swimming about in
tanks, others dead and sliced. Most of the sellers were from the
country and had their goods in hand carts or baskets. The women were
kerchiefed and in many cases sat upon small camp stools knitting while
waiting for customers. The purchasers were, obviously, mostly town
dwellers. Many of them went off with a parcel of “smelly” fish in one
hand and a fragrant posy in the other. One chin-whiskered old Norseman
strolled off carrying a long fish by the jaws without any wrapping. It
was very interesting to watch the bargaining there in the rain. For
these people did not mind ordinary rain any more than ducks. When it
_poured down_, the mere onlookers took shelter in neighboring doorways;
but the people who had negotiations under way stubbornly stood their
ground.
From the market place I went to Haakon’s Hall. This is a restoration
and is the lineal descendant of a building erected for festive purposes
by King Haakon Haakonson in the thirteenth century, in the days of
Norway’s early period of independence. The original hall was soon
destroyed by fire, and various new buildings subsequently came to
an end in a similar manner; but restorations were always made. The
original purpose of the structure was lost sight of, however, and at
the close of the seventeenth century Haakon’s banqueting hall had been
reduced to the function of a storehouse for grain. Later it became a
military prison; and then was elevated to the dignity of a chapel for
military prisoners. Finally it reached the nineteenth century—the
century of restoration—with a fair fraction of the mediæval
architecture still intact; and a little over forty years ago the latest
restoration was made. The structure is in the English-Gothic style
which characterized it during the Middle Ages. Architecturally it is
the only building of its class in the North.
I am very fond of the old Norse sagas, many scenes of which are laid in
the ancient banqueting halls, and, consequently, looked forward with
pleasure to seeing Haakon’s Hall, though even the original building was
constructed after saga days. The vestibule with its ribbed vaulting, at
the base of which projected, at right angles to the walls, fish heads
in dark carved oak, did much towards exciting my desire to see the main
room. Imagine, then, my disappointment upon learning when I reached
the hall that it was temporarily closed for repairs. But I _did_ see
it after all—or part of it. As I was going down the stairs I met two
English women who had been disappointed like myself; and at the bottom
of the stairs was a gentleman who formed the third in the party. The
gentleman, as I soon found, had explored to great advantage after being
turned away from the front door. And I profited by his explorations.
“If you want to see the interior of the hall,” said he, “cross that
large room on this floor, turn up the stairway to your right, and
peek though the keyhole which you will find at the top.” I did as
directed, and for the first time in my life realized the possibilities
of keyholes as satisfiers of curiosity,—legitimate and otherwise. The
keyhole was in a door of the banqueting hall and, like all ancient
keyholes, was good and large. Through it I gained a view of the finely
vaulted ceiling, the high, dim windows, the guest benches around the
walls decorated with massive hand carvings, the dais upon which the
seat of the king had stood.
When, in ancient times, the place was the scene of banquets the walls
were hung with armor and weapons and with tapestries illustrating the
old Norse hero tales; the seats of honor around the walls were occupied
by the most distinguished guests; the king sat upon his high seat
upon the dais. When the meal was to be served, tables were brought,
the white cloth was spread, and upon it were placed in abundance the
delicacies of the North—including “clotted milk.” Imagine those
doughty old warrior candidates for Valhalla sitting down to partake
of anything so meek and mild as _clabber milk_! But so the sagas tell
us they did; and clabber milk, slightly sweetened and spiced, is a
favorite dish among Scandinavians even unto the present day. Such
feasts also included ample supplies of fish, flesh and fowl. And mead,
and wine and ale, dispensed by the hands of the fair hostess and her
ladies, flowed mightily.
In the saga period and before it the Scandinavian banquet hall was
really very similar to the restoration from the time of Haakon
Haakonson. The chief difference was that instead of the great
fireplaces along the side walls, which appear in Haakon’s Hall, the
fire was simply built on hearths down the middle of the room and the
smoke escaped as best it could through a hole above in the roof.
Sometimes, when overpowered by the charm of the old sagas, I foolishly
look back with wistfulness to those “brave days of old”; but I soon
remember the smoky rooms and the flowing drinking horn and then I thank
my Stars and Stripes that I am a modern.
[Illustration: Rosenkrantz Tower (Right) and Haakon’s Hall (Left),
Bergen]
[Illustration: Norwegian Mountain Homes]
The same King Haakon who built the hall also built the original
tower to which at present the name of Rosenkrantz is given. From the
square, battlemented top, I obtained a fine view of the city and
its environs, and also of the broad wall with soldiers on guard,
which connects the tower with Haakon’s Hall. In one of the most
innocent-looking walls in the tower the guard showed me a secret door
which opened into a secret staircase. Such a staircase in the “brave
days of old” occasionally came in handy in enabling one to reach an
underground passage and make good one’s escape from one’s warrior
neighbors. Beneath the tower is a semi-circular dungeon where these
neighbors were at times locked when they were caught. A light was
burning in the place when I saw it but this seemed only to burn a small
hole in the darkness and to make the intense quality of that darkness
visible. There was no provision for light or air from the outside.
Again I was grateful to have my turn at living thus late; for though
we are not yet so humanitarian as to congratulate ourselves, we have
surely progressed a little further toward the recognition of universal
human brotherhood than the folk of the time of Haakon Haakonson.
Bergen, you perhaps remember, is the city of the great violinist, Ole
Bull. In one of the public squares is a fine bronze statue of him by
Stephen Sinding. He is represented as playing upon his instrument,
while he stands upon a pile of rough boulders, about which splashes a
real fountain. In the water at the base of the statue is a grotesque
bronze water sprite which responds to the enchanting call of the violin
by strains from a rustic harp. Bull spent many of his later years in
the United States but he died in Bergen, where he was buried in the
quaint old cemetery under the hill. The ivy-covered tomb is near the
entrance. On top of the mound is a bronze urn about four feet high,
bearing the simple inscription “Ole Bull 1810-1880.” When I saw it, the
urn was wreathed with purple heather tied with the Norwegian national
colors like our own, red, white and blue.
I left Bergen by the overland route via Finse. As I before said, it was
raining—a discouraging persistent drizzle—when I took my departure.
Upon entering my compartment I found a rather frail-looking man, a more
frail-looking woman, and a big, fat, rosy-cheeked baby about a year
old, whom the man was holding. From their conversation I soon gathered
that the mother was on her way to Christiania to visit relatives, that
the father was able to accompany her for but a short distance upon the
way, and that he was worried lest the long journey and the care of the
heavy, active baby would be too much for her. He glanced inquiringly at
me several times as we neared the place at which he was to leave the
train, and appeared about to speak; but he evidently weakened before my
formidable appearance and his request remained unuttered. The minute
I had set eyes upon the interesting-looking baby I had determined to
borrow her as soon as opportunity offered, and thus pass time on the
journey; but as I realized that the father could hardly read my inner
thoughts, I proceeded to play with the little Augusta, in order to
relieve his mind before he left the train. Greatly encouraged, the man
proceeded to tell me what I already knew. I promptly said that I was
going directly to Christiania and would take care of the mother and
help with the baby all of the way; and that I would not leave them
without seeing them safely deposited in the bosom of the Christiania
relatives. The relief and gratitude of the man was tremendous. Shortly
after that his station was called, so he said good-by, handed little
Augusta over to me, and left the train. They had come from Stavanger,
the lady told me—the part of Norway where the most interesting peasant
costumes of ancient style are still worn. And Herr Larson, her husband,
was a pastor there and a teacher in a Lutheran missionary training
school.
For a time the road lay along an arm of a fiord, but soon we began
a serious climb and presently were again among the rocky, woodsy
mountains, with tumbling waterfalls. And in this setting here and there
were huts with walls of unhewn stone and roofs of irregular sheets of
flat rock laid on in crazy patchwork style, overlapping from the top.
Farther on, we passed the timber line, when came the inevitable snow
sheds and tunnels, alternating with snowy peaks and great, fantastic,
jutting rocks, which in some places overhung the railroad tracks. Near
the summit at Finse a peculiar vegetation caught my attention. There
were great patches of bright cherry-colored grass, and other plants in
bright scarlets and yellows, producing a very pleasing rainbow effect,
which was especially welcome in the absence of forests. Beyond the
summit, on the descent towards Christiania up among the sunny slopes of
the highest mountains, we passed first the saeters, with stone roofs
and stone fences, clinging like barnacles to the sheer mountain sides;
next came a beautiful farming district suggesting Meraker Dal; and then
we stopped at Aal, a small station about which were gathered a number
of people in their Sunday clothes—for it was Sunday. The costumes
were of the old national style, Fru Larson told me, and were peculiar
to the region. The most characteristic garment of the women was a white
fringed shawl with borders stamped in bright colors, such as I had
also noticed in Dalecarlia, in Sweden. The boys’ and men’s costumes
were more unique; they wore short black jackets of the “Eton” cut with
a double row of silver buttons in front; a double-breasted waistcoat,
also with the two rows of silver buttons; black trousers down to their
very heels; and they were topped off with very large black felt hats.
Soon we followed the course of a river again, varied by many beautiful
rapids and falls. On this part of the road were also numerous log
houses, some weathered and gray, others spick and span in dark
red paint which looked as if it had come across the boundary from
Sweden. Presently sunset came, followed by twilight and darkness;
but occasional lights indicated the vicinity of Norwegian country
homes. A little after nine o’clock a great constellation of flickering
lights ahead roused my tired traveling companion to remark that this
was Christiania. Relatives were at the station to meet her, so after
bidding her and little fat, sleepy Augusta good-by, I went directly to
a hotel, which was just off Carl Johans Gade.
Carl Johans is decidedly the most important and beautiful street in
Christiania. It is wide and clean, and is flanked by handsome buildings
and shady parks. At one end, upon a slight eminence, the royal palace
stands, surrounded by a fine park. I was told that the palace was open
to visitors, so I decided the morning after my arrival to have a look
at it; and I planned to go up to the palace on the left hand side
of the street and to return on the right. On my way up I passed the
building of the Norwegian Storthing, or Parliament, and the imposing
National Theatre in Studenten Lund (Students’ Grove). In front of
the theatre are bronze statues of Björnson and Ibsen, Norway’s two
greatest dramatic writers, by Stephen Sinding. Upon a high pedestal
on the hill near the palace is a monument to Niels Henrik Abel, the
Norwegian mathematical prodigy, who, with flying hair and an expression
of determination on his alert countenance, is represented as treading
under foot two figures with ugly, distorted faces, evidently the
personifications of Ignorance and Error. Abel was scarcely more than a
boy when he died—only twenty-seven—but he left to his credit several
mathematical discoveries of first importance.
In front of the royal palace stands a great bronze equestrian statue
of Carl Johan, the first Bernadotte king of Sweden. On one side of
the pedestal is the motto of the king, “The love of the people is my
reward,” and on the other is the statement, “This monument was raised
by the people of Norway.”
The palace is a large, plain building in classical style. The double
doors were open, so I walked in and started for the stairs. I had not
got very far, however, before a gilt-buttoned and barred individual
ran down another staircase and stopped me with “Vaer saa god,” the
versatile Scandinavian phrase which I told you about in my last letter.
This time the expression was polite Norwegian for “Halt!” The palace
was _not_ open to visitors, I was informed. Suppose that the guards
had been napping and that I had innocently got upstairs and interrupted
King Haakon and Queen Maud at their royal breakfast! Would I have been
arrested as a Russian or German spy? Or as an anarchist? I think not.
Their majesties would have simply believed my explanation and would
have had me escorted out in the most courteous manner possible.
Later, I learned that certain parts of the palace were open to visitors
in the _afternoon_, when the royal family was _not_ in residence.
After wandering for a time about the beautiful palace gardens, I
returned down the right side of the Gade as I had planned. On this
north side is the University of Christiania, exactly opposite the
Royal Theatre, which, as I said, is in the Students’ Grove. The
building is in classical style with a wing on either side, at right
angles to it. The university is co-educational; women have equal
opportunities with men; and both sexes wear identical students’ caps,
as in the other Scandinavian universities, with a button in front,
of their own national colors. In the garden back of the university
are set up several large interesting rune stones. In a building at
the rear of this yard I found an exhibit prepared by the Scandinavian
Society for Fighting Tuberculosis. The exhibit as a whole was of the
usual sort, and showed how progressive the Scandinavian lands are in
their fight against the “white plague,” as well as in their struggle
against unhygienic conditions in general. But there was one unusual
display—that of _lupus_, or external tuberculosis, which generally
attacks the face. Wax models represented the terrible ravages wrought
by the disease, and also the remarkable healing effects of the
Finsen light.
[Illustration: Above the Timber Line in Norway]
[Illustration: Statue of Henrik Ibsen by Sinding]
Niels Finsen, who discovered the wonderful curative effects of certain
light rays, was a Danish physician born in the Faroe Islands. Though
poverty-stricken and struggling against an incurable disease, he
had none of his discoveries patented; he gave them all freely for
the good of humanity. And when he was awarded the Nobel prize for
his contribution to medical science, he donated the prize money to
the Light Institute which he founded in Copenhagen. Not until his
friends had made up an equivalent sum by gifts, for the benefit of the
Institute, would he take back a half of the well-won prize. Dr. Finsen
was one of the noblest souls of which I have any knowledge. When in
Copenhagen, I noticed a peculiarly appropriate monument to him; three
beautiful bronze figures were represented as extending their arms in
adoration towards the sunlight. The Scandinavians do well to remember
Dr. Finsen with pride and gratitude.
I told you about the fascinating handwork which I had seen in
Trondhjem. On Carl Johans Gade I found an even more varied and
beautiful display. It was in a shop which is subsidized by the
government in order that the manual arts of the peasants shall not be
lost to the world. Here were elaborately embroidered national costumes
of homespun, and rugs, portières, and tapestries—beautiful in pattern
and color—all woven on hand-looms. Among the tapestries were some
woven after the designs of Gerhardt Munthe from the saga tales; and in
the patterns were occasionally included lines from the sagas.
Christiania has a large art collection, and one which surprised me by
the number of works by native artists which it contains. Munthe is
well represented; his subjects are always interesting, and his colors
are remarkably clear and fresh. Edvard Munch’s pictures, on the other
hand, were too sensational to suit me; he is too much of an extreme
impressionist, though I must acknowledge that some of his splashes are
very effective. Many paintings by Christian Krogh are in the museum.
They are mostly of Scandinavian sailors, and are well done, but I
was disappointed in Krogh’s conception of Leif Ericsson discovering
America. Leif and his men do not look sufficiently adventurous to
sail uncharted seas; their faces are lacking in expression. Among
the sculptures I cared most for were those of Stephen Sinding who is
generally considered the leader in Norwegian plastic art. His bronzes
of “A Slave Mother” and “Two People” are very fine.
You have heard of the Gokstad ship, I am sure—the Viking ship which
was dug from a burial mound near Christiania in 1880. This ship is on
exhibition in a shed back of the University buildings in Christiania.
Naturally, I was very much interested in the thousand-year-old vessel
and its contents. It is the typical sharp and narrow sea-going craft
of the Viking Age, clinker-built, of oak, with seams caulked with yarn
made from cow’s hair. The length is about seventy-eight feet, and the
width, seventeen. When the wind was favorable, a single, large square
sail was hoisted; at other times the vessel was propelled by sixteen
pairs of oars. In preparation for its last service as the sepulcher
of a Norse chieftain, the ship was festively adorned with a row of
circular shields on either side.
It happened that the entombing took place in potter’s clay, which is
plentiful near Christiania, and this acted as a perfect preservative
for the whole of the vessel, except the ends, which projected above it.
In the middle of the ship was the burial chamber with the bed on which
the warrior was placed, clad in richly embroidered garments of silk
and wool. Beside him were buried various weapons and utensils which
might be of use on the voyage to Valhalla, or might prove handy after
arrival. With the chieftain were also buried his pet peacock and about
a half dozen dogs and a dozen horses, all of the animals undoubtedly
being killed at the time of the burial, in order that their spirits
might accompany that of their master to the Land of the Hereafter. This
was the custom of the ancient Scandinavians.
This expensive equipment of the dead was, to be sure, a great economic
waste, but it was not so regarded by the heathen Scandinavians.
According to their view point, such provision as they made was merely
humanitarian and decent. Only the most heartless or foolhardy would
send forth their dead unequipped into the unknown; if pity or a sense
of duty did not cause relatives or friends to follow the usual custom,
fear of being haunted by the wronged ghost was pretty certain to force
them into conformity.
In one of the cases along the walls of the exhibition shed are some of
the feathers of the peacock, still showing an iridescent gleam. And in
another one are the bones of the warrior, which indicate that he was a
man of great size. Physicians who have studied the remains have even
discovered that the man was afflicted with a disease of the bones,
which may have been the cause of his death.
The Gokstad ship was of special interest to me because it was the model
for the _Viking_ which attracted attention at the Columbian exposition
at Chicago. The history of the _Viking_ is so interesting that I cannot
resist the temptation to tell you about it for fear that you may have
somehow missed the story. Before the exposition, when preparations for
it were under way, as was quite proper, the whole world—except the
land of Scandinavia—was putting tremendous emphasis upon the discovery
of Columbus. Naturally, the Scandinavians were not so enthusiastic,
for, as every Scandinavian school child will tell you, had not Leif
Ericsson discovered America nearly five centuries before Columbus was
seized with his bright idea of sailing west to reach the east? Was
it the fault of these sea rovers that the world was not yet ready to
appreciate their discovery? Or that they themselves did not appreciate
it? Had not they _discovered_ it just the same? Did Columbus or his
age appreciate _his_ discovery? Thus challenged the children of the
Vikings; and a discussion followed.
Some of the members of the Columbian party, interested in the models
of the caravels of Columbus which were to be sent to Chicago for the
exposition, were so daring as to declare that the Northmen could not
possibly have crossed the Atlantic in their little Viking boats;
hence, they said, the saga story of Leif Ericsson’s discovery was pure
humbug. This helped fix the determination of the Norwegians to “show”
the anti-Viking party. For there was the Gokstad ship unearthed but
a few years before. And from this vessel was modeled the _Viking_,
exactly like this ship of the ninth century in size and pattern,
except that the stern and bow were restored and finished off with a
carved wooden dragon’s head and tail, splendidly gilded, after the
style of the ancient Scandinavian ships. Manned with a picked crew
of Norwegian sailors, the _Viking_ was sailed and rowed over the
wide Atlantic. Once the vessel was reported foundering; at times the
skeptical captains of passing steamships offered to tow the _Viking_
for the rest of the voyage; but the champions of Leif Ericsson scorned
to have their vessel towed across the ocean, as were the “Columbus
washtubs,” as the _Viking’s_ crew called the models of the Columbus
caravels. Their ancestors had rowed and sailed across the Atlantic in
craft of the _Viking_ build, and they proposed to sail and row there
in the _Viking_. And after a long, weary, mediæval sort of voyage of
six weeks, they arrived in triumph at New York Harbor. The _Viking_ was
propelled up the Hudson, but its captain submitted to be towed through
the Erie Canal, after which it was again sailed and rowed the remainder
of the distance to the Exposition City. It now stands in a shed behind
the Field Columbian Museum in Jackson Park, where I saw it a couple of
years ago. And its ancient prototype stands in a similar shed behind
the University of Christiania. Thus ended the Norwegian lesson.
But, in itself, the Oseberg ship and its contents interested me much
more than did the Gokstad vessel. The Oseberg ship was unearthed only
in 1903. It, like the one from Gokstad, was discovered in a stratum
of potter’s clay near Christiania. Like the Gokstad vessel, it also
had been used as a sepulchral ship. The recently-discovered vessel,
however, is of quite a different style; it is flat-bottomed and richly
carved and was evidently intended not as a swift-sailing vessel of
commerce or war, but as a pleasure barge for use on the fiords.
The Oseberg ship stands in a shed near that from Gokstad; but though
the pamphlet which I bought at the door of the shed mentioned a rich
treasure of contents as having been discovered in the vessel, I was
disappointed not to find any of them near at hand, as were the contents
of the other sepulchral vessel.
Later, I went to the Historical Museum, which has a collection from
prehistoric days of the same general character as those of Denmark and
Sweden, proving conclusively that Danes, Swedes and Norwegians all are
brethren.
In the museum I met Professor G——, of the University of Christiania,
who is the greatest living authority upon Scandinavian archæology,
and had a most instructive talk with him upon various articles of
special note in the prehistoric collection. When he found that I was
as interested in dead heathen Scandinavians as I was in live Christian
ones, Professor G—— told me that the contents of the Oseberg ship
would not be ready for exhibition to the public for some time, but
several men were working on them under his supervision on the top
floor. Would I care to examine them? Would I? I jumped at the chance;
and we climbed to the top floor.
The Oseberg find had indeed been a rich one. The wife or daughter of a
Norse chieftain had been buried in the ship. With her were the remains
of another woman, probably a serving maid, put to death in order that
her mistress should not go forth upon the perilous way unattended.
And about them were a variety of articles such as would be expected
to gladden the heart of the noble lady in the Land of the Hereafter:
spinning and weaving appliances, and balls of thread and wax; carved
oaken chests; several beds, with down coverlets and pillows; tubs and
pails and copper kettles; and even a millstone, the ghost of which
was evidently intended to grind ghostly grist under the hands of the
ghostly serving maid. But this distinguished Scandinavian lady had not
been restricted to sea travel; in the boat had been placed a handsomely
carved, four-wheeled carriage, and four sleds, also carved in elaborate
pattern, two of them with grotesque heads at the four corners. The
carcasses of a number of cattle as well as of horses and dogs were
also buried with the vessel. The skeletons of two of the horses, all
articulated and painted white and looking very spruce, were “hitched”
to the ancient carved wagon. All of the horses, Professor G—— told
me, were killed by being struck a blow at the base of the skull just
back of the ears; and he called my attention to the broken vertebrae of
the two renovated skeletons.
Many of the things found in the Oseberg ship were restored and ready
for exhibition, but the process of preparation is a long one and
requires much care and patience. The objects made of wood when removed
from the burial mound, were in some cases badly bent, and frequently
broken into bits. The ship itself, for instance, was taken out in
about two thousand pieces, but each tiny piece was properly numbered;
consequently perfect reconstruction was possible. The bent pieces
were steamed back into shape, and then all of the woodwork had to be
boiled in oil; and I do not know how many more processes they had to
be put through before they were ready to be fitted together into their
original shape. But upon looking at them in a casual manner one would
never suspect that they were not as sound and whole as any other wooden
objects that one would be likely to find in a museum.
While we are on the subjects of sepulchers, I must tell you that I went
to Vor Frelser’s Cemetery this morning to see the graves of Henrik
Ibsen and Björnstjerne Björnson. I am not in the habit of haunting
cemeteries, but I felt moved thus to pay my respects to these two
great Norwegians. There is an appropriateness in the tombs—if there
ever can be an appropriateness in tombs—and they present as great a
contrast as the temperaments of the two men. Björnson is buried on a
sunny green slope near a tall, graceful poplar tree. No memorial stone
of any kind marks the grave; it is simply a great mound completely
covered with flowers brightly blooming. Ibsen rests close at hand, but
in a shady corner. Within a thick hedge is a black iron fence with
polished black stone pillars at the corners; and within the fence is
the grave, covered by a black stone slab simply marked with the name
“Henrik Ibsen.” A black iron wreath had been placed on the tomb. At the
head of the grave is a tall pyramidal obelisk of polished black stone,
on the front surface of which had been engraved in outline a strong,
capable-looking hammer. It is a peculiarly appropriate resting place
for the iron-willed poet who devoted his life to smashing false idols,
to diagnosing the diseases of society.
Christiania is only about three hundred years old. But for centuries
before King Christian IV of Denmark built this modern capital of
Norway, its site was guarded by the fortress of Akershuus, which still
stands on the southern edge of the city. Akershuus is no longer a
fortress of importance, but its ancient, conglomerate stone walls,
in contrast to the modern appearance of the buildings of Christiana,
are sure to attract the attention. The stronghold is still used for
military purposes; one part of it is a military prison, and another is
an arsenal; cannon are mounted on the ramparts, which command a view
of Christiania Fiord; and the soldiers of Norway are on guard at the
gateways.
Visitors are shown through Akershuus every two hours, but I arrived too
late for the twelve o’clock party, and shall not be able to wait for
the next one as I am booked to sail at two on the _King Haakon_ for
Copenhagen. Consequently, I am sitting on the above-mentioned ramparts
finishing this Christiania letter, preparatory to accounts of Danish
green fields and pastures new. It is pleasant here, and the view of the
fiord is lovely. I wish that the _King Haakon_ would wait.