Chapter II: Part 2

To appreciate my feelings, one should perceive the winding road along which I was traveling. It was a splendid specimen of engineering skill, but after twenty-seven of these curves, I felt that I was getting cross-eyed. Fancy me perched, as it were, upon a good-sized salad-spoon, flying around the mountain side, with one wheel in the air at every turn, at the rate of the Chicago Limited going round the Horse-shoe Bend. I looked back at my companion, whose horse, excited by my own, was just behind me. His face was deathly pale. Anxiety was stamped on every feature. His lips moved as if entreating me to slacken this terrific speed. Finally, he faintly cried: "If you escape, ... give my love ... to my children, ... William and Henry!"

At last I saw, some little way ahead, a cart half-blocking the road. "Great heavens!" I thought, "here comes a collision! Well, it might as well end this way as any other. No more lectures for me!" But, lo! there issued from the small boy's lips the sound, "Purr-r-r!" The effect was instantaneous. The horse at once relaxed his speed, and in a moment came to a full stop. For "purring" is to a Norwegian pony what the Westinghouse air-brake is to an express train. This secret learned, we had no further trouble. For "purr," when uttered by American lips, proved always as effectual as by Norwegian.

A few hours after that eventful ride, we found ourselves upon the great Hardangerfjord, which, with its branches, has a length of one hundred and forty miles. These ocean avenues possess not merely natural beauty: they also have historic interest. This part of Norway, for example, is old Viking ground. Not far from here lived Rollo, conqueror of Normandy; and from these fjords a thousand years ago went forth those dauntless warriors of the north, who for two hundred years not only ravaged England, France, and Ireland, but even crossed the Atlantic to America hundreds of years before Columbus sailed from Spain.

In this connection, therefore, let me say that, to me, the most interesting object in Christiania was its Viking ship. This most impressive relic of the past was found some fourteen years ago within an ancient mound beside the sea. It had reposed there for ten centuries, owing its preservation to the hard, blue clay in which it was entombed. It was made entirely of oak, and was propelled sometimes by oars, sometimes by a sail. Within it was discovered a well-carved wooden chair, in which, no doubt, the chieftain sat. Some kettles, too, were here, and plates and drinking-cups, used by the Vikings when they landed to prepare a meal. But, more remarkable still, this boat contained some human bones. For in those early days such boats were often used as funeral barges for their brave commanders. The vessel, even when buried, was always headed toward the sea, so that when called by Odin once more into life, the chief whose body was thus sepulchered might be ready to start at once and sail again the ocean he had loved so well.

Occasionally, however, a Viking had a grander form of burial. Sometimes, when an old Norwegian chieftain felt that he was dying, he ordered that his body, when lifeless, should be placed within his boat, which was then filled with light materials and set on fire. The large sail was then spread, and the dead warrior drifted out before the wind, his gallant vessel for a funeral pyre, and for his liturgy the chanting of the waves. As for the Viking himself, he doubtless had faced death, sustained by an unfaltering belief which, had he been more cultivated, might have thus expressed itself:

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

At the extremity of one of the branches of the Hardangerfjord is the little town of Odde. This was the only place in Norway where we had any difficulty in securing rooms. As the boat neared the wharf, I heard a dozen ladies whisper to their husbands: "Now, dear, you stay and look after the luggage, and I'll run on and get the rooms." Accordingly, I used the same words to my friend, with the exception of the endearing epithet. I was afraid that might make him homesick. Then I took my position near the gang-plank.

When we arrived, I was the first to step ashore, and I started at a brisk walk toward the hotel. Behind me I could hear the rustling of many skirts, but, hardening my heart like Pharaoh, I kept on. At last, forgetting drapery and dignity, the ladies passed me on the run. This time I gallantly gave way, and when, a moment later, I reached the hotel office, I could have fancied myself on the floor of the Stock Exchange, since every lady there was fighting nobly for her children and her absent lord.

"I want two beds," cried one.

"I wish for five beds," screamed another.

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

The female clerk, meantime, having completely lost her head, was calling off numbers like an auctioneer. Suddenly she turned to me, who had not yet opened my mouth, and almost paralyzed me with these words:

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

When I recovered from my swoon, I found that my friend had come up quietly after the battle, and had secured two single rooms.

Saying farewell to Odde, a day's delightful sail between majestic mountains brought us to one of Norway's most important cities—Bergen. Although we lingered here three days, we had the wonderful experience of continual sunshine. I rightly call it wonderful; for Bergen is the rainiest city in the world and is sarcastically called "The fatherland of drizzle." The people in Christiania claim that in Bergen when a horse sees a man _without_ an umbrella, he shies! It is also said that a sea-captain, who was born in Bergen, and all his life had sailed between his native city and the outer world, came one day into its harbor when by chance the sun was shining. At once he put about and set forth to sea again, believing that he had made a mistake in his port. As we approached the pier at Bergen, I saw what, in the distance, appeared to be a mob. It proved, however, to be the usual crowd which gathers round the Bergen Fish Market.

This is not, after all, so strange if we reflect that fish is the great commodity of Bergen, and that this city is the chief distributing station for Norwegian fish to the entire world. Several centuries ago, a company of German merchants, who formed the famous Hanseatic League, established themselves here and held for years within their hands the monopoly of all the fishing trade of Norway, compelling even the Norwegian fishermen to send their catch of fish to Bergen for reshipment to other ports of Europe. It is true the league exists no longer, but its influence still survives, and nothing can divert the trade from following in its ancient channel. Over the hills that rise above the city a splendid driveway has been made. A Bergen resident spoke of it to me as "The Drink Road."

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

"It is so called," he said, "because it is constructed wholly out of the profits derived from the sale of ardent spirits." Observing my astonishment, he added: "Do you not understand our famous liquor law in Bergen?"

I confessed my ignorance.

"Then let me explain it to you," he exclaimed. "Perhaps I can best do this," he added, "by pointing out to you that melancholy individual standing by the gang-plank. He used to be a liquor-seller here, but he has lost his 'spirits,' for our municipal government now has the sale of liquors entirely in its own hands. It first decides how many licenses are needed, and then, instead of giving them to private individuals, it grants them only to a responsible stock company. The books of this company must be at all times open to inspection, and all its rules are strictly under government control. Moreover, the company is not allowed to make more than five per cent. on its invested capital. All profits over that amount are given to public improvements, roads, parks, schools, or hospitals."

I asked if the law gave general satisfaction.

"We are delighted with it," was the answer. "It is now thirteen years since it was started, and all the prominent towns in Norway, except three, have followed our example. The liquors, in the first place, are all carefully selected. Secondly, the bars are not attractive gin-palaces, but plain rooms, with no seats for customers. No loitering on the premises is allowed. Only a small amount is sold at any one time. Children are not allowed to serve as messengers. Even the bartenders are appointed by the government, and wear a uniform and a number, by which they can be easily identified in case of complaint; and as a practical result," he added, "by taking the liquor traffic out of the hands of irresponsible agents the annual amount of ardent spirits sold has been reduced from twelve and a half to five and a half million quarts; and yet our Bergen company has earned each year a net profit of one hundred and twenty-five per cent., one hundred and twenty of which is, as I have said, applied to public charities!"

But to me the most interesting sight in Bergen was the grave of the Norwegian violinist, Ole Bull. His last appearance in America was in 1879—too long ago perhaps for many to recollect him—for, alas! even those who entertain the public best are soon forgotten. But some of my readers no doubt recall that Paganini of the North, tall and erect, with large blue eyes and flaxen hair—the personification of a valiant Norseman, whose fire and magnetism in this nineteenth century displayed themselves in music rather than in maritime adventure. As his old Viking ancestors had no doubt wielded sword and battle-ax, so his bow was of such unusual length that no one of inferior strength and stature could have used it advantageously.

From this musician's grave one looks off over the lovely bay of Bergen. This peaceful view, which he so loved, produced upon my mind, in the soft evening light, the same effect as did the music of that skillful hand which now reposed beneath the flowers. To me his playing was enchanting, and unlike that of any other violinist I have ever heard. There was a quality in the tones that he would call forth from his violin, which seemed as weird and fascinating as the poetry of the sagas, and as mysterious as the light which lingered on his mountains and fjords. What wonder that his death in 1880 was deplored in Norway as a national calamity?

Taking our leave reluctantly of Bergen, we entered on what proved to be one of the most delightful features of our tour in Norway, a sail of twenty-four hours along the coast to the town of Molde. How can I adequately describe that most unique and memorable journey? Our entire course lay through a labyrinth of islands, beyond which, every now and then, we gained a glimpse of the Atlantic rolling away toward the horizon. The proximity and number of these islands astonished me. For, hour after hour, they would come into sight, wheel by us slowly, and then disappear, to be succeeded by their counterparts. We went down to dinner or to our staterooms, yet when we came on deck again, islands still surrounded us. We saw them glittering in the sunset ere we went to sleep, and in the morning we were once more environed by them. Sometimes I could have fancied that they were sailing with us, like a vast convoy of protecting gunboats, moving when we moved, halting when we halted, patient and motionless till we resumed our voyage.

Meantime, just opposite these islands, is the coast,—a grand succession of bold headlands and dark, gloomy mountains, beyond which always are still higher summits capped with snow. At frequent intervals some beautiful fjord leads inward, like the entrance to a citadel; and here and there, within a sheltered nook, we see some fishing hamlet crouching on the sand. This is surely the perfection of ocean travel. For, though this mountain-bordered channel is hundreds of miles in length, the sea within it is as smooth as a canal. Once only throughout the day was the great swell of the Atlantic felt, when for a little space the island breakwater was gone.

Our sail along the coast had, late at night, a most appropriate ending in our arrival at Molde. There are few places in the world more beautiful. It lies upon the bank of a fjord, on the opposite side of which is an array of snowy mountains forty miles in length. Molde is sometimes called the "Interlaken of Norway," but that does not by any means describe it. For here there is no single mountain, like the Jungfrau, to compel our homage, but rather a long series of majestic peaks, resembling a line of icebergs drifting in crystal splendor from the polar sea.

Filled with enthusiasm over this splendid spectacle, we left the steamer, and soon found ourselves within a comfortable hotel. It was the hour of midnight, but, far from being dark, the eastern sky was even then brightening with the coming dawn. A party of excursionists was just returning from a mountain climb. Some passengers were embarking on the steamer we had left. Supper or breakfast (I know not which to call it) was awaiting us. Under such circumstances it seemed ridiculous to go to bed. Accordingly, we laughed and chatted on the balcony, until a wretched man thrust out his head from an adjoining window, and remarked:

"My friends, I am glad to see you happy, but I have just returned from the North Cape. I haven't slept for eight nights. It seems quite dark here by comparison, and I was hopeful of a good night's rest. Would you just as lief postpone your fun until you get inside the Arctic circle?"

This pathetic appeal could not be resisted, and asking his forgiveness, we retired.

Taking leave of Molde one pleasant afternoon, we sailed across its beautiful fjord to explore the snow-capped mountains opposite. It was upon this voyage that I was taught the bitter lesson never to trust my baggage to a Norwegian, merely because he claims to be able to speak English. Upon the deck of our little steamer stood that day a man, upon whose hatband I read the legend that he was the proprietor of a hotel at Veblungsnäs, where we proposed to spend the night. Approaching him, therefore, I inquired:

"Can you speak English?"

He smiled upon me sweetly, and replied, "O, yes."

Innocent of the awful fact that this was the whole extent of his vocabulary, I continued:

"When we arrive, will you bring my valise ashore, while I go at once to the hotel to secure rooms?"

"O, yes."

Ten minutes later we reached our landing pier. I left the boat, as I had said, and hurried on to the hotel. I presently beheld the old proprietor coming from the wharf, but without my satchel.

"What does this mean?" I cried; "did you not bring my valise off the steamer?"

"O, yes."

"Where is it, then? Is it not on there still?"

"O, yes."

"Mercy on me! Is not that the steamer going off with my valise on board?"

"O, yes!"

"Well, are you not a monumental idiot, then?"

"O, yes!"

It took me three days to recover that valise; and the important lesson of "_O, yes_," was effectually learned.

Early next morning we took leave of Veblungsnäs, and drove directly towards the Romsdal, one of the finest valleys in all Norway. Before us, like a mighty sentinel, the imposing Romsdalhorn rose, dark with somber shadows, to an altitude of five thousand and ninety feet. The peak itself, five hundred feet in height, is said to be almost as dangerous to ascend as the appalling Matterhorn, not only on account of its perpendicular sides, but also from the crumbling nature of the rock, which renders it impossible to fasten iron bars in its surface.

Some years ago, an English tourist, after a number of unsuccessful efforts, finally reached the summit of this mountain. He was, of course, exultant. The inhabitants of the valley had told him that the conquest of the Romsdalhorn was hopeless, and no tradition existed among them that its ascent had ever been made. Nevertheless, when the successful climber finally stood upon the mountain's crest, he found to his astonishment and regret that he was not the first man who had gained this victory. A mound of stones, heaped up there as a monument, proved beyond doubt that at some unknown epoch some one had been there before him.

Driving around the base of this majestic mountain, we found ourselves within a narrow gorge shut in by savage cliffs, with barely space enough between them for the carriage-road and a wild torrent rushing toward the sea. One wall of this ravine is singularly weird and awe-inspiring. A multitude of crags and pinnacles, splintered and shattered by the lightning's bolts, stand out in sharp relief against the sky, as if some monsters, hidden on the other side, were raising o'er the brink of these stupendous precipices their outstretched hands and tapering fingers in warning or in supplication. These strange, fantastic forms are in the evening light so ghostly and uncanny, that they appear to the Norwegian peasants like demons dancing gleefully upon the mountain tops. Hence the pinnacles are called the "Witches' Peaks."

It was while riding through this gorge that I heard a tourist complaining that Norway had no ruins. In one sense this is true, for, owing to the fact that the feudal system never existed here, castles and strongholds are nowhere to be found. But Norway surely can dispense with any crumbling works of man. Amidst the ruins of her everlasting mountains and stupendous fjords, grooved by the glaciers when the earth was young, all remnants of man's handiwork would seem like ant-hills made but an hour ago.

Toward evening, at the head of the Romsdal Valley, we reached the station of Stuflaaten, where we were to sleep. Our spirits sank as we approached it. Nothing, apparently, could be less inviting. But here, as in so many other instances, we found the accommodations excellent. It is true, the beds possessed the usual Norwegian fault—an insufficient length. Tall travelers, who object to having their limbs closed under them at night, like the blades of a jack-knife, frequently sleep on the floor in Norway.

"I cannot lie in one of these beds," exclaimed my friend; which, for a lawyer, seemed to me a remarkable admission!

Never shall I forget the dining-room at Stuflaaten. Here we were first attracted by the fireplace. It was a chimney built out from the corner, with space behind for a warm cupboard. The opening for fuel was so narrow that sticks were placed upright upon the hearth. Beside this were two rocking-chairs (almost unheard of luxuries in any part of Europe), and sinking into these, we thought of home. The influence of that American article of furniture was, I fear, depressing, for soon my friend remarked:

"How far we are from dear New England! If I could only see one object here which really came from there, how happy I should be!"

"Look at that clock upon the wall," I responded; "that has a familiar look. Perhaps that came from 'dear New England!'"

"Nonsense," he answered; "how could anything made in New England find its way here almost within the Arctic circle?"

"Well," I exclaimed, "where is the land that Yankee inventions have not entered? Let us put it to the test." Accordingly, stepping to the clock, I opened it and read these words: "Made by Jerome & Co., New Haven, Conn."

Returning once more through the Romsdal, Veblungsnäs, and Molde, we sailed again, for twelve hours, along the Norway coast to reach the city of Trondhjem. Although less beautifully situated than Bergen, Molde, or Christiania, in point of historic interest, Trondhjem is superior to them all. For here lived the old Norwegian kings, and the town can boast of a continuous existence for a thousand years. It also enjoys the proud distinction of having the most northern railway station in the world, for from this city, which is in the latitude of Iceland, a railroad now extends three hundred and fifty miles southward to Christiania.

Upon this road are run some cars which are facetiously called "sleepers"; but they are such as Mr. George M. Pullman would see only in an acute attack of nightmare. The road being a narrow-gauge one, the car is not much wider than an omnibus. The berth (if the name can be applied to such a coffin-like contrivance) is formed by pulling narrow cushion-seats together. On these is placed one pillow, but no blanket and no mattress,—simply a pillow,—nothing more! From the feeling, I should say that my pillow consisted of a small boulder covered with cotton. But what, think you, is the upper berth? It is a hammock, swung on hooks, and sagging down to within a foot of the lower couch. Now, it requires some skill to get into a hammock anywhere; but to climb into one that is hung four feet above the floor of a moving railroad car, calls for the agility of an acrobat. After my experience that night, I feel perfectly qualified to perform on the trapeze, for since I weighed but one hundred and forty pounds, while my friend tipped the scales at two hundred and fifty, I thought it was safer for me to occupy the upper story.

Another difficulty met with in that memorable journey was to keep covered up. There was no heat in the car. At every respiration, we could see our breath. This was, however, a consolation, since it assured us that we were still alive. Wraps of all kinds were needed, but the space was limited. There was, for example, in my hammock, room for myself alone; or without me, for my traveling-rug, overcoat, and pillow. But when we were all in together, the hammock was continually overflowing. Accordingly, every fifteen minutes during that awful night, my friend would start up in abject terror, dreaming that he was being buried beneath a Norway avalanche.

I never think of Trondhjem without recalling, also, an experience in a Norwegian barber-shop. I knew that it was tempting Providence to enter it, for shaving in Norway is still a kind of surgical operation. But for some time a coldness had existed between my razors and myself. The edge of our friendship had become dulled. Accordingly, I made the venture. Before me, as I entered, stood a man with a head of hair like Rubenstein's, and a mouth like a miniature fjord.

"Do you speak English?" I began.

"Nay."

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

"Nay."

"Parlez-vous Français?"

"Nay."

"Parlate Italiano?"

"Nay."

"Well, one thing is sure, then," I said; "you will not talk me to death, anyway!"

Having made the most graceful gestures of which I was capable to indicate what I wanted, I settled myself in a hard chair and laid my head against a rest resembling the vise furnished by a photographer when he asks you "to look pleasant." The preliminaries being over, the Norwegian Figaro took his razor and made one awful never-to-be-forgotten swoop at my cheek as if he were mowing grain with a scythe! I gave a roar like a Norwegian waterfall and bounded from the chair in agony! When I had fully wiped away my blood and tears, I asked him faintly:

"Have you any ether?"

"Nay."

"Any laughing-gas?"

"Nay."

"Any cocaine?"

"Nay."

"Well, then," I exclaimed, "will you please go over there and 'nay' by yourself while I finish this operation with my own hands?"

He seemed to understand me, and retreated to a corner. When all was over, he pointed to a bowl at which I saw my friend gazing with that peculiarly sad expression which he invariably assumed when thinking of his family. I soon discovered the cause, for from the centre of this wash-bowl rose a little fountain about a foot in height, which seemed to him a facsimile of the one on Boston Common. I comprehended that I was to wash in this fountain; but how to do it was a mystery. At last I cautiously thrust one side of my face into it, and instantly the water shot up over my ear and fell upon the other side. I turned my face, and the ascending current carromed on my nose, ran down my neck, and made a change of toilet absolutely necessary. When, therefore, my friend had called a cab to take me home, I asked the barber what I should pay him. By gestures he expressed to me the sum equivalent to three cents.

"What," I exclaimed, "nothing extra for the court-plaster?"

"Nay."

"And nothing for the privilege of shaving myself?"

"Nay."

"And you don't charge for the fountain, either?"

"Nay."

"Well," I exclaimed as I rode away, "I can truly say that never before have I received so much for my money."

This city of the north has one extremely interesting building—its cathedral. As a rule, Scandinavian churches are not worth a visit; but this is a notable exception. More than three hundred years before Columbus landed on San Salvador this building held a proud position. Its finest carving dates from the eleventh century. At one time pilgrims came here from all northern Europe, and laid their gold and jewels on its shrines. But at the period of the Reformation all this was changed. Iconoclasts defaced its carving, cast down its statues, sacked the church, and packed its treasures in a ship, which, as if cursed by an offended Deity, foundered at sea.

On entering the ancient edifice, we were delighted with its delicate stone-tracing. The material is a bluish slate, which gives to the whole church a softness and a beauty difficult to equal, and blends most admirably with its columns of white marble. A part of the cathedral was, however, closed to us, for all the ruin once wrought here is being carefully effaced by systematic restoration. The government contributes for this purpose a certain sum every year, and private individuals help on the work from genuine love of art, as well as from patriotic motives. The old designs are being followed, and hence, in time, this old cathedral will in every feature come to be a reproduction of the original structure.

A few days after reaching Trondhjem, we found ourselves embarking for another ocean journey. This time our destination was the northern limit of the continent. For a Norwegian tour naturally divides itself into three parts. The first consists of driving through the mountainous interior; the second is the exploration of its noble fjords; the third is the voyage from Trondhjem to the North Cape.

This voyage, in fast excursion steamers, is now made in about four days, an equal number being occupied in returning. "Eight days?" the reader will perhaps exclaim; "why, that is longer than a voyage across the Atlantic." In actual duration, yes; but otherwise the two excursions are entirely different. For almost all the way you follow so closely the fringe of islands that there is little danger of rough weather, while the mainland is constantly in sight.

Some twenty-four hours after leaving Trondhjem, our steamer halted at an island, up whose precipitous side we climbed five hundred feet to view a natural tunnel perforating an entire mountain. Through this we gained a charming telescopic vista of the ocean and its island belt. The tunnel is six hundred feet in length, and in some places two hundred feet in height. So smooth and perpendicular are its walls, that it appears almost incredible that human agency has not assisted in this strange formation. But scientists say that it was accomplished entirely by the waves, when all this rock-bound coast was covered by the sea. Leaving this curious freak of nature, another memorable feature of our northern voyage soon greeted us,—the Loffoden Islands. These form a broken chain one hundred and thirty miles in length. The scenery in their vicinity is perhaps the finest on the Norway coast, and as we watched it with delight, the captain told us of his voyages here in winter, and I now learned, to my astonishment that freight-steamers make their regular trips, all winter long, round the North Cape to Vadso, on the Arctic coast. They encounter fearful storms at times, but rarely any icebergs. We have, it seems, a monopoly of these floating monsters on our side of the Atlantic, borne west and south by the current off the coast of Greenland.

Of course, these wintry voyages are performed in darkness, for Night then reigns here with as much supremacy as Day in summer. The lights on the steamers are, therefore, kept constantly burning. Yet, strange to say, this is the period of greatest activity among these islands. Winter is the Norwegian fisherman's harvest-time. The only light necessary to carry on the work is that of the Aurora Borealis and the brilliant stars. From twenty to twenty-five millions of cod are captured here each winter, and twenty-five thousand people are employed in the trade.

Soon after leaving the Loffodens we arrived at Tromsö, the city of the Lapps. It had the appearance of a pretty village as we viewed it from a distance; but soon the sense of sight was wholly lost in the prominence given to another of our senses. The carcass of a whale was floating in the harbor. It had been speared and towed in hither to be cut in pieces. The blubber was being boiled in kettles on the shore. The impression which this made on my olfactory nerves is something for which language is inadequate. The odor was as colossal as the fish itself. I never sympathized sufficiently with Jonah till I went to Tromsö!

Soon after landing here, a walk of an hour brought us to a settlement of Lapps, consisting of some very primitive tents. My first impression of these people was, and still is, that any one of them could have effectually concealed his identity by taking a bath. They all have dirty, wizened faces, high cheekbones, flat noses, and mouths that yawn like caverns. Their beards are so peculiarly tufted that they look like worn-out Astrachan fur. I could almost suppose that in rigorous winters the reindeer, while their masters slept, had nibbled at their cheeks. The men are about five feet high, the women four; but they are tough and hardy, like most dwarfs. Dickens could have found among them countless models for his hideous Quilp.

Advancing to one of their huts, we peered into the interior. Upon the ground was smoldering a small fire, part of the smoke from which escaped through an opening in the roof. The inmates scarcely noticed us, until my artist produced his camera. Then there was instantly a general stampede. One woman seized her baby and rushed forth, as if a demon had molested her. The cause of this confusion, however, was not fear, nor even modesty, but avarice, pure and simple. They understood perfectly what the camera was, and wanted a good price for being photographed. Three shillings was at first demanded for a picture, but finally we compromised by giving half that sum.

Among these Laplanders, the clothing of both men and women is made of reindeer skin, worn with the hardened pelt outside. These garments last indefinitely, and are sometimes bequeathed from one generation to another. The Lapp complexion looks like leather. Even the babies have a shriveled look, resembling that of monkeys. This is not strange, however, for both men and women are great consumers of tobacco. Their huts are always full of smoke, till finally the inmates become smoke-dried within and without. This, in turn, produces thirst. Hence we were not surprised to learn that they are inordinately fond of ardent spirits. In fact, when a Norwegian wishes to remonstrate with a friend who is inclined to drink to excess, he will often say to him, "Don't make a Lapp of yourself!"

Bidding farewell to Tromsö and the Laplanders, the next day brought us to the most northern town in the world—Hammerfest. It was a great surprise to me to see, in such proximity to the North Pole, a town of about three thousand inhabitants, with schools, a church, a telegraph station, and a weekly newspaper! The snow-streaked mountains in the distance gave me the only hint of winter that I had; and I could hardly realize that I was here two hundred miles farther north than Bering's Strait, and in about the same latitude in which, on our side of the Atlantic, the gallant Sir John Franklin perished in the ice. The cause of this, however, is not difficult to trace.

The influence of the Gulf Stream is felt powerfully even here. For here it is that the great ocean current practically dies, bequeathing to these fishermen of Hammerfest, for their firewood, the treasures it has so long carried on its bosom, such as the trunks of palm-trees, and the vegetation of the tropics. It is an extraordinary fact that while the harbor of Christiania, one thousand miles farther south, is frozen over three months every winter, this bay of Hammerfest, only sixty miles from the North Cape, is never closed on account of ice.

An interesting object in Hammerfest is the meridian shaft, which marks the number of degrees between this town and the mouth of the Danube, on the Black Sea. The mention made upon this column of that other terminus of measurement, so far distant in the South of Europe, reminded us by contrast of one more advantage which this high latitude possesses—the greater rapidity of its vegetation. When the sun once appears within this polar region, it comes to stay. Nature immediately makes amends for her long seclusion. For three months the sunshine is well-nigh incessant. There is no loss of time at night. The flowers do not close in sleep. All vegetation rushes to maturity. Thus vegetables in the Arctic circle will sometimes grow three inches in a single day, and although planted six weeks later than those in Christiania, they are ready for the table at the same time.

Sailing finally from Hammerfest, a voyage of seven hours brought us to our destination—the North Cape. I looked upon it with that passionate eagerness born of long years of anticipation, and felt at once a thrill of satisfaction, in the absence of all disappointment. For my ideal of that famous promontory could not be more perfectly realized than in this dark-browed, majestic headland, rising with perpendicular cliffs, one thousand feet in height, from the still darker ocean at its base. It is, in reality, an island, divided from the mainland by a narrow strait, like a gigantic sentinel stationed in advance to guard the coast of Europe from the Arctic storms.

Embarking here in boats, we drew still nearer to this monstrous cliff. From this point it resembles a stupendous fortress surmounted by an esplanade. For in that prehistoric age, when northern Europe was enveloped in an icy mantle, huge glaciers in their southward march planed down its summit to a level surface. The climbing of the cliff, though safe, is quite exhausting. Ropes are, however, hung at different points, and, holding on to these, we slowly crept up to its southern parapet. Thence a laborious walk of fifteen minutes brought us at last to the highest elevation, marked by a granite monument erected to commemorate King Oscar's visit to the place in 1873.

It is a wonderfully impressive moment when one stands thus on the northern boundary of Europe, so near and yet so far from the North Pole. It seemed to me as if the outermost limit of our planet had been reached. Nowhere, not even in the desert, have I felt so utterly remote from civilization, or so near to the infinitude of space.

But presently from our steamer, anchored near the base, some rockets rose and burst in fiery showers far below us. It was a signal for us to be on our guard. I looked at my watch. It was exactly five minutes before midnight. Advancing, therefore, to the edge of the cliff, I looked upon a unique and never-to-be-forgotten scene. Below, beyond me, and on either side, lay in sublime and awful solitude the Arctic sea, stretching away to that still undiscovered region of the north, which, with its fatal charm, has lured so many brave explorers to their doom.

Straight from the polar sea, apparently, the wondrous northern light (an opalescent radiance born of the twilight and the dawn) came stealing o'er the waters like a benediction; and to enhance its mystery and beauty, when I looked northward over the rounded shoulder of the globe, I saw the MIDNIGHT SUN.

At this great height and northern latitude it did not sink to the horizon, but merely paused, apparently some twenty feet above the waves, then gradually rose again. It was the last of countless sunsets which had that day been following each other round the globe. It was the first of countless sunrises which, hour after hour, in so many continents would wake to life again a sleeping world. I have seen many impressive sights in many lands, but nothing, until Time for me shall be no more, can equal in solemnity the hour when, standing on this threshold of a continent, and on the edge of this immeasurable sea, I watched, without one moment's interval of darkness, the Past transform itself into the Present, and Yesterday become To-day.

Switzerland

The Parsees say that mountains are the heads of the long pins that bind the world together. Geologists assure us that they are merely wrinkles on the face of Mother Earth, while we all know that, relatively to the world's diameter, the highest elevation of our planet is but the thickness of a hair laid on an ordinary globe.

But these comparisons do not affect the grandeur of the peaks themselves, when we behold them face to face, crowned with unmeasured miles of snow, girded with glaciers as with coats of mail, and towering up among the clouds as though to storm the very heights of Heaven. If it be true, as some have claimed, that travel blunts the edge of enjoyment, and renders one indifferent and _blasé_, it is true only of those artificial charms which form the attraction of great cities and the pleasure-haunts of men. These may at last grow wearisome. But Nature wears a freshness and a glory that can never fade. Continual worship at her shrine increases our desire for that happiness which only Nature gives, and adds to our capacity for its appreciation.

Switzerland, then, of all countries in the world, is the one of which the traveler is likely to tire least. The vision of its kingly Alps must always thrill the heart with exultation. Its noble roads and unsurpassed hotels make rest or travel on its heights delightful; while the keen tonic of its mountain air restores the jaded frame, as ancients dreamed a draught would do from the pure fountain of perpetual youth.

One of the most attractive gateways to this land of mountains is Interlaken. All tourists in Switzerland come hither, almost of necessity. No other point is quite so central for excursions. None is more easy of approach. As its name indicates, it lies between two famous lakes which rival one another in respect to beauty. Before it, also, are the charming vales of Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald, which lead one into the very heart of the Bernese Oberland. Moreover, from sixty to eighty thousand people come here every year to render homage to the peerless sovereign who holds court at Interlaken. There is no need to name the peak to which I thus allude, for everywhere in Interlaken we discern the crowning glory of the place—beside which all others fade—the lovely Jungfrau, queen of Alpine heights. Her grand, resplendent form fills the entire space between the encircling peaks, and forms a dazzling centre-piece of ice and snow, nearly fourteen thousand feet in height. It is a never-ending pleasure to rest upon the broad piazzas of Interlaken's palatial hotels, and gaze upon this radiant mount. It sometimes looks like a great white cloud forever anchored in one place, but oftener sparkles as if covered with a robe of diamonds; mantled, as it is, with snows of virgin purity from base to heaven-piercing summit.

Yet were we to examine closely a single section of the Jungfrau, we should discover that its shoulders are covered with enormous snow-fields, the origin of stupendous avalanches. For amid all this beauty there is much here that is harsh and terrible. Appalling precipices, dangerous crevasses, and well-nigh constant falls of hundreds of tons of rock and ice, render the wooing of this "Maiden of the Alps" a difficult undertaking. In fact, the name Jungfrau, or Maiden, was given to the mountain, because its pure summit seemed destined to remain forever virgin to the tread of man. Many had sought to make her conquest, but in vain. At last, however, in 1811 (nearly thirty years after the subjugation of Mont Blanc), two brothers gained the crest; and since that time its icy slopes have reflected the forms of many ambitious and courageous travelers.

No tourist who has been at Interlaken on a pleasant evening can possibly forget the vision which presents itself as day reluctantly retires from the Jungfrau at the approach of night.

SUNSET AT INTERLAKEN.

The sun is low;
Yon peak of snow
Is purpling 'neath the sunset glow;
The rosy light
Makes richly bright
The Jungfrau's veil of snowy white.

From vales that sleep
Night's shadows creep
To take possession of the steep;
While, as they rise,
The western skies
Seem loth to leave so fair a prize.

The light of Day
Still loves to stay
And round that pearly summit play;
How fair a sight,
That plain of light
Contended for by Day and Night!

Now fainter shines.
As Day declines,
The lustrous height which he resigns;
The shadows gain
Th' illumined plain;
The Jungfrau pales, as if in pain.

When daylight dies,
The azure skies
Seem sparkling with a thousand eyes,
Which watch with grace
From depths of space
The sleeping Jungfrau's lovely face.

And when is born
The ruddy Dawn,
Forerunner of the coming Morn,
Along the skies
It quickly flies
To kiss the Maiden's opening eyes.

The timid flush,
The rosy blush,
Which then o'er brow and face do rush.
Are pure and fair
Beyond compare,
Resplendent in the illumined air.

And thus alway,
By night or day,
Her varying suitors homage pay;
And tinged with rose,
Or white with snows,
The same fair radiant form she shows.

I have said that Interlaken was an admirable place from which to make excursions. Shall we not put this to the proof by entering now the charming and romantic vale of Lauterbrunnen, dainty and lovely as a dimple in the cheek of Nature? It is only half a mile in width, and is bounded on both sides by lofty mountains, over which the winter's sun can hardly climb till midday. And yet luxuriant vegetation covers it, as with an emerald carpet. The bases of these mountains seem to rest on flowers. The awful scenery which surrounds it makes it seem doubly sweet and fair; and one can hardly imagine a more striking picture than that of this peaceful valley, looking smilingly up into the stern and savage faces of the monsters which environ it, as if unconscious of its helplessness, or trusting confidently in their mercy.

A little distance up the valley, we note its most remarkable feature, the Fall of the Staubbach, or "Dust-brook," which here leaps boldly over the brow of the mountain, nine hundred and eighty feet above us. Long before it reaches the ground, it is converted into a vast, diaphanous cloud of spray, which the breeze scatters into thousands of fantastic wreaths. Whenever the sunlight streams directly through this, the effect is marvelous. It then resembles a transparent veil of silvery lace, woven with all the colors of the rainbow, fluttering from the fir-clad rocks. Byron compared it to the tail of a white horse, streaming in the wind; but Goethe's description is best, when he exclaims:

"In clouds of spray,
Like silver dust,
It veils the rock
In rainbow hues;
And dancing down
With music soft,
Is lost in air."

But the ambitious traveler will ascend far higher than the summit of this waterfall to stand upon the mighty cliffs which line the valley like gigantic walls.

The task is easily accomplished now. Ten years ago it was an arduous climb, on horseback or on foot; but now an electric railroad winds for miles along the edge of frightful precipices, and (where a vertical ascent is absolutely necessary) another kind of car lifts one a thousand feet or so toward heaven, as smoothly and as swiftly as a hotel elevator.

Truly the visitor of a dozen years ago perceives amazing changes to-day among the Alps. Where, formerly, a man would hardly dare to go on foot, trains now ascend with myriads of travelers! Hotels and even railroad stations up among the clouds have driven from the lofty crags the eagle and the chamois. This to the genuine Alpine climber seems like sacrilege; but, after all, what contributors to the happiness of mankind these mountain railroads are! Without them, few would venture here; and all the pageantry of Nature in these upper regions would unfold itself through the revolving years with scarce an eye to note its beauty or voice to tell its glories to the world.

In startling contrast to my first ascent to the place, now many years ago, it was by this luxurious mode of travel that I recently approached the little village known as Mürren. It is the loftiest hamlet in all Switzerland, consisting of a cluster of Swiss cottages, whose roofs, heavily freighted with protecting stones, project beyond the walls like broad-brimmed hats. So singular is the appearance of a village at this dizzy height, that one is tempted to believe that the houses had been blown up from the valley by some reckless blast, and dropped at random on the lonely tableland.

Yet here, to our astonishment, we find hotels, which somehow year by year outlive the horrors of the Alpine winter, and in the summer season welcome their hundreds of adventurous guests. But, after all, where in Switzerland is there not a hotel? Fast as the arteries of travel are extended, on every prominent point commanding a fine view is planted a hotel, a forerunner of the world of travel. This is, in fact, one of the charms of Switzerland. The Andes and Himalayas may possess higher peaks and grander glaciers; but there one cannot (as among the Alps) ride all day long on perfect roads, and in the evening sit down to a well-cooked dinner, hear music on a broad veranda, consult the latest newspapers, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

Even before the advent of the railroad, I was a thousandfold repaid for climbing up to Mürren; for here so closely do the Alpine Titans press on every side, that if Mohammed had ever found his way hither, he might well have believed that the mountains were coming to him, and not he to the mountains.

The surrounding summits reveal to the astonished sight heights, lengths, and depths which overwhelm one with sublimity. What seemed an hour ago mere glistening mounds are now transformed by the grandeur of this Olympian elevation into vast snowfields, miles in length, or into seas of ice, which pour down through the valleys in slow-moving floods. In early summer, too, one hears at frequent intervals the roar of some tremendous avalanche on the great mountains opposite, from which the tourist is separated only by a yawning gulf.

Never shall I forget the morning when I stood here waiting for the sunrise view. There was none of that crowd of jabbering tourists who often profane the summit of the Rigi, and seem to measure the extent of their pleasure by the noise they make. I was well-nigh alone. When I emerged from the hotel, a purple line was visible in the east, but clouds and mists half veiled the mountains from my sight. At length, however, noiselessly but steadily, a hidden hand seemed to draw back the misty curtain of the night. Slowly the giant forms molded themselves from darkness into light, until their foreheads first, and then each fold and outline of their dazzling shapes, stood forth in bold relief against the sky. The glaciers sparkled with the first bright beams like jeweled highways of the gods,—till, finally, as the sun's disk came fairly into view, the whole vast range glowed like a wall of tinted porcelain. It seemed as if a thousand sacred fires had been kindled on these mountain altars, in glad response to the triumphant greeting of the god of day.

On descending from Mürren, the tourist is attracted to another famous object, only a few miles from Interlaken,—the glacier of Grindelwald.

It was while visiting this sea of ice that my guide suddenly turned and asked me with a smile, "Are you a clergyman?"

I answered that I could not claim that flattering distinction, but begged to know the reason of his question. "Because," he said, "clergymen seem to be unlucky in Grindelwald; all the accidents that take place here somehow happen to them."

As we were at that moment just about to venture on the ice, I naturally recalled Charles Lamb's reply when he was requested to say grace at dinner. "What," he exclaimed, "are there no clergymen present? Then I will say, the Lord be thanked!"

A moment or two later we entered the well-known cavern in this glacier—a strange and chilling passageway, two hundred feet in length, cut in the solid ice, whose gleaming walls and roof seemed to be made of polished silver.

As I was picking my way safely, though shiveringly, through this huge refrigerator, I asked my guide to tell me about one of the clerical misfortunes which had made him suspicious of gentlemen of the cloth. He turned and looked at me curiously. "You know, of course, the fate of our pastor, M. Mouron?" he exclaimed. I confessed my ignorance. "Then come with me," he said. Accordingly, emerging from the cavern, we climbed for nearly an hour over great blocks of ice, until we came to a profound abyss. Suspended from the frozen parapet a mass of icicles pointed mysteriously down like ghostly fingers. Then all was dark. "It was by falling down this," said the guide, "that the pastor of Grindelwald lost his life. He was seeking one day to ascertain its depth by casting stones into its cavernous maw and counting till he heard the sound of their arrival at the bottom of the abyss. Once, in his eagerness, he placed his staff against the opposite edge, leaned over and listened. Suddenly the ice gave way, and he fell headlong into the crevasse. His guide ran breathless to the village and informed the people of their loss. But, to his horror, he found that he himself was looked upon with suspicion. In fact, some went so far as to say that he must have murdered their pastor, and robbed him of his watch and purse.

"The guides of Grindelwald, however, who felt themselves insulted at this accusation, united and agreed that one of their number (chosen by lot) should, at the peril of his life, descend into this crevasse to establish the innocence of the accused. The lot was drawn by one of the bravest of them all, a man named Bergenen. The whole village assembled on the flood of ice to witness the result of the search. After partaking of the sacrament, Bergenen fastened a rope around his waist and a lantern to his neck. In one hand he took a bell. In the other he grasped his iron-pointed staff to keep himself from the sharp edges. Four men then carefully lowered him down. Twice, on the point of suffocation, he rang the bell and was drawn up. Finally a heavier weight was felt upon the rope, and Bergenen reappeared, bringing the body of the pastor from a depth of seven hundred and fifty feet. A mighty shout went up from the guides and populace as well. The man was innocent. Both watch and purse were found upon the corpse!"