The new road, which avoids some fearful hills, will soon be finished; and that is the excuse for not repairing the old one, which was something like what Holborn Hill would be with all the paving-stones up.

Prince Napoleon, who has just returned from his voyage to Spitzbergen and the Arctic regions, is about to visit Kongsberg in company with one of the Royal Princes of Sweden, to-morrow. It is lucky for the highway surveyors that it is not the King of Oude. They doubtless would have been put into the ruts to fill them up, or smelted in the smelting-houses, or have had to undergo some other refined process.

Sigur and I parted company at Hougesund; he proceeding homewards, and I crawling along to Drammen, by the side of the elv, with the worst horse I ever drove in Norway. Fortunately, the road is a dead level, and good. The river abounds in salmon, which cannot get up higher than Hougesund.

On the other side of it, I saw several lights, which I learned were at saw-mills, which are working night and day. I suppose they are taking time by the forelock. Hitherto, saw-mills have been in the hands of a few privileged persons; but in 1860 the monopoly expires, and anybody may erect one.

I had been strongly recommended to one Mr. Dahl. His caravansary I found both comfortable and reasonable. The St. Halvard steam-boat, which was to convey me next morning to some station in the Christiania Fjord, started at seven o’clock, I found, so I requested to be called at a little before six. The damsel walked into my bedroom, without any preliminary knock, long before that hour.

“You’ve come too early,” said I; “the boat does not start till seven.”

“Oh, yes; but the passengers are accustomed to assemble on board half an hour before.”

So much for the Norwegian value of time.

At five minutes to seven I found myself on board the boat, much to the astonishment, no doubt, of the numerous passengers; who, with the patient tranquillity of Norwegians, had long ago settled in their places.

“St. Halvard—who was St. Halvard?” said I to a person near me, as we scudded along through the blue wares, glistening in the morning sun, and curled by a gentle breeze. He did not know, but he thought a friend of his on board knew. The friend, an intelligent young lieutenant in the army, from Fredrickshall, soon produced a book of Professor Munck’s, but the volume made no mention of the enigmatical personage. Seeing, however, that I looked over the pages with interest, nothing would content the young militaire but that I should retain possession of it; which I accordingly did, with many thanks. It may be as well to mention, that there are two Muncks in Norway; A. Munck, the poet, and Professor A. P. Munck, the historian, a person of European reputation, who is now engaged on a comprehensive work, “Norske Folks Historie,” “History of the Norsk People.” He is also author of several other works of antiquarian research.

“You have been in Thelemarken?” inquired the lieutenant. “That’s the county for old Norsk customs and language. With all their dirt and rude appearance, some of the bonders are very rich, and proud of their wealth. I remember being at a farm some miles above Kongsberg, where I saw a number of copper kettles ranged on a shelf, as bright as bright could be; I found that these were the gauge of the bonder’s wealth. For every thousand dollars saved a new copper kettle was added. You have no idea how tenacious these people are of their social position. When the son and daughter of two bonders are about to be married, a wonderful deal of diplomacy is used, the one endeavouring to outwit the other. It is surprising with all the chaffering and bargaining between the elders that the marriages turn out so well as they do.

“And yet even the wealthiest of them live in the meanest manner. I don’t suppose you would get any fresh milk in your travels in Thelemarken, except at the sÆters. You would not believe it, but they are in the habit of keeping their milk from spring to autumn. To prevent it becoming stale or maggoty, they stir it every day. In process of time it assumes a very strong scent, which the people inhale with great gusto. It is a filthy affair: but people accustomed to it like it, I am told, above all things. A curious case in point occurs to my mind: A Voged, who had been for some years stationed up in a wild part of Thelemarken, was translated to Drammen, which is an agreeable place, and by no means deficient in good society. But, with all this improvement in neighbourhood, and the appliances of life; in spite of his increased pay and higher position, the Voged sickened and pined; in short, became a regular invalid. What could it be? He missed the thick, stinking milk of the Thelemarken wilds. He petitioned to return to the old Fogderie, where he would have less pay, but more milk; and, from the last accounts, he is fully restored to health, and enjoying himself amazingly.”

As we approached Horten, the chief naval station of Norway, I saw a new church, apparently built in red stone, and in the Gothic style; which, as far as I could judge, reflected no little credit on the architect. At this moment, a Norskman tapped me on the shoulder, and asked—

“Are you an Englishman? Do you live in London? Have you seen the great ship that is building on the banks of the Thames? They say it is twice as long as the magazine at Horten yonder; but I can’t believe it.”

“You mean the Great Eastern, as they call it? I don’t know how long the magazine is; but the ship is 680 feet long.”

“Vinkelig! det er accurat dobbelt.” (Really! then it is exactly double, just as I heard.)

The daily steamer from Christiania to Fredrickshall met us here, Halden, by name; and separated me from the intelligent lieutenant, with whom I exchanged cards.

As we steamed out of Horten, past the gun-boats and arsenals, a naval-looking man said—

“We have had a great man here lately, sir: the Russian Admiral G——. The newspapers were strongly against his being allowed to pry about our naval station; but he was permitted by the Government. After examining everything very accurately, he said, ‘It’s all very good, too good: for England will come and take it away from you.’”

“And what did the dockyard people think of that? Did they agree with him?”

“Heaven forefend! They knew whom they had to deal with. As he walked through the arsenal, he saw some shells lying about. ‘What is that? some new invention?’ ‘Oh! no,’ said the officer; ‘it is only shells, after the old fashion.’ The Russian admiral seemed contented with the reply; but he was not going to be put off the real scent by a feint of this kind. In fact, a Norwegian captain, not long ago, did invent a peculiar kind of shell, which, with unerring precision, can be so managed as to burst in a vessel’s side after effecting an entrance. The Russian knew this, but kept his counsel then. Subsequently, he found an opportunity of drawing a subaltern officer aside, to whom he offered two hundred dollars to reveal the secret. But the Norskman would not divulge the secret (shell out), only telling his superior, who took no notice, but merely chuckled at the Russian’s duplicity.”

“It is an old Russian trick, that,” replied I; “if I remember rightly, the Muscovites obtained the secret of the Congreve rocket by some such underhand manoeuvre.”

The admiral’s curiosity will remind the reader of the facetious Punch’s “Constantine Paul Pry,” who visited England and France for a similar object.

As we steered down the vast Fjord, which is here of great width, and ramifies into various arms, we see the Nornen, a new Norsk frigate, in the offing, on her trial trip.

A little after noon, we were steaming down a shallow bay, surrounded by low wooded islets, to TÖnsberg, the most ancient town in Norway. The harbour for shipping is in the TÖnsberg Fjord, distant a bowshot from where we land; but to get there by water would require a detour of several miles. The isthmus is low and flat, and presents no engineering difficulties whatever. In any other country, a ship canal would long since have joined the two waters. At present, there is only a ditch between.

The ruins of the old fortified castle are still discernible on the elevation to the north of the town; and a sort of wooden building, something between a summer-house and an observatory, has lately been erected on the spot. The old castle (Tonsberg-hus) suffered a good deal from an attack of the Swedes in 1503; and was totally destroyed in 1532, in the disturbances that ensued on the return of King Christian II. to Norway. As early as the close of the ninth century, the city was a place of resort for merchants, and the residence of the kings in the middle ages. At one time there were half a score of churches in the place; but of these none remained fifty years ago, except one very ancient one, in the Pointed style; but this was pulled down by some Vandal authorities of the place. During the troubles of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the town was taken and plundered more than once; but it received its finishing blow from the Union of Calmar.

An eminence to the east of the town is called the Mollehaug, where in the middle ages the renowned Hougathing, or Parliament, was held, and the kings received homage. There being nothing left in the town to indicate its former importance, I mounted up the Castle-hill, and took a look of the surrounding country and Fjords, with the blue mountains of Thelemarken far in the distance. The ancient seat of the Counts of Jarlsberg is near at hand; from which family the surrounding district bears the name of Grefskabet (county).

Afterwards I strolled into the cemetery. Some of the tombs were of polished red granite, which is obtained in the neighbourhood; most of them had long inscriptions. Under two relievo busts in white marble was the short motto, “Vi sees igien,” (we shall meet again,) and then a couple of joined hands, and the names of So-and-so and his Hustru (gudewife). On an obelisk of iron I read—“Underneath rests the dust of the upright and active burgher, the tender and true man and father, merchant Hans Falkenborg. His fellow-burghers’ esteem, his survivors’ tears, testify to his worth. But the Lord gave, the Lord took. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” On another stone was written—“Underneath reposes the dust of the in-life-and-death-united friends, Skipper F. and Merchant B. Both were called from the circle of their dear friends December 10, 1850, at the age of 28. Short was their pilgrimage here on earth; but who hath known the mind of the Lord, who hath been his councillor? Peace be with their dust.” Altogether there was much good taste exemplified in these memorials of the dead.

As I returned towards the inn, I called at the only bookseller’s in this town of nearly three thousand inhabitants, in hopes of obtaining some local literature in reference to a place of such historical celebrity; Madame Nielsen, however, only sold school-books of the paltriest description. After my walk, I was by no means sorry to sit down to a good dinner at the inn. Opposite me sat a fine old fellow, with grey streaming locks, while two bagmen and the host completed the company. Under the influence of some tolerable Bordeaux, the old gentleman became quite communicative; he had been in arms in ’14, when Norway was separated from Denmark, and the Norskmen recalcitrated against the cool handing them over from one Power to another.

“That was a perilous time for us; one false step, and we might have been undone; but each man had only one thought, and that was for his country. In this strait,” continued he, his eyes sparkling, “one hundred Norskmen met at Eidsvold on May 1, and on May 17 the constitution was drawn up which we now enjoy. Please God it may last. The Norwegians may well be proud of it, and no wonder that the Swedes are jealous of us with their four estates, and their miserable pretence of a constitution—the worst in Europe. Their shoals of nobility are the drag-chain; we got rid of them here in 1821. That was a great blessing; Carl Johann was against it, and three thousand Swedish soldiers were in the vicinity of Christiania. Count Jarlsberg, our chief noble, was for the abolition; its chief opponent was Falsing. He said in the Storthing, that if our nobility were abolished he would say farewell to Norway. Another member took him up short, and said, ‘And the Norsk hills would echo well.’”

Dinner over, I drove through the woods back to VallÖ, where I was to meet the steamer. Two Swiss gentlemen possess a large establishment here for the manufacture of salt by the evaporation of salt water; a cotton mill is also adjoining, belonging to the same proprietors.

On applying for my ticket at the office—where it may be had a trifle cheaper than on board—my passport is demanded and examined, and the office-keeper informs me that it is against the rules to give a ticket for an outward-bound steamer to any one whose passport has not been countersigned by the Norwegian authorities. Now, on leaving Norway by way of Christiania, as I was aware, it is required to be shown to the police, and visÉd, but as I had never been near the capital this year, and, from the moment I had landed to this, the passport had never been demanded, it did not occur to me that a visÉ would be required. For the moment I was disconcerted, as nobody was to be found at VallÖ who could remedy the defect.

On inquiry, however, I found that the naval officer in command of the coming vessel was my old friend Captain H., and so I felt secure. There were plenty of faces that I knew on board, among the rest some Oxford Undergraduates returning from a delightful excursion up the country; there were also some “Old Norwegians,” who had been fishing in the north, and complained loudly of the unfavourableness of the season. There had been an unusual amount of rain and cold, and the rivers had been so full of snow-water, that the salmon had stuck at the mouths, a prey to nets, &c., in preference to braving the chills of the Elv.

Among other small talk, I began to recount as I sat in the Captain’s room, how I had seen the old gentleman with the star and diplomatic coat. (See antÈ). Just then somebody came and called out the first lieutenant by name, which was, I perceived, the very same as that of the last baron whom I was engaged in taking off.

“Is he any relation?” I inquired in alarm.

“Only his son,” was the reply.

Fortunately I had not said anything derogatory to the papa, or I might have placed myself in an awkward fix. This is only another proof how cautious you ought to be on board one of these steamers of talking about whom you have seen, and what you think, for the coast being the great high road, everybody of condition takes that route—you may have been, perhaps, for instance, abusing some merchant for overcharges—and after speaking your mind, pro or con, the gentleman with whom you are conversing may surprise you with a—

“Ja so! Indeed! That’s my own brother.”

“Were you ever up beyond the North Cape?” said a Frenchman to me, at dinner.

“Oh! yes; I once went to VadsÖ.”

“And what sort of beings are they up there? Half civilized, I suppose?”

“Not only half, but altogether, I assure you,” said I. “I met with as much intelligence, and more real courtesy and kindness, than you will encounter half the world over.” At this moment my neighbour to the left, a punchy, good-humoured-looking little fellow, with a very large beard and moustache, which covered most of his face, and who had evidently overheard the conversation, said, in English:

“You not remember me? You blow out your eyes with gunpowder upon the banks of the Neiden. What a malheur it was! Lucky you did not be blind. I am Mr. ——, the doctor at VadsÖ. We went, you know, on a pic-nic up the Varanger Fjord. Count R——, the bear-shooter, who was such a tippler, was one of the party.”

“Opvarter (waiter), bring me a bottle of port, first quality, strax (directly),” said I, remembering the little gentleman perfectly well, and how kindly he and his companions had on that occasion drunk skall to the Englishman, and made me partake of the flowing bowl. We had a long chat, and presently he introduced me to his wife; who, I found, was, like himself, a Dane. They were journeying to their native country, after several years’ absence.

“What are those Roman Catholics doing up in Finmark?” said I.

“The people hardly know yet what to make of them,” he replied. “The supposition generally is, no doubt, that they wish to convert the Fins. But I don’t think so. They are aiming at higher game.”

“How so?”

“Russia!—That’s their object. They can’t get into that country itself. But a vast quantity of Russians are continually passing and repassing between the nearest part of Russia and Finmark. And they will try to indoctrinate them. Their point d’appui is most dexterously selected. There is no lack of funds, I assure you. They have settled on an estate at Alten, which they have bought.”

“And so clever and agreeable they are,” put in the Dane’s lady. “Mr. Bernard especially. He has a wonderfully winning manner about him.”

“The chief of the mission,” continued the doctor, “is M. Etienne, a Russian by birth, whose real name is Djunkovsky, and who has become a convert from the Greek faith. He is styled M. le PrÉfet Apostolique des Missions PolÀires du Nord, de l’Amerique, &c.; and proposes, he says, to operate hereafter on parts of North America. On St. Olaf’s day, he invited forty of the most respectable people in the neighbourhood to a banquet, and, in a speech which he made, said that the Norsk religion had much similarity with the Roman Catholic; and that Saint Olaf was the greatest of Norsk kings. Still, I think they have higher game in view than Norway.”

A master-stroke of policy, thought I. The Propaganda will have surpassed itself if it should succeed in setting these people thinking. The children of the autocrat will cast off their leading-strings yet; and the strife between the Latin and Greek Church rage, not between the monks at the Holy City, but in the heart of holy Russia.

At this pause in the conversation, the Frenchman, who did not seem a whit disconcerted at his former faux pas, recommenced his criticisms. The fare, and the doings on board generally, evidently did not jump with his humour. “What is this composition?” he inquired of the steward. “MiÖs-Ost?” (a sort of goat’s-milk cheese, the size and shape of a brick, and the colour of hare-soup). “It’s very sweet,” observed the Frenchman, sarcastically; “is there any sugar in it?”

“No!” thundered the captain, who did not seem to relish these strictures. “No. It’s made of good Norsk milk, and that is so sweet that no sugar is required.”

This remark had the effect of making the Gaul look small, and he gulped down any further satire that he might have had on his tongue.

I heard, by-the-bye, an amusing anecdote of these cheeses. They are considered a delicacy in Norway; and a merchant of Christiania sent one as a present to a friend in England. The British custom-house authorities took it for a lump of diachylon, and charged it accordingly, as drugs, a great deal more than it was worth.

As we sail through the Great Belt, the mast-tops of a wrecked vessel appear sticking out of the water near the lighthouse of LessÖ. It has been a case of collision, that dreadful species of accident that threatens to be more fatal to modern navies than storms and tempests. In this case, the schooner seemed determined to run against something, so she actually ran against the lighthouse, in a still night, and when the light was plain to see. The concussion was so great, that the vessel sank a few yards off, with some of her crew. The lighthouse rock is in statu quo.

On board was Mr. D——, a chamberlain at the Court of Stockholm. This gay gentleman professed to be terribly smitten by the charms of a Danish lady, and wished very much to know whether she was married. I heard that she was, but she apparently desired to relieve the monotony of the voyage by a little flirtation, and kept her secret. On awaking from a nap on one of the sofas, a friend informed me that the chamberlain, whom I saw sketching a dozing passenger, had done the like by me. I quietly got out my sketch-book, and took him off as quickly as possible. Happening to look my way, he saw what was going on, and sprang up, as if shot. “Those who live in glass houses,” &c. I begged him to look at the caricature I had made;—eyes staring out of head, hair brushed up, &c. This counterfeit presentment seemed to strike him all of a heap; he shut up his sketch-book, and walked out of the cabin; while a Swedish Countess, very young and pretty, who had been smoking a very strong cigar on deck, and had to abide the consequences of her rashness, came downstairs, and took refuge in the ladies’ apartment.

END OF VOL. I.