The Argosy — page 143: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

130 A bout Norway. a proved that to take advantage of our ignorance was her very last thought. This was not always our experience in Norway. Then every one returned to his carriage, and the drowsy train went on again. The scenery still continued beautiful and diversified. The river was frequently crossed, and we passed many waterfalls trickling down the hills like silver threads, whilst here and there cataracts leaped wildly into the river and helped to swell the torrent. Towards twelve o’clock we reached Honefos, and rumbled over the long bridge that opened up‘to our wondering and delighted view a vast sheet of rushing, foaming water, one cataract above and beyond and beside another, emptying itself in boiling, tearing rage into the river, whilst down below, its fury spent, it glided along, rapidly indeed, but in comparative calm. It was a lovely spot. The hills, the quaint town, and the seething cataracts closed the view on the one side, whilst on the other the country opened cut in a rich, fertile plain, with quaint Norwegian farm-houses, the river winding along like a broad band of silver set with jewels composed of sun flashes, until, turning to the right,-it passed, ‘‘in music ” indeed, out of sight. Not the music of ‘ the spheres,” whatever that may be; but the more tangible, the more audible music of Nature, that, in one grand harmonious chant, surrounds the traveller on all sides amidst such scenes, and in an unceasing hymn of praise ascends to the regions of eternity, carrying with it the heart and soul of man. The train halted all too short a time for us to take in the wonderfu} beauties of the place, and feast our gaze upon the-rushing water, the greatest mass of living foam I had ever seen, of which our illustra- tion gives but a faint idea and but a small section of the fall. We went on, and in a few moments reached Heen, a small station, and the end of our journey by rail. Here we were to take the steamer up the Spirillen lake to Sorum, our first night’s resting-place. It was a primitive, picturesque country station. Close to us on one side were hills and crags covered with wild tangle in beautiful confusion, whilst pine trees grew above and reached the summit, casting just now no long shadows, for the noonday sun was above us. A few steps down the hill, a turn to the left, and we came to the little boat that was getting up her steam and preparing to start at one o'clock. A small group of people were assembled, none of them displaying the costumes of the country. All were strangely quiet. The Norwegians, without being phlegmatic—they are too generally cheerful and contented for that—are for the most part lacking in animation. Loudness of voice and gesture is not one of their characteristics, whilst its absence is a marked feature. Their enthu- siasm runs in still waters, and perhaps is therefore the deeper. On the bridge of the steamer sat an old lady and gentleman, who proved to be going a considerable portion of our way. It might be seen at once, from the likeness, that they were brother and sister. Refined, sensitive faces, pale, clear-cut features, and an CORNIECLOOKS (EO) m