The Argosy — page 321: what you’re looking at

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

302 About Norway. Now, returning to scenes almost familiar, we realised that our journey to the North Cape was a thing of the past. We had seen the mid- night sun ; for days had been without sunset ; and though the cul- minating point—the midnight sun at the North Cape itself—had been a failure, the journey on the whole had been a success. Looking backward it was a source of the pleasantest recollections. Better still, one felt strengthened and invigorated in mind and body by the pure air, the changing scenes, the variety of impressions in which for seventeen days we had revelled. The wet and gloomy days had been dull and tedious, it is true, but, like the small failings in a life that has gone from us, they were remembered no more. Bergen, as we approached it in the glow of evening, looked more picturesque than ever, with its quaint houses rising one above another on the green slopes of the hills that towered in three distinct masses : whilst the harbour, crowded as usual with shipping, ran far up into the town, between modern warehouses, and ancient buildings with gable ends, and an old fortress that was being whitewashed inside and out and prepared for an approaching visit of the King. Fortunately for us, we had telegraphed from the last station for quarters at Holdt’s Hotel, and they had reserved for us the one large room at their disposal. Many of the passengers were walking about for hours afterwards, seeking rooms, and finding them at length with great difficulty, if they found them at all: for Bergen, between travellers and the near approach of royalty, was full to overflowing. One of our passengers, with his three ladies, was amongst the unfor- tunate number: and to add to his distress, he lost part of his luggage in landing. Some of it got taken to one place, and some to another. We had not been five minutes at the hotel, and were talking to some acquaintances we had chanced to meet, when down he came like an avalanche, and began searching amongst the new arrivals for his lost property. Amongst other rooms he entered ours —we had only gone into it ourselves in the darkness—and there, sure enough, was one of his bags upon a chair. He pounced upon it, glared at us suspiciously, looked under the beds, behind the door and beneath the table, but found no more. Finally he went off, evidently persuaded in his own mind that we had laid violent hands upon his chattels. But in our hearts we could find only pity for him. We were comfortably quartered at the hotel: he had been less fortu- nate: and there are few things more trying to the temper than having to perambulate the streets at the midnight hour, dead beat, in search of a place in which to lay one’s weary head and aching limbs. Midnight, too, was now midnight in reality. On our return to Bergen we had the luxury of darkness for some hours: a luxury few can realise until they have paid a visit to the North Cape, and crossed within the Arctic Circle during those long weeks, when, for these latitudes, there is “no night.” Gomicbooks.Go