country with dulness. Still, here and there
I came across charming spots, oases in the
midst of this rocky wilderness, where I could
have lingered long; spots where the dreamy
Fjords were spread out like a sea of gold
beneath the rays of a midnight sun, and where
a homestead or fisher's hut, nestling in some
cranny or nook of the Fjeld, safely guarded
from the fierce Atlantic storm, lent a charm and
a feeling of peaceful contentment to the scene
which I have failed to experience amidst
grander and more picturesque landscapes.

But this is the bright, the summer side of the
picture. Quite true! But how about the long
dreary winter, the eternal snow, and the sunless
days? Here, too, I can speak from experience.
A Nordland winter is by no means
unendurable.

I do not suppose it is much, if any, colder
than in the north of Scotland. The sea never
freezes, and in the neighbourhood of the coast,
thanks to the Gulf Stream, the temperature is
bearable. Indeed, the average winter
temperature is estimated at about minus five degrees
Centigrade, or twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit.
And though one does not see anything of the
sun for six weeks, and though the storms that
come raging from the sea are fearful indeed,
yet, on the whole, I think I would almost as
soon winter in Nordland as in England.

It is quite a mistake to suppose that even at
mid-winter darkness reigns supreme. In cloudy
weather, of course, or when a sea-fog comes on,
it is a darkness that rivals that of Egypt in
intensity; still on most days, as a rule, it is quite
light enough to read or work for three or four
hours at noon. Perhaps the novelty of the thing
prevented my feeling dull; for we were not
overburdened with society, the doctor, and two or
three of the neighbouring Handelsmænd forming
our whole circle. Each of them, however, had
a large family, so that there was never any
difficulty in getting up a dance after dinner,
and two or three rubber parties. What with
this, and with singing and music, the evenings
passed away pleasantly enough.

There was one thing I never did get used to,
and, indeed, it would have taken a long time to
acclimatise me thereto. I refer to the
irregularity of the post during the winter. In summer
it was punctual, but in winter-time it all
depended on the weather. By the way, I do not
believe it blows anywhere as on the north-west
coast of Norway. I solemnly aver, though I do
not expect to be believed, that on one occasion
I saw Fritz, the pastor's twelve-year-old son,
lifted several feet off the ground, to the intense
alarm of his parents, who, as they happened to be
looking out of the window at the instant, saw
their young hopeful going aloft.

The letters, on the last post-day I spent in
Nordland, were looked for with more than
ordinary interest by every one. The pastor
was looking for intelligence from his son-in-law,
who lived somewhere in the south of Norway,
that he was a grandpapa— an excitement in
which his Frue, and two blooming daughters,
Johanne and Ingeleiv, fully participated. He
had another reason, too, for anxiety, for he had
recently sent in an application to government
for a cure which was vacant in the immediate
neighbourhood of his married daughter. Poor
old man! He had spent twenty years in the
extreme north, preaching and praying amongst
those "unwashen, unkempt," dirty little
specimens of humanity the Lapps, and he longed
now to end his days more within the ken of
civilised beings.

Fritz was standing at his usual post in the
window with his sisters, with his eyes intently
fixed on the extreme tip of a neck of land that
jutted out into the Fjord, and round which the
postman's boat always came.

We were almost beginning to give up the post
again for the twelfth time, when, all at once
Fritz cried out, "Here comes Niels! here comes
Niels! He has drunk half a pot;" and dashed
out of the room, down to the quay. Every one
of course rushed to the window. True enough,
there was the well-known boat, with its little
flag at the masthead, dashing through the water
at a prodigious rate. And equally certain was
it to every initiated spectator that Niels had
"drunk half a pot."

Niels was one of those hardy, reckless sailors,
who, perhaps, are peculiar to the Norwegian
coast. The weather must indeed be bad to have
prevented Niels going out to sea. He was pilot
in addition to his other business as postman in
these parts. His wife was almost as good a
sailor as her husband. The rougher the weather,
the more likely were Niels and wife to be out on
the look-out for any Russian vessel that stood in
need of a pilot. If the sea was so high that he
could not come alongside, they would throw a
rope to him, which he would make fast round
his waist, and then jump overboard, and be
hauled up on deck, while his better half would
make the best of her way home. But if there was
one thing Niels disliked, it was to take a reef
in when not quite sober. On one occasion,
his boat had been capsized in one of the
narrow Fjords, where the gusts swoop down from
the heights above like an eagle on to the waters,
and he had been picked up in a half-drowned,
three-quarters drunken state, riding on his boat's
keel. From that time, whenever it blew very
hard, Niels was more careful; but only when
he was quite sober would he take two reefs in.
But if he had had a little drop of "aquavit,"
nothing would ever induce him to take in more
than one. So that on the present occasion it
was, as I said, quite clear that Niels "had drunk
half a pot," as we could see that while all the
other boats had taken in two reefs he had only
taken in one.

It was not long before Fritz was scampering
back with the bag, and in five minutes its
contents lay scattered on the table. One letter
for me, from my bankers, so that would keep;
and I sat down to watch my companions. The
old pastor, his wife and daughters, had
withdrawn to the further corner of the room. It
was an exciting moment for them, as he