The driver mounted behind to guide the horses and flourish the whip over our shoulders;he would not suffer the reins out of his own hands.There was something so grotesque in our appearance that Icould not avoid shrinking into myself when I saw a gentleman-like man in the group which crowded round the door to observe us.Icould have broken the driver's whip for cracking to call the women and children together,but seeing a significant smile on the face,Ihad before remarked,I burst into a laugh to allow him to do so too,and away we flew.This is not a flourish of the pen,for we actually went on full gallop a long time,the horses being very good;indeed,I have never met with better,if so good,post-horses as in Norway.They are of a stouter make than the English horses,appear to be well fed,and are not easily tired.
I had to pass over,I was informed,the most fertile and best cultivated tract of country in Norway.The distance was three Norwegian miles,which are longer than the Swedish.The roads were very good;the farmers are obliged to repair them;and we scampered through a great extent of country in a more improved state than any I had viewed since I left England.Still there was sufficient of hills,dales,and rocks to prevent the idea of a plain from entering the head,or even of such scenery as England and France afford.The prospects were also embellished by water,rivers,and lakes before the sea proudly claimed my regard,and the road running frequently through lofty groves rendered the landscapes beautiful,though they were not so romantic as those I had lately seen with such delight.
It was late when I reached Tonsberg,and I was glad to go to bed at a decent inn.The next morning the 17th of July,conversing with the gentleman with whom I had business to transact,I found that Ishould be detained at Tonsberg three weeks,and I lamented that Ihad not brought my child with me.
The inn was quiet,and my room so pleasant,commanding a view of the sea,confined by an amphitheatre of hanging woods,that I wished to remain there,though no one in the house could speak English or French.The mayor,my friend,however,sent a young woman to me who spoke a little English,and she agreed to call on me twice a day to receive my orders and translate them to my hostess.
My not understanding the language was an excellent pretext for dining alone,which I prevailed on them to let me do at a late hour,for the early dinners in Sweden had entirely deranged my day.Icould not alter it there without disturbing the economy of a family where I was as a visitor,necessity having forced me to accept of an invitation from a private family,the lodgings were so incommodious.
Amongst the Norwegians I had the arrangement of my own time,and Idetermined to regulate it in such a manner that I might enjoy as much of their sweet summer as I possibly could;short,it is true,but "passing sweet."I never endured a winter in this rude clime,consequently it was not the contrast,but the real beauty of the season which made the present summer appear to me the finest I had ever seen.Sheltered from the north and eastern winds,nothing can exceed the salubrity,the soft freshness of the western gales.In the evening they also die away;the aspen leaves tremble into stillness,and reposing nature seems to be warmed by the moon,which here assumes a genial aspect.And if a light shower has chanced to fall with the sun,the juniper,the underwood of the forest,exhales a wild perfume,mixed with a thousand nameless sweets that,soothing the heart,leave images in the memory which the imagination will ever hold dear.
Nature is the nurse of sentiment,the true source of taste;yet what misery,as well as rapture,is produced by a quick perception of the beautiful and sublime when it is exercised in observing animated nature,when every beauteous feeling and emotion excites responsive sympathy,and the harmonised soul sinks into melancholy or rises to ecstasy,just as the chords are touched,like the AEolian harp agitated by the changing wind.But how dangerous is it to foster these sentiments in such an imperfect state of existence,and how difficult to eradicate them when an affection for mankind,a passion for an individual,is but the unfolding of that love which embraces all that is great and beautiful!
When a warm heart has received strong impressions,they are not to be effaced.Emotions become sentiments,and the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent by fondly retracing them.Icannot,without a thrill of delight,recollect views I have seen,which are not to be forgotten,nor looks I have felt in every nerve,which I shall never more meet.The grave has closed over a dear friend,the friend of my youth.Still she is present with me,and Ihear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath.Fate has separated me from another,the fire of whose eyes,tempered by infantine tenderness,still warms my breast;even when gazing on these tremendous cliffs sublime emotions absorb my soul.And,smile not,if I add that the rosy tint of morning reminds me of a suffusion which will never more charm my senses,unless it reappears on the cheeks of my child.Her sweet blushes I may yet hide in my bosom,and she is still too young to ask why starts the tear so near akin to pleasure and pain.
I cannot write any more at present.To-morrow we will talk of Tonsberg.
