Tonsberg was formerly the residence of one of the little sovereigns of Norway;and on an adjacent mountain the vestiges of a fort remain,which was battered down by the Swedes,the entrance of the bay lying close to it.
Here I have frequently strayed,sovereign of the waste;I seldom met any human creature;and sometimes,reclining on the mossy down,under the shelter of a rock,the prattling of the sea amongst the pebbles has lulled me to sleep--no fear of any rude satyr's approaching to interrupt my repose.Balmy were the slumbers,and soft the gales,that refreshed me,when I awoke to follow,with an eye vaguely curious,the white sails,as they turned the cliffs,or seemed to take shelter under the pines which covered the little islands that so gracefully rose to render the terrific ocean beautiful.The fishermen were calmly casting their nets,whilst the sea-gulls hovered over the unruffled deep.Everything seemed to harmonise into tranquillity;even the mournful call of the bittern was in cadence with the tinkling bells on the necks of the cows,that,pacing slowly one after the other,along an inviting path in the vale below,were repairing to the cottages to be milked.With what ineffable pleasure have I not gazed--and gazed again,losing my breath through my eyes--my very soul diffused itself in the scene;and,seeming to become all senses,glided in the scarcely-agitated waves,melted in the freshening breeze,or,taking its flight with fairy wing,to the misty mountain which bounded the prospect,fancy tripped over new lawns,more beautiful even than the lovely slopes on the winding shore before me.I pause,again breathless,to trace,with renewed delight,sentiments which entranced me,when,turning my humid eyes from the expanse below to the vault above,my sight pierced the fleecy clouds that softened the azure brightness;and imperceptibly recalling the reveries of childhood,I bowed before the awful throne of my Creator,whilst I rested on its footstool.
You have sometimes wondered,my dear friend,at the extreme affection of my nature.But such is the temperature of my soul.It is not the vivacity of youth,the heyday of existence.For years have I endeavoured to calm an impetuous tide,labouring to make my feelings take an orderly course.It was striving against the stream.I must love and admire with warmth,or I sink into sadness.
Tokens of love which I have received have wrapped me in Elysium,purifying the heart they enchanted.My bosom still glows.Do not saucily ask,repeating Sterne's question,"Maria,is it still so warm?"Sufficiently,O my God!Has it been chilled by sorrow and unkindness;still nature will prevail;and if I blush at recollecting past enjoyment,it is the rosy hue of pleasure heightened by modesty,for the blush of modesty and shame are as distinct as the emotions by which they are produced.
I need scarcely inform you,after telling you of my walks,that my constitution has been renovated here,and that I have recovered my activity even whilst attaining a little embonpoint.My imprudence last winter,and some untoward accidents just at the time I was weaning my child,had reduced me to a state of weakness which Inever before experienced.A slow fever preyed on me every night during my residence in Sweden,and after I arrived at Tonsberg.By chance I found a fine rivulet filtered through the rocks,and confined in a basin for the cattle.It tasted to me like a chalybeate;at any rate,it was pure;and the good effect of the various waters which invalids are sent to drink depends,I believe,more on the air,exercise,and change of scene,than on their medicinal qualities.I therefore determined to turn my morning walks towards it,and seek for health from the nymph of the fountain,partaking of the beverage offered to the tenants of the shade.
Chance likewise led me to discover a new pleasure equally beneficial to my health.I wished to avail myself of my vicinity to the sea and bathe;but it was not possible near the town;there was no convenience.The young woman whom I mentioned to you proposed rowing me across the water amongst the rocks;but as she was pregnant,I insisted on taking one of the oars,and learning to row.
It was not difficult,and I do not know a pleasanter exercise.Isoon became expert,and my train of thinking kept time,as it were,with the oars,or I suffered the boat to be carried along by the current,indulging a pleasing forgetfulness or fallacious hopes.
How fallacious!yet,without hope,what is to sustain life,but the fear of annihilation--the only thing of which I have ever felt a dread.I cannot bear to think of being no more--of losing myself--though existence is often but a painful consciousness of misery;nay,it appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist,or that this active,restless spirit,equally alive to joy and sorrow,should only be organised dust--ready to fly abroad the moment the spring snaps,or the spark goes out which kept it together.Surely something resides in this heart that is not perishable,and life is more than a dream.
Sometimes,to take up my oar once more,when the sea was calm,I was amused by disturbing the innumerable young star fish which floated just below the surface;I had never observed them before,for they have not a hard shell like those which I have seen on the seashore.
They look like thickened water with a white edge,and four purple circles,of different forms,were in the middle,over an incredible number of fibres or white lines.Touching them,the cloudy substance would turn or close,first on one side,then on the other,very gracefully,but when I took one of them up in the ladle,with which I heaved the water out of the boat,it appeared only a colourless jelly.
I did not see any of the seals,numbers of which followed our boat when we landed in Sweden;but though I like to sport in the water Ishould have had no desire to join in their gambols.
