But rain coming on,and the night growing dark,the pilot declared that it would be dangerous for us to attempt to go to the place of our destination--East Rusoer--a Norwegian mile and a half further;and we determined to stop for the night at a little haven,some half dozen houses scattered under the curve of a rock.Though it became darker and darker,our pilot avoided the blind rocks with great dexterity.
It was about ten o'clock when we arrived,and the old hostess quickly prepared me a comfortable bed--a little too soft or so,but I was weary;and opening the window to admit the sweetest of breezes to fan me to sleep,I sunk into the most luxurious rest:it was more than refreshing.The hospitable sprites of the grots surely hovered round my pillow;and,if I awoke,it was to listen to the melodious whispering of the wind amongst them,or to feel the mild breath of morn.Light slumbers produced dreams,where Paradise was before me.My little cherub was again hiding her face in my bosom.
I heard her sweet cooing beat on my heart from the cliffs,and saw her tiny footsteps on the sands.New-born hopes seemed,like the rainbow,to appear in the clouds of sorrow,faint,yet sufficient to amuse away despair.
Some refreshing but heavy showers have detained us;and here I am writing quite alone--something more than gay,for which I want a name.
I could almost fancy myself in Nootka Sound,or on some of the islands on the north-west coast of America.We entered by a narrow pass through the rocks,which from this abode appear more romantic than you can well imagine;and seal-skins hanging at the door to dry add to the illusion.
It is indeed a corner of the world,but you would be surprised to see the cleanliness and comfort of the dwelling.The shelves are not only shining with pewter and queen's ware,but some articles in silver,more ponderous,it is true,than elegant.The linen is good,as well as white.All the females spin,and there is a loom in the kitchen.A sort of individual taste appeared in the arrangement of the furniture (this is not the place for imitation)and a kindness in their desire to oblige.How superior to the apish politeness of the towns!where the people,affecting to be well bred,fatigue with their endless ceremony.
The mistress is a widow,her daughter is married to a pilot,and has three cows.They have a little patch of land at about the distance of two English miles,where they make hay for the winter,which they bring home in a boat.They live here very cheap,getting money from the vessels which stress of weather,or other causes,bring into their harbour.I suspect,by their furniture,that they smuggle a little.I can now credit the account of the other houses,which Ilast night thought exaggerated.
I have been conversing with one of my companions respecting the laws and regulations of Norway.He is a man within great portion of common sense and heart--yes,a warm heart.This is not the first time I have remarked heart without sentiment;they are distinct.
The former depends on the rectitude of the feelings,on truth of sympathy;these characters have more tenderness than passion;the latter has a higher source--call it imagination,genius,or what you will,it is something very different.I have been laughing with these simple worthy folk--to give you one of my half-score Danish words--and letting as much of my heart flow out in sympathy as they can take.Adieu!I must trip up the rocks.The rain is ever.Let me catch pleasure on the wing--I may be melancholy to-morrow.Now all my nerves keep time with the melody of nature.Ah!let me be happy whilst I can.The tear starts as I think of it.I must flee from thought,and find refuge from sorrow in a strong imagination--the only solace for a feeling heart.Phantoms of bliss!ideal forms of excellence!again enclose me in your magic circle,and wipe clear from my remembrance the disappointments that reader the sympathy painful,which experience rather increases than damps,by giving the indulgence of feeling the sanction of reason.
Once more farewell!
