I left Christiania yesterday.The weather was not very fine,and having been a little delayed on the road,I found that it was too late to go round,a couple of miles,to see the cascade near Fredericstadt,which I had determined to visit.Besides,as Fredericstadt is a fortress,it was necessary to arrive there before they shut the gate.
The road along the river is very romantic,though the views are not grand;and the riches of Norway,its timber,floats silently down the stream,often impeded in its course by islands and little cataracts,the offspring,as it were,of the great one I had frequently heard described.
I found an excellent inn at Fredericstadt,and was gratified by the kind attention of the hostess,who,perceiving that my clothes were wet,took great pains procure me,as a stranger,every comfort for the night.
It had rained very hard,and we passed the ferry in the dark without getting out of our carriage,which I think wrong,as the horses are sometimes unruly.Fatigue and melancholy,however,had made me regardless whether I went down or across the stream,and I did not know that I was wet before the hostess marked it.My imagination has never yet severed me from my griefs,and my mind has seldom been so free as to allow my body to be delicate.
How I am altered by disappointment!When going to Lisbon,the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness,and my imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy,and sketch futurity in glowing colours.Now--but let me talk of something else--will you go with me to the cascade?
The cross road to it was rugged and dreary;and though a considerable extent of land was cultivated on all sides,yet the rocks were entirely bare,which surprised me,as they were more on a level with the surface than any I had yet seen.On inquiry,however,I learnt that some years since a forest had been burnt.
This appearance of desolation was beyond measure gloomy,inspiring emotions that sterility had never produced.Fires of this kind are occasioned by the wind suddenly rising when the farmers are burning roots of trees,stalks of beans,&c,with which they manure the ground.The devastation must,indeed,be terrible,when this,literally speaking,wildfire,runs along the forest,flying from top to top,and crackling amongst the branches.The soil,as well as the trees,is swept away by the destructive torrent;and the country,despoiled of beauty and riches,is left to mourn for ages.
Admiring,as I do,these noble forests,which seem to bid defiance to time,I looked with pain on the ridge of rocks that stretched far beyond my eye,formerly crowned with the most beautiful verdure.
