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﻿190 gain any knowledge of. The traveller in Norway needs not, and as a matter of fact does not, trouble himself about the disfavor with which he is regarded in the abstract; it does not come in his way, which lies among the classes who are liable to the obscuration of the ideal by that powerful persuader, gain; and among the "fors" of Scandinavian travel, general civility must be placed.

Supposing one does not want to kill things, that the rivers rather than the fish are "running in one's mind," that the scarcity of bears and the falling-off of reindeer for purposes of slaughter are not fatal to enjoyment, and that the spectacle of inconceivable numbers of beautiful, feathered creatures, with never a "hot corner" in the neighborhood, be congenial to one's taste, there is immense pleasure in travelling along roads "magnificently engineered" — so Captain Clark Kennedy pronounces them to be — in a vehicle both novel and comfortable, through scenes of marvellous and various beauty. Whether it be for or against Norway, and indeed Scandinavia generally, that the natives are never in a hurry, are stolidly unsympathetic with the foreigner who is, and treat time with as much disregard as if it were eternity, each individual must decide for himself; to our mind, the holiday feeling would gain by this charming indifference.

Just as in former times, when, for instance, Colonel Newcome came home on leave, every reader of Eastern travel knew Shepherd's Hotel as well as the lord warden, so travellers in Northland and readers of its lore are acquainted with Mr. Bennett. He is the real, live Wizard of the North, the earthly providence of the tourist, instructing him, through his faultless little "Handbook," before he starts, receiving him on his arrival at Christiania, when he naturally rushes to "Bennett's," extending his protecting care over him until he is safely "through," as the Scotch say, and has seen the midnight sun, the walrus at home, the little Lapps, even more at home than the walrus; and finally speeding the parting guest when he has delivered up his carriole, after his photograph has been taken in the proud attitude of occupation of that queer carriage. When you stop at Bergen, or Throndhjem, you will be pretty sure to buy specimens of the carved wood, and the silver ornaments, and the skins of furry animals, for which Old Norway is famous. Do not add them to your luggage, but pack them off per coasting steamer to Mr. Bennett; he will take charge of them until you arrive, when he will give you the latest information about everywhere, and the soundest advice about everything, if you do not happen to require anything more. If you do, go to his store, a sight in itself, and get the carriole and harness, the books, the maps, the preserved meats, the small coin for change, and the "straight tip" all round, even as to the best way of rectifying the defects of the "station" beds, which are too short for everybody, and have wedge-shaped pillows. Familiar as the sound of "backsheesh" in the land of the Nile is that of "Bennett" in the land of the fjord and the fjeld. Fairly off in the carriole, with a sure-footed pony — which let no man maltreat, for the Norwegian farmers do not like it, and the station-master will find means to punish, by delay and incivility, the tourist who overdrives the docile and willing little steeds — all the stages of the journey, in whatever direction, are full of charm; the exhilarating freshness of pure air, the keen scent of pines, the peace of the smiling country, the grandeur of distant mountains, the music of streams and waterfalls, and until the extreme north be reached, where only the Scotch fir grows, the poplar, the willow, the mountain ash-trees flourishing in great luxuriance. The northern route is full of grandeur, and Captain Clark Kennedy tells of one stage, on the road to Dovre, which combines every feature of Alpine scenery, "snowcapped hills towering above the road, vast forests of birch and pine, and masses of granite rocks, interspersed with juniper, on every side; and the river, pent up between narrow, precipitous banks of solid stone, dashing at breakneck speed far below." Next to the beauty of nature in these regions, one is led to admire the laziness of the natives. They are past-masters in idleness, they have elevated dawdling to an art. It is quite curious, — only when your pony casts a shoe, and four persons consume a whole hour in replacing it, you begin rather to count up your years. On the Dovrefjeld, which reminds us of Miss Martineau and Frederika Bremer, wolves are scarce, though they still haunt farmyards in the winter, but there is found the lemming, in Norway as large as a water-rat, in Lapland and northern Russia no bigger than a mouse. The migration of the grey squirrels, sung with such spirit and pathos by William Howitt — who has ever made us know the wonderful Arctic world like him? — is not so strange and interesting as that of these puzzling little creatures, who travel in countless hordes, like locusts, and are little 