OLD NORWAY.

NATURE has known no change, felt no decay,
For untold ages in this ancient land;
Her dark woods wave, her rivers hold their way,
Majestic as when fresh from Nature's hand.
Down the dread depths, as in the dawn of time,
The raging cataracts their waters urge,
And proudly now, as in their youthful prime,
The grey cliffs offer battle to the surge.

BEFORE a song of joy or sorrow had been sent forth from the hills of Norway, before a wreath of smoke had risen from her quiet valleys, before a tree in her dark forests had fallen by the hand of man, before king Nor had given his name to the land he traversed in pursuit of his captive sisteryes, before a Norwegian existed—the lofty Dovre raised its snow-capped summits before the face of the Creator.

This gigantic chain of mountains stretches itself to the west as far as Romsdahlshorn, whose foot is bathed by the western sea. To the south it forms that immense mountain region, which, under various names, occupies a space of one hundred and fifty square miles, and contains within itself all that is most grand, most terrible, or most beautiful in nature. Here still, as on the world's first day, stands the Fjall-stuga, the mountain-house, built by an invisible hand, whose walls and towers of ice only that hand can overthrow. Here still, as in the dawn of time, the morning and the evening twilight meet, in a fleeting embrace, at midsummer, on the snow-covered summits. Now, as then, rage the mountain torrents, as

they dash headlong into the fearful depths. The ice mirrors still give back the same images, now enchanting, now terrible. Still unattempted by the foot of man, lie wide Alpine tracts, rivers, and woods, on which only the eagle and the summer sun look down.

Here is the old but ever young Norway. Here the gaze of the beholder is overpowered, but his heart expands; he forgets his own sorrows, his own joys; he forgets all that is mean and trifling, while a holy awe steals over him, and he feels that the shadow of God rests upon nature.

This region lies in the heart of Norway. Is thy soul weary of the bustle of the world, the frivolities of daily life? is it oppressed by the confined air of rooms, the dust of books? or is it worn by deep, consuming passions? fly, fly, then, to the heart of Norway: alone with these grand, silent, yet so eloquent scenes, listen to the beatings of the mighty heart of nature, and win for thyself new strength, a new life.

Wilt thou look upon the great, the majestic? See Gausta raise itself upon its giant knees, and look down six thousand feet to the plain below. Behold the Titan forms of the Hurrunge, the Fannarauke, the Magnafjeld; see the wild streams, the Rjukan, the Vohring, the Vedal, foaming and thundering over the mountain, plunge into the abyss below. Wilt thou soothe thy soul with the delightful, the tender? These, too, environed by these fearful scenes, dwell here in peaceful solitude. The herdsman's hut

But on other portions of this wide region, the doom of an eternal death seems to have been impressed, even in the morning hour of creation. The vast shadows of the dark mountains fall over the valleys where only moss grows-over seas whose still waters are bound by eternal ice. The stillness of death reigns in these valleys, broken only by the crackling of the glacier, and the thunder of the avalanche. No bird moves its wings, or raises its song, in this mournful region only the melodious sighs of the cuckoo are faintly borne hither by the midsummer wind. But wouldst thou see Nature in her pomp and stateliest magnificence? then see the embrace of summer and winter in old Norway. Descend to the plain of Swalem, look upon the valleys of Clamaadt and Sillefjord, or the beautiful Westfjordale, through which the Maan glides quietly, embracing in its course little green islands overgrown with blue-bells and wood-lilies. See how the silver rivers, leaving the mountains, wind among clumps of trees and fertile fields. See how, behind the nearest mountain, with its leafy woods, the snow-capped summits rear their ancient heads, and look down like reverend patriarchs upon the youthful of their race. Mark from these valleys the still shifting tints of the morning and evening hours, upon the heights-in the depths. See the fearful magnificence of the storm; the calm beauty of the rainbow, which arches itself over the waterfall. Oppressed and care-worn man, behold this receive it into thy soul, and breathe again!

From these beautiful scenes we turn now to more unknown regions; to the wide valley where the Waldhorn raises itself even

the clear Urunda flows, and the cataracts of the Djupadahl rush down not the less proudly, that the wondering eye of the traveller but seldom rests upon them.

We descend now into a region, whose name and place on the map we will not ask the reader to search for, and which we shall call

HEIMDALE.

KNOWEST thou the hidden vale?The still, the nameless - o'er whose silent meads Wander no grazing herds; on whose green turf The restless foot of man has worn no path.

We shall give the name of Heimdale to a branch of the great valley of Hallingdale; we shall place it in the parish of Aals, and leave it to the learned to be astonished at our boldness. Heimdale, like its mother valley, possesses no historical associations. Of the ancient kings of the Hallingdale, but few memorials remain to us. A few stones, remnants of buildings which have long since disappeared; some mounds of earth, graves of the ancient race, give dim intimations of the mighty who have passed away. It is true, that, from early time, this valley has been inhabited by a people remarkable for their wild warlike spirit, simplicity of manners, and contentment under hardships and privation; but rest and strife have succeeded one another; the peaceful and the warlike have fought, and built, and gone silently to their rest; the fame of their deeds has never passed beyond these lofty mountains, never penetrated these pathless woods.

A river- Iokulen-flows through Heimdale. Bursting wildly through a narrow mountain pass, it finds in the valley a free course, and flows clear and calm, between green banks, till its waters are once more imprisoned by the granite hills; then again raging fiercely, it rushes forth in a wild torrent till it loses itself in the great Hallingdale river. Just there, where the river spreads itself out in the widest part of the valley, lies a large estate. A well built but

somewhat dilapidated house stretches out its arms to the depths of the valley. It commands a beautiful prospect, extending far into the blue distance. Lower down the river rise hills, covered with wood; and little huts, surrounded by low hedges and beautiful grass paths, lie scattered here and there, at the foot of the mountains. On the other side of the river, a quarter of a mile from the manor, a little chapel lifts its peaceful spires. Behind this chapel the valley gradually contracts itself.

On a cool September evening guests arrived at the long deserted house. These were an elderly lady, in deep mourning, of noble but sorrowful aspect, and a young blooming girl. They were received by a young man who bore the title of steward.

The door closed upon the mourning lady, and for months long she was nowhere seen in the valley. She was distinguished there by the title of 'the Oefwerstinna.'* It was said that the fate of Fru Astrid Hjelm had been a sad and strange one, and many and various were the tales related of the events of her past life.

She had not visited the estate of Semb, her paternal inheritance, since she left it as a bride. Now- a widow she had returned to the home of her childhood. It was understood that her companion was a Swede, who had accompanied her from a Swedish watering-place, in order to superintend her household; and it was reported that Susanna Bjork bore unlimited sway, in the domestic economy; directing, in the interior department, the movements of Larina, the parlormaid, Karina, the house-maid, and Petra, the cook; and ruling, not less absolutely, the guardians of the farm-yard, Matthea and Budeja, Göran the herdsman, and all the inferior tribe, both bipeds and quadrupeds.

*Colonel's wife.

THE FEATHERED RACE THE TROUBLED WATERS.

FIRST CONTENTION.

For Norway!' 'For Sweden!'

THE morning was clear and fresh. The September sun shone brightly in the valley; smoke rose from the cottages. The ladymantles, in whose channelled cups clear pearls trembled, the silverweed, with its yellow flowers and silver-bright leaves, grew along a little foot-path which wound round the base of a moss-grown hill. It conducted to a spring of clearest water, which, after forming a little pond, led its slender stream dancing and murmuring to the river. On this beautiful morning, Susanna Bjork approached the spring; in her train came 'cock, and hen, and chicken small.' Before her waddled a troop of geese, gabbling, noisily; all white but one-a grey one. The grey goose walked, with a timid, hesitating air, a little behind the others, compelled to retain this position by a tyrant in the white flock, who drove him back, with outstretched neck and loud cry, whenever he attempted to approach the rest. The poor grey always retreated before his white oppressor, but bare spots upon his head and neck proved that he had not fallen into this abject condition before he had convinced himself, by the severest proofs, of the inefficacy of all remonstrance. None of the other geese concerned themselves about their ill-used brother, on which account Susanna took him under her especial protection, and endeavored, by dainty morsels and kind words, to console him for the injustice of his kind. After the geese, came the demure but clumsy ducks, the petulant turkey-cock, with his awkward dames one black, and one white-last, came the turbulent race of chickens, with their stately, pugnacious cocks. The prettiest of all the party were a flock of pigeons, who timidly, yet confidently at the same time, now alighted on Susanna's shoulder and outstretched hand, now rose in the air and flew in shining circles round her head; then dropping to the

earth, tripped on their little fringed feet, to drink at the spring; while the geese, with loud noise, plunged splashing into the river, and threw the water over the grass in a pearly shower. Here, too, to Susanna's great vexation, was the grey goose compelled to bathe at a distance from the others.

Susanna gazed upon the beautiful picture before her, upon the little creatures who played and enjoyed themselves about her, and a visible delight beamed from her eyes, while, with elevated feeling, her hands clasped together, she softly murmured, 'My God, how beautiful!' But she started suddenly, for, at this moment, close to her, a loud, clear voice sang,

'How glorious is my father-land,

The sea-girt, brave old Norway!'

'Weaker? smaller? You should see the people in Uddewalla, my native town!'

'How can any body be born in Uddewalla? Does any one really live in that place? It is a shame to live in such a place. It is a shame only to pass through it. Why, it is so miserably small, that when the wheels of your carriage are at one end of the town, the horse is putting his head out of the other. Don't talk about Uddewalla.'

'No, it is not worth while to talk to you about it. For you have never seen any thing in your life, but your Norwegian villages, and cannot form an idea of a real Swedish city.' 'I have no desire to see any such cities, God preserve me from it. And then your Swedish lakes, what miserable puddles they are, compared to our great Norwegian sea.'

'Puddles? our seas! Large enough to drown all Norway in them.’

'Ha, ha, ha! and all Sweden is no larger than my cap, compared to our Norwegian sea; and this sea would rush down irre

'Yes, glorious is my father-land,

The ancient sea-girt clime,

Whose granite cliffs like bulwarks stand, And brave the hand of time!

Hail to old Norway!'

'Old Norway,' said Susanna, as before, 'I think it is a real scandal to hear you talk about your old Norway, as if it were older, and more eternal, than God himself.’

'And where, in the whole world,' cried Harold, will you find such a noble, highminded people; such glorious streams, and such high, high mountains?'

'We have men and mountains in Sweden, too,' said Susanna, 'Oh, if you could but see them! They are of quite another sort!'

'Another sort! what sort, then? I will wager there is not a goose in Sweden to be compared to our excellent Norwegian geese.' 'No, not one, but a thousand, and all larger and fatter than these. But in Sweden every thing is larger and better than in Norway.' 'Larger? the men are certainly much smaller and weaker.'

nobly defend it with her granite breast.'

'Sweden defends herself, and needs no other help; Sweden is a noble land.'

'Not half so noble as Norway. Norway reaches to heaven with its mountains. Norway stands nearest to God.'

'Norway may be presumptuous, but God loves Sweden best.'

'Norway, I say!' 'Sweden, I say!'

'Norway! Norway, for ever! We will see! The one that throws the highest, wins for his country. For Norway, first and highest!' And Harold threw a stone high into

the air.

'Sweden, first and last!' cried Susanna, while she threw a stone with all her strength. Fate decreed the victory to neither party; the stones met in the air, and then fell, with a loud noise, into the spring, about which the animals were assembled. The geese screamed; hens and ducks fluttered, terrified, about; the turkey-hens ran into the wood; the turkey-cock, forgetting his dignity, followed them; the pigeons vanished in an instant, and with flushed cheeks,

warmly contending which stone went the highest, Harold and Susanna stood beside the troubled waters. This moment is not perhaps the most favorable one we could choose, we will, however, avail ourselves of it, to give a slight sketch of the contending parties. Harold Bergman has marked and rather sharp features. His usual expression is that of deep seriousness, but this could give place, in a moment, to one of the most roguish playfulness. His dark hair fell in waves over a brow which might well be the abode of high, clear intellect. His figure was of fair proportions, and all his motions were unconstrained and graceful.

He was brought up in a highly respectable family, had received a careful education, and was considered by his friends as a young man of uncommon promise. He had just left the S. seminary, and was preparing to travel into foreign countries, in order to extend his knowledge of agriculture, when accident introduced him to the Oefwerstinna Hjelm, at the time when she returned, a widow, to her native land. In consequence of this he changed his plans. In a letter to his sister, he writes thus ;

'I cannot well express to you, Alette, the impression she made upon me. I might describe to you her high stature, her noble bearing, her countenance which, in spite of many wrinkles, and a pale complexion, still retains the traces of great beauty; her high forehead, round which locks of mingled black and grey escape from beneath her simple cap; I might tell you of her deep, earnest eyes; of her voice, whose tones are so sweet and yet so solemn, and still you could form no idea of what it is that makes her so unlike every one else. I have heard that her life has been as remarkable for its virtues, as for its sorrows. Virtue and sorrow have imparted to her a quiet nobleness; a nobleness never attained by the favorite of fortune, and which is stamped upon her whole being. She seemed to me as if all the littlenesses of the world passed by her unmarked. I felt for her an involuntary respect, such as I have never felt for any other human being, and with it a strong desire to come nearer to her,

to be useful to her, to deserve and win her esteem - it seemed to me that I should, by this means, myself become nobler, or at least, better. And when I learned that she wished for a skilful and experienced steward, to take charge of her long neglected estate, I offered myself, in all modesty, as such an one; and when I was accepted, I felt an almost childish delight, and departed immediately for her estate, in order to make myself at home there, and prepare every thing for her reception.'

Thus much of Harold, now for Susanna. Barbara Susanna Bjork was not handsome; she could not even be called pretty-she was too tall and stout for that-yet was her appearance not unpleasing. Her blue eyes looked out into the world so honestly and frankly; her face, round and full, told of health, a good heart, and high spirits; and when Susanna was gay, when her fresh mouth opened in a merry laugh, it was enough to make one gay only to look upon her. But true it is, that she was often in an ill-humor, and then she was not quite so charming. She was a tall, well-formed girl, with feelings too strong to be altogether amiable, and her manners betrayed a certain want of refinement.

she

Poor child! how was she to have acquired this, in the abode of disorder, idleness, and poverty in which she had passed the greater part of her life? Her mother died while Susanna was yet very young-then came an aunt into the house. She busied herself with house-keeping and gossipping, let her brother seek his pleasure at the club, and left the child to take care of herself. The education of Susanna consisted in this learned to read tolerably, and when she was naughty they said to her, 'What, has Barbara come again? Fie, for shame, Barbara! Away with Barbara!' And when she was good again, 'See, here is Sanna, again! Welcome good little Sanna,' a method which certainly had some advantages, if it had only been more judiciously employed. But often was the little girl addressed as Barbara when it was not at all necessary, and this had always the effect of calling in the said