and an opening of the hills at its head gave us a glimpse of
the fir forests of the inland valleys. On such a cloudless day as we
had, it was a cheerful and home-like spot.

We took a friendly leave of Mr. Thomas and departed, the little battery
giving us I don't know how many three-gun salutes as we moved off. A
number of whales spouted on all sides of us as we crossed the head of
the fjord to Bosekop, near the mouth of the Alten River. This is a
little village on a bare rocky headland, which completely shuts out from
view the rich valley of the Alten, about which the Finmarkers speak with
so much enthusiasm. "Ah, you should see the farms on the Alten," say
they; "there we have large houses, fields, meadows, cattle, and the
finest timber." This is Altengaard, familiar to all the readers of
Mugge's "Afraja." The _gaard_, however, is a single large estate, and
not a name applied to the whole district, as those unfamiliar with Norsk
nomenclature might suppose. Here the Catholics have established a
mission--ostensibly a missionary boarding-house, for the purpose of
acclimating arctic apostles; but the people, who regard it with the
greatest suspicion and distrust, suspect that the ultimate object is the
overthrow of their inherited, venerated, and deeply-rooted Lutheran
faith. At Bosekop we lost Pastor Hvoslef, and took on board the chief of
the mission, the Catholic Bishop of the Arctic Zone--for I believe his
diocese includes Greenland, Spitzbergen, and Polar America. Here is a
Calmuck Tartar, thought I, as a short, strongly-built man, with sallow
complexion, deep-set eyes, broad nostrils, heavy mouth, pointed chin,
and high cheek-bones, stepped on board; but he proved to be a Russian
baron, whose conversion cost him his estates. He had a massive head,
however, in which intellect predominated, and his thoroughly polished
manners went far to counteract the effect of one of the most
unprepossessing countenances I ever saw.

M. Gay, who had known the bishop at Paris, at once entered into
conversation with him. A short time afterwards, my attention was drawn
to the spot where they stood by loud and angry exclamations. Two of our
Norwegian _savans_ stood before the bishop, and one of them, with a face
white with rage, was furiously vociferating: "It is not true! it is not
true! Norway is a free country!" "In this respect, it is not free,"
answered the bishop, with more coolness than I thought he could have
shown, under such