t the mouth
of the Westfjord-dal, in which lies the Riukan Foss. There was no end to
our wonderful weather. In rainy Norway the sky had for once forgotten
its clouds. One after another dawned the bright Egyptian days, followed
by nights soft, starry, and dewless. The wooded shores of the long Tind
Lake were illuminated with perfect sunshine, and its mirror of
translucent beryl broke into light waves under the northern breeze. Yet,
with every advantage of sun and air, I found this lake undeserving of
its reputation for picturesque beauty. The highest peaks rise to the
height of 2000 feet, but there is nothing bold and decided in their
forms, and after the splendid fjords of the western coast the scenery
appears tame and commonplace. Our boatmen pulled well, and by noon
brought us to Hakenaes, a distance of twenty-one miles. Here we stopped
to engage horses to the Riukan Foss, as there is no post-station at
Mael. While the old man put off in his boat to notify the farmers whose
turn it was to supply the animals, we entered the farm-house, a
substantial two-story building. The rooms were tolerably clean and well
stocked with the clumsy, heavy furniture of the country, which is mostly
made by the farmers themselves, every man being his own carpenter,
cooper, and blacksmith. There were some odd old stools, made of segments
of the trunk of a tree, the upper part hollowed out so as to receive the
body, and form a support for the back. I have no doubt that this fashion
of seat is as old as the time of the Vikings. The owner was evidently a
man in tolerable circumstances, and we therefore cherished the hope of
getting a good meal; but all that the old woman, with the best will in
the world, was able to furnish, was milk, butter, oaten bread, and an
egg apiece. The upper rooms were all supplied with beds, one of which
displayed remarkable portraits of the Crown Prince of Denmark and his
spouse, upon the head-board. In another room was a loom of primitive
construction.

It was nearly two hours before the old farmer returned with the
information that the horses would be at Mael as soon as we; but we lay
upon the bank for some time after arriving there, watching the
postillions swim them across the mouth of the Maan Elv. Leaving the
boat, which was to await our return the next day, we set off up the
Westfjord-dal, towards the broad cone-like mass of the Gousta-Fjeld,
whose huge bulk, 6000 feet in height, loomed grandly over the vall