after an omnibus at the rate of
five miles an hour, would be an attractive as well as extraordinary
spectacle. For my part, I would greatly prefer it to our best female
lectures on phrenology or physiology. I think a girl who can roll in
that way must be possessed of uncommon genius. The wheeling boys of
London are but clumsy spectacle compared with this. No man of
sensibility can witness such a sight without regarding it as the very
poetry of motion.

But this digression has led me a little out of the way. I was on the
road to Djerkin. A sharp pull of half a mile up the hill brought me to
the door of the station, where I was kindly greeted by the family.
Descending from my cariole a little stiff after the last long stage, I
entered the general sitting-room, where there was a goodly assemblage
of customers smoking and drinking, and otherwise enjoying themselves.
The landlady, however, would not permit me to stop in such rude
quarters, but hurried me at once into the fine room of the
establishment. While she was preparing a venison steak and some
coffee, I took a survey of the room, which was certainly ornamented in
a very artistical manner. The sofa was covered with little scraps of
white net-work; the bureau was dotted all over with little angels made
of gauze, highly-colored pin-cushions, and fanciful paper boxes and
card-stands. The walls were decorated with paintings of cows, stags,
rocks, waterfalls, and other animals, and gems of Norwegian scenery,
the productions of the genius of the family--the oldest son, a Justice
of the Peace for the District, now absent on business at Christiania.
They were very tolerably executed. The old lady was so proud of them
that she took care to call my attention to their merits immediately
upon entering the room, informing me, with much warmth of manner, that
her son was a highly respectable man, of wonderful talents, who had
held the honorable position of Justice of the Peace for the past ten
years, and that there was something in my face that reminded her of
her dear boy. In fact, she thought our features bore a striking
resemblance--only Hansen had rather a more melancholy expression, his
wife having unfortunately died about three years ago (here the poor
old lady heaved a profound sigh). But I could judge for myself. There
was his portrait, painted by a German artist who spent some months at
this place last summer. I looked at the portrait with some curiosity.
It was that of a