n his boat--are all undeniably far more interesting
people than the dull southern rustic, whose imagination reaches scarcely
farther than his own field, or to wondering whereabouts in the pasture
he must go to fetch his horse.

When Southerners talk about storms and waves, they mean a little bit of
a storm and rough sea in the Kristiania Fjord, which can even do a
little damage in the harbour; and they consider it deeply affecting when
a clumsy boatman is drowned. A storm suggests something very different
to my mind: a sudden down-rushing wind from the mountains, which carries
away houses--for which reason they are secured with ropes at home; waves
from the Arctic Sea, which bury high rocks and islands in foam, and roll
ground-seas of innumerable fathoms' depth, so that vessels are suddenly
dashed to pieces in the middle of the ocean; crowds of brave men sailing
for their very lives before the wind, and not for their lives only, but
also to save the dearly-won cargo for the sake of those at home, and,
even in deadly peril, trying to lend a hand to a capsized comrade; I
think of the shipwreck of countless boats and vessels on a winter
evening, in the hollows of the foaming waves. It would, for once, be
worth while to see such waves (usually three in succession, and the last
the worst) advancing with their crests higher than the custom-house
roof, and bearing on their shoulders a yacht, which has to be run
ashore, rushing into Kristiania's peaceful little harbour, carrying
ships up with them into the town, and followed by correspondingly fierce
bursts of wind, lifting off the very roofs. If they came, I know well it
would be _me_ they wanted, _me_ the poor visionary, hidden away in the
civilisation of the town, who, they consider, belongs to them; and I
think a moment after the terror I should greet them as friends from
home, although they came bearing death and destruction on their wings.
They would, for once, show to all this civilised littleness the terrible
grandeur and greatness of the mighty ocean, and flavour the insipidity
of the town with a little sea-salt terror. I should like to see a whale
squeezed in between Prince's Street and Custom-house Street, glaring at
a family on the upper floor, or the fine, gold-laced policemen trying to
bring into court a stranded sea-goblin. I should like, too, to see the
town's theatrical reviewers, who are accustomed to see "Haupt und
Statsaction" in vaudevilles twice a week, sta