hut stands in the narrow valley;
herds of cattle graze on the beautiful grassy meadows; the Saeter-maiden,
with fresh-colour, blue eyes, and bright plaits of hair, tends them and
sings the while the simple, the gentle melancholy airs of the country;
and like a mirror for that charming picture, there lies in the middle of
the valley a little lake (kjoern), deep, still, and of a clear blue
colour, as is generally peculiar to the glacier water. All breathes an
idyllian peace."

But a presentiment of death appears, even in the morning hour of
creation, to have impressed its seal upon this country. The vast
shadows of the dark mountain masses fall upon valleys where nothing but
moss grows; upon lakes whose still waters are full of never-melted
ice--thus the Cold Valley, the Cold Lake (Koledal and Koldesjoe), with
their dead, grey-yellow shores. The stillness of death reigns in this
wilderness, interrupted only by the thunderings of the avalanche and by
the noise which occasions the motion of the glaciers. No bird moves its
wings or raises its twittering in this sorrowful region; only the
melodious sighs of the cuckoo are borne thither by the winds at
Midsummer.

Wilt thou, however, see life in its pomp and fairest magnificence? Then
see the embrace of the winter and the summer in old Norway; descend into
the plain of Svalem, behold the valleys of Aamaadt and Sillejord, or the
paradisaically beautiful Vestfjordal, through which the Man flows still
and clear as a mirror, and embraces in its course little, bright green
islands, which are overgrown with bluebells and sweet-scented
wood-lilies; see how the silver stream winds itself down from the
mountains, between groups of trees and fruitful fields; see how, behind
the near hills with their leafy woods, the snow-mountains elevate
themselves, and like worthy patriarchs look down upon a younger
generation; observe in these valleys the morning and evening play of
colours upon the heights, in the depths; see the affluent pomp of the
storm; see the calm magnificence of the rainbow, as it vaults itself
over the waterfall,--depressed spirit, see this, understand it, and----
breathe!

From these beautifully, universally known scenes we withdraw ourselves
to a more unknown region, to the great stretch of valley where the
Skogshorn rears itself to the clouds; where Urunda flows brightly
between rocks,--the waterfalls of Djupadahl stream not the less
charmingly and proudly because the