THE COAST OF NORWAY.

EVERY one who has looked at the map of Norway must have been struck with the singular character of its coast. On the map it looks so jagged, such a strange mixture of land and sea, that it appears as if there must be a perpetual struggle between the two,-the sea striving to inundate the land, and the land pushing itself out into the sea, till it ends in their dividing the region between them. On the spot, however, this coast is very sublime. The long straggling promontories are mountainous, towering ridges of rock, springing up in precipices from the water; while the bays between them, instead of being rounded with shelving sandy shores on which the sea tumbles its waves, as in bays of our coast, are, in fact, long narrow valleys, filled with sea, instead of being laid out in fields and meadows. The high rocky banks shelter these deep bays (called fiords) from almost every wind; so that their waters are usually as still as those of a lake. For days and weeks together, they reflect each separate tree-top of the pine forests which clothe the mountain sides, the mirror being broken only by the leap of some sportive fish, or the oars of the boatman as he goes to inspect the sea-fowl from islet to islet of the fiord, or carries out his nets or his rod to catch the sea-trout, or char, or cod, or herrings, which abound in their seasons on the coast of Norway.

It is difficult to say whether these fiords are the more beautiful in summer or in winter. In summer, they glitter with golden sunshine; and purple and green shadows from the mountain and forest lie on them; and these may be more lovely than the faint light of the winter noons of those latitudes, and the snowy pictures of frozen peaks which then show themselves on the surface; but before the day is half over, out come the stars,-the glorious stars which shine like nothing we have ever seen. There the planets cast a faint

shadow, as the young moon does with us; and these planets, and the constellations of the sky, as they silently glide over from peak to peak of these rocky passes, are imaged on the waters so clearly that the fisherman, as he unmoors his boat for his evening task, feels as if he were about to shoot forth his vessel into another heaven, and to cleave his way among the stars.

Still as everything is to the eye, sometimes for a hundred miles together along these deep sea-valleys, there is rarely silence. The ear is kept awake by a thousand voices. In the summer there are cataracts leaping from ledge to ledge of the rocks; and there is the bleating of the kids that browse there'; and the flap of the great eagle's wings, as it dashes abroad from its eyrie; and the cries of whole clouds of sea-birds which inhabit the islets; and all these sounds are mingled and multiplied by the strong echoes till they become a din as loud as that of a city. Even at night, when the flocks are in the fold, and the birds at roost, and the echoes themselves seem to be asleep, there is occasionally a sweet music heard, too soft for even the listening ear to catch by day. Every breath of summer wind that steals through the pine forests wakes this music as it goes. The stiff spiny leaves of the fir and pine vibrate with the breeze, like the strings of a musical instrument, so that every breath of the night wind, in a Norwegian forest, wakens a myriad of tiny harps; and this gentle and mournful music may be heard in gushes the whole night through. This music, of course, ceases when each tree becomes laden with snow; but yet there is sound in the midst of the longest winter night. There is the rumble of some avalanche, as, after a drifting storm, a mass of snow, too heavy to keep its place, slides and tumbles from the mountain peak. There is also, now and then, a loud crack of the ice in the nearest glacier; and, as many declare, there is a crackling to be heard by those who listen when the northern lights are shooting and blazing across the sky. Nor is this all. Wherever there is a nook between the rocks on the shore

where a man may build a house, and clear a field or two; wherever there is a platform beside the cataract where the sawyer may plant his mill, and make a path from it to join some great road,—there is a human habitation, and the sounds that belong to it. Thence, in winter nights, come music and laughter, and the tread of dancers, and the hum of many voices. The Norwegians are a social and hospitable people; and they hold their gay meetings, in defiance of their arctic climate, through every season of the year.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

THE OUTER HEBRIDES.

THE climate of these islands is subject to great variations. It is, however, generally characterized by excessive dampness. In every part of the range, iron is covered with rust in a few days, and finer articles of wooden furniture, brought from foreign parts, invariably swell and warp. Spring commences about the end of March, when the first shoots of grass make their appearance in sheltered places, and the daisy, the lesser celandine, and the vernal whitlow-grass unfold their blossoms. It is not until the end of May, however, that in the pasture-grounds the green livery of summer has fairly superseded the grey and brown tints of the withered herbage of winter. From the beginning of July to the end of August is the season of summer, and October terminates the autumnal season. During the spring easterly winds prevail, which are at first interrupted by blasts and gales from other quarters, bringing with them rain or sleet, but ultimately become more steady, and being accompanied by a comparative dryness of the atmosphere, occasion extensive driftings of the sands. Summer is sometimes fine, but as often wet and boisterous, with southerly and westerly winds. Frequently the wet weather continues with intervals until September, from which period to the middle of October there is generally a continuance of dry weather. After this westerly gales commence,

becoming more boisterous as the season advances. It is perhaps singular, that while, in general, little thunder is heard in summer, these winter gales should frequently be accompanied by it. Dreadful tempests sometimes happen through the winter, which often unroof the huts of the natives, destroy their boats, and cover the shores with immense heaps of sea-weeds, shells, and drift timber.

After a continued gale of westerly winds, the Atlantic rolls in its enormous billows upon the western coasts, dashing them with inconceivable fury upon the headlands, and scouring the sounds and creeks, which, from the number of shoals and sunk rocks in them, often exhibit the magnificent spectacle of terrific ranges of breakers extending for miles. Let any one who wishes to have some conception of the sublime, station himself upon a headland of the west coast of Harris during the violence of a winter tempest, and he will obtain it. The blast howls among the grim and desolate rocks around him. Black clouds are seen, advancing from the west in fearful masses, pouring forth torrents of rain and hail. A sudden flash illuminates the gloom, and is followed by the deafening roar of the thunder, which gradually becomes fainter, until the roar of the waves upon the shore prevails over it. Meantime, far as the eye can reach, the ocean boils and heaves, presenting one wide-extended field of foam, the spray from the summits of the billows sweeping along its surface like drifted snow. No sign of life is to be seen, save when a gull, labouring hard to bear itself up against the blast, hovers overhead, or shoots athwart the gloom like a meteor. Long ranges of giant waves rush in succession towards the shore. The thunder of the shock echoes among the crevices and caves; the spray mounts along the face of the cliffs to an astonishing height; the rocks shake to their summit, and the baffled wave rolls back to meet its advancing successor.

If at this season one ventures by some slippery path to peep into the haunts of the cormorant and rock pigeon, one finds them sitting huddled together in melancholy silence. Some