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LETTER VIII.
Tonsberg was formerly the residence of one of the
little sovereigns of Norway; and on an adjacent
mountain the vestiges of a fort remain, which was battered
down by the Swedes, the entrance of the bay lying
close to it.
Here I have frequently strayed, sovereign of the
waste; I seldom met any human creature; and
sometimes, reclining on the mossy down, under the shelter
of a rock, the prattling of the sea amongst the pebbles
has lulled me to sleep——no fear of any rude satyr’s
approaching to interrupt my repose. Balmy were the
slumbers, and soft the gales, that refreshed me, when
I awoke to follow, with an eye vaguely curious, the
white sails, as they turned the cliffs, or seemed to take
shelter under the pines which covered the little islands
that so gracefully rose to render the terrific ocean
beautiful. The fishermen were calmly casting their
nets, whilst the sea-gulls hovered over the unruffled
deep. Everything seemed to harmonise into tranquil-
lity; even the mournful call of the bittern was in
cadence with the tinkling bells on the necks of the cows,
that, pacing slowly one after the other, along an inviting
path in the vale below, were repairing to the cottages to
be milked. With what ineffable pleasure have I not
gazed——and gazed again, losing my breath through my
eyes——my very soul diffused itself in the scene; and,
seeming to become all senses, glided in the
scarcely-agitated waves, melted in the freshening breeze, or,
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