eating you up. Of course I was not going to
give in. If my friend had lain there till now,
so would I; that is, supposing the mosquitoes
had left any of me to lie anywhere. At last, to
my joy, after we had been six mortal hours on
our stomachs, he got up, and said we might as
well go, as the bear would not come till
tomorrow night.

Next night again we were out, and this time
were more fortunate. As I lay in my old place,
stomach flat on the ground, rifle up to my cheek,
I fancied I heard a heavy tread and a rustling
about forty yards on the left. "If my heart
would only leave off jumping in that absurd
way, almost lifting me from the ground, I
might get a chance!" Nearer it came—nearer
still—till I thought I could see a great black
object about twenty yards off through the low
scrub. So I took aim and fired; and then we
both got to our feet, and could just get a
glimpse of a dark substance making off down a
ravine. The bear was hit; that was evident by
the blood; but where, was the point. We
saw no more of him, though we followed him
up some hours. But my host shot him a few
weeks afterwards, while I was over the
mountains; at least, he supposed it was the same, for
it had a recent bullet-wound in its fat haunch.
I cannot describe how this information relieved a
lurking fear I had entertained that I had shot
one of my friend's heifers. Such was my
experience in bear-hunting, and I fancy I was luckier
than most of my countrymen are, for I got the
credit of having wounded a bear, whereas I am
still inclined to believe I sent a bullet into the
haunch of one of my friend's cows.

The next morning, after bidding adieu to
mine host, I started across the Fjelds to the
Trysil river. It was a beautiful autumn morning;
the fog still hung lazily round the mountains,
but slowly lifted itself up like a reluctant
stage curtain in a theatre. I had a stout little
mountain pony to carry the "impedimenta," on
which I could ride when I pleased; my guide
carried my rods, while I shouldered my rifle,
thinking that a reindeer might come in our way.
After a two hours' rugged ascent, we reached
the open fjeld. The scenery assumed the most
savage desolate appearance I ever witnessed,
or desire to witness again. For miles around,
the ground was covered with nothing but an
unlimited supply of reindeer moss, which imparted
a "custard-mustard" sort of tint to the
landscape. If a fellow feels out of humour with
civilised life in general, and humanity in particular,
let me commend him to a week on the
Norwegian fjelds. During the whole ride of ten
hours I did not see more than ten animated
objects (barring mosquitoes). One of these was
an eagle, which was soaring at a great height
above a mountain lake, and which suddenly, as if
impelled by some instantaneous idea, discharged
itself down the most perpendicular "header" I
ever saw, right into the lake. It was ten
seconds under water, and then emerged with
a large fish in its claws, with which it flew off
in triumph. Subsequently, I caught several fish
bearing marks of eagles' claws on their backs,
so that the birds occasionally miss their fish, it
seems—a comfort for men.

The feeling of loneliness and solitariness a
ride on the fjelds is calculated to produce on a
man's nerves, especially if he be at all given to
hypochondriacal affections, can scarcely be
realised. What a thing to fall down in a fit, or to
break a leg, or to undergo any other such-like
unpleasantnesses to which, flesh is heir, in such
a dismal place, far out of reach of human
assistance. The reflection that the crows would
come and pick you over, or the gluttons gorge
themselves on your carcase, or the wolves worry
each other over you, might make a nervous
person extremely uncomfortable. And this, I came
to the conclusion, after deep meditation, must be
the use of mosquitoes: They keep a traveller's
thoughts from dwelling on such topics, and tax
all his ingenuity to prevent them from eating
him up. Discerning little pests! they would
not so much as look at my "unwashen,
unkempt" guide, but stuck to me with a pertinacity
that made it clear that the smell of a clean
Englishman's blood was dear to them. As an
interesting question to entomologists, I venture
to propound, "What do they feed on up there,
when there are no travellers?"

Towards evening we reached the river; the
farm-house where I was to put up, lay on the
opposite bank; and, while the pony of his own
accord swam across, we rowed over. The
farmhouse, or, more properly speaking, cluster of
log-houses, lay at a short distance from the river,
in a thickly-wooded ravine. My guide had been
instructed to introduce me to the good people,
and to request them to take me in; so while
they were getting a room ready for me, I
sauntered down to the river, rod in hand. It was a
delicious evening; the wind, which had just
sprung up, gave that propitious ripple to the
surface of the water which a fly-fisher delights
to see; quickly putting on a cast, I threw into
the stream. The fish were jumping on all sides.
Whether I was the first Englishman who had
ever fished there, I know not, but certainly I
rose a fish nearly every time. In three hours I
had bagged forty trout and grayling, weighing
altogether thirty pounds, good weight. The
largest was four pounds.

It was then time to go home and get to bed,
for I was rather stiff and tired, after a day on a
hard Norwegian saddle. "How delicious to
get a room like this all to oneself!" I thought,
as I walked into mine. Scarcely was the
thought conceived, than in marched the whole
household, and quietly ranged themselves round
the room to have a good look at the "Engelskmand."
After having stared at me in silence
for a few minutes, they proceeded to examine
my watch, pipe, fly-book, &c., which lay on the
table. "Well! now they'll go, surely," I said
to myself, "as they have looked at everything."
A bright thought seized me. "I'll begin to
undress; they'll be sure to take that hint!" I
sat down on the edge of the bed, and leisurely
took off my boots. No! that wouldn't move