TROLDTINDERNE,
MAGICIANS’ OR WITCHES’ PEAKS.
They told us they were going to take steamer at Veblungsnœs, and passed us soon after we left Horgheim. As we followed the road round the base of the Romsdalshorn, we came to some waste ground open to the road, and partly covered with bushes. The donkeys were driven to a shady spot near a small stream of water. The Magician’s peaks rose immediately above us; at irregular intervals, we heard about its summits a noise like distant thunder, the sound was produced by falling masses of snow loosened by the summer sun; we could almost imagine ourselves in the Catskill Mountains, where Rip Van Winkle met Hudson and his spectre band. A witchery seemed to hang about those grey fantastic peaks. The middags-mad consisted of fried cheese, tea, fladbröd and butter, and potted tongue. We can assure our readers that few can realize the luxury of lounging on soft mossy turf, after a pleasant meal, though simple it may be, near a rippling stream, shaded from the mid-day sun, at the foot of lofty and picturesque mountains. Half listless and dreamy, We gazed on the singular outlines of the Magician’s peaks; a thousand spells of enchantment seemed to chain the spirit to an absence from all care, trouble, anxiety, and woe, which is wearing to the grave three parts of the mortals of this world! All our gipsies were at once in a delicious state of unconsciousness, in tumbled heaps, as part of the baggage, lying on the turf around.