Surely there is nothing like this in the whole world, I thought, as I gazed for the first time upon this charming scene. The strange old-fashioned buildings, the castle, the palace on the hill-top, the shipping at the wharves, the gardens on every slope, the varied outlines of the neighboring cliffs and hills, covered with groves and green slopes of rich sward; every nook glimmering with beautiful villas; the whole reflected in the glowing waters that sweep through the maze of islands and headlands in every direction; can there be any thing more beautiful in all the world?
THE ISLANDS.
The steamer was soon hauled alongside the wharf, where a crowd of citizens was gathered to see us land. Here again was a scene characteristic of Norway. No hurry, no confusion, no shouting and clamoring for passengers, but all quiet, primitive, and good-humored. How different from a landing at New York or San Francisco! Three or four sturdy hack-drivers stood smoking their pipes, watching the proceedings with an air of philosophical indifference truly refreshing. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and cousins of various parties on board, waved their handkerchiefs and nodded affectionately to their friends and relatives, but kept their enthusiasm within limits till the plank was put out, when they came on board, and kissed and hugged every body of their acquaintance in the most affectionate manner. The officers of the customs, good easy souls! also came on board, books in hand, and made a kind of examination of the baggage. It was neither severe nor formal, and I felt an absolute friendship for the chief officer on account of the jolly manner in which he looked at me, and asked me if I had any thing contraband in my little knapsack. I offered to open it, but with a wave of his hand he chalked a pass upon it and I walked ashore. For the first time in my life I here felt the inconvenience of not being persecuted by porters and hack-drivers. The few who were on hand seemed to be particular friends or relatives of parties on board, and were already engaged. I walked up the queer, grass-grown old streets, looking around in the dim twilight for a hotel; and after stumbling into half a dozen odd-looking shops and store-houses, contrived to make my way to the Hotel Victoria, said to be the best in Christiania.
As it is no part of my purpose to write a book on Christiania, I shall only say that for the next three days I rambled about enjoying all the objects of interest in this quaint northern city—the churches, the museum, the castle, the palace, the ups and downs of the streets, the market-places, wharves, and gardens, and the magic beauties of the neighborhood. There is a plainness and simplicity about the people of Christiania, a good-humor of expression, a kindliness of manner and natural politeness that impressed me very favorably. The society is said to be genial and cultivated. I have no doubt of the fact, though my stay was too short to afford an opportunity of making many acquaintances.
At the Hotel Victoria I met Ole Bull, who was on a tour through his native land. He sat near me at the table d’hôte, and I had an opportunity of noticing the changes which time has made in his appearance. The last time I had seen him was in Columbus, Ohio, in 1844. He was then in the very prime of life, slender and graceful, yet broad of shoulder and powerful of limb; with light straight hair, clear blue eyes, and a healthy Northern complexion. He is now quite altered, and I am not sure that I would have recognized him had he not been pointed out to me. In form he is much stouter, though not so erect as he was in former years. His hair is sprinkled with gray. He retains the same noble cast of features, and deep, dreamy, and genial expression of eye as of old, but his complexion is sallow, and his face is marked by lines of care. There is something sad and touching in his manner. I do not know what his misfortunes in America may have to do with his present dejected expression, but he seems to me to be a man who has met with great disappointments in life. Although I sat beside him at the table, and might have claimed acquaintance as one of his most ardent American admirers, I was deterred from speaking to him by something peculiar in his manner—not coldness, for that is not in his nature—but an apparent withdrawal from the outer world into himself. A feeling that it might be intrusive to address him kept me silent. I afterward sent him a few lines, expressing a desire to renew my early acquaintance with him; but he left town while I was absent on an excursion to the Frogner-assen, and, much to my regret, I missed seeing him.