Lucerne; we round the headland of the Stattlande, that terror to bad sailors if there is a contrary wind, go ashore for a walk up the ridge above the peninsula of Aalesund, and see the sun go down and the moon shine out over the mountains round Molde, the paradise of wealthy merchants.

After a second night, we wake to find the shipping and wharves of Christiansund diminishing in our wake, and by midday the screw is striking into foam the still blue waters of the wide Throndhjem Fjord, and we gaze idly and happily at the gambols of the porpoises, and the myriad colours of the jelly-fish that float beneath the keel. The afternoon brings us into the harbour of the wooden city, where, according to the old proverb, "it is pleasant to dwell," and we come to the end of what is by no means the least enjoyable part of our expedition.

A hearty farewell to the intimate friends we have never seen before, and may never meet again, and we must separate to our various destinations, some of which are still far distant, as distances are counted at home. Some

adventurers go forward by yet another steamer to Namsos, or the Lyngen Fjord, or places unspellable in the far North; others return to an island where we could not stop to set them down. Two men, who own a tract as large as Yorkshire, it appears, take the infrequent train to a village from which they still have a hundred miles to drive; and we, too, travel forward with quickening hope, and exchange the fjord for the forest.

At length, after much bumping in karioles and stolkjaerres down wild mountain paths, past rocky streams and sylvan tarns, and through innumerable woods, we cross a river which we learn, with a thrill, is our own, and, as the late darkness begins gently and almost imperceptibly to gather over the land, we approach the village which is to be our home for a month and a memory for ever. The moon shines down upon the winding curves of that peaceful valley, even as it is shining upon the muddy Thames what worlds away! The babble of hidden brooks and distant waterfalls comes softly to our ears, and mingles with the neverceasing roar of the turbulent flood which is

dashing over the huge rocks far below us in its resistless headlong career to the sea. The evening air is laden with the scent of new-mown hay and fragrant pines, and someone breaks the spell by whispering the fervent wish that the river may be in good order for the fly to

morrow.

XII.

How not to Catch a Salmon.

"Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent
To say another is an ass..

The Society upon the Stanislaus.
BRET HARTE.

IF Wilton's eye ever falls upon these pages, he will testify that what I say is true. We had invited him to come for a few days' salmonfishing in our river, which runs into the largest fjord in Norway; and he came. All we knew about him was that he was a Magdalen boating-man, whose father had given one of us some shooting somewhere once; so when I met him on the Domino, as we were getting into Stavanger one rainy morning, I asked him to come over. He arrived towards the end of an August evening, after a ten days' drought, during which the river had fallen as many feet;