ugh, but nothing to those which skirted the terrible winding
staircase, that appeared, from where I stood, to ascend to the skies.

"Now then, Henry."

"I can't do it!" I cried, in accents of despair.

"Are you, after all, a coward, sir?" said my uncle in a pitiless tone.
"Go up, I say!"

To this there was no reply possible. And yet the keen air acted
violently on my nervous system; sky, earth, all seemed to swim round,
while the steeple rocked like a ship. My legs gave way like those of a
drunken man. I crawled upon my hands and knees; I hauled myself up
slowly, crawling like a snake. Presently I closed my eyes, and allowed
myself to be dragged upwards.

"Look around you," said my uncle in a stern voice, "heaven knows what
profound abysses you may have to look down. This is excellent practice."

Slowly, and shivering all the while with cold, I opened my eyes. What
then did I see? My first glance was upwards at the cold fleecy clouds,
which as by some optical delusion appeared to stand still, while the
steeple, the weathercock, and our two selves were carried swiftly along.
Far away on one side could be seen the grassy plain, while on the other
lay the sea bathed in translucent light. The Sund, or Sound as we call
it, could be discovered beyond the point of Elsinore, crowded with white
sails, which, at that distance looked like the wings of seagulls; while
to the east could be made out the far-off coast of Sweden. The whole
appeared a magic panorama.

But faint and bewildered as I was, there was no remedy for it. Rise and
stand up I must. Despite my protestations my first lesson lasted quite
an hour. When, nearly two hours later, I reached the bosom of mother
earth, I was like a rheumatic old man bent double with pain.

"Enough for one day," said my uncle, rubbing his hands, "we will begin
again tomorrow."

There was no remedy. My lessons lasted five days, and at the end of that
period, I ascended blithely enough, and found myself able to look down
into the depths below without even winking, and with some degree of
pleasure.

CHAPTER 6

Our Voyage to Iceland

The hour of departure came at last. The night before, the worthy Mr.
Thompson brought us the most cordial letters of introduction for Baron
Trampe, Governor of Iceland, for M. Pictursson, coadjutor to the bishop,
and for M. Finsen, mayor of the town of Reykjavik. In return, my uncle
nearly crushed his hands, so warmly did he shake them.

On