leanliness and comfort of the dwelling. The shelves are not only
shining with pewter and queen's ware, but some articles in silver, more
ponderous, it is true, than elegant. The linen is good, as well as
white. All the females spin, and there is a loom in the kitchen. A sort
of individual taste appeared in the arrangement of the furniture (this is
not the place for imitation) and a kindness in their desire to oblige.
How superior to the apish politeness of the towns! where the people,
affecting to be well bred, fatigue with their endless ceremony.

The mistress is a widow, her daughter is married to a pilot, and has
three cows. They have a little patch of land at about the distance of
two English miles, where they make hay for the winter, which they bring
home in a boat. They live here very cheap, getting money from the
vessels which stress of weather, or other causes, bring into their
harbour. I suspect, by their furniture, that they smuggle a little. I
can now credit the account of the other houses, which I last night
thought exaggerated.

I have been conversing with one of my companions respecting the laws and
regulations of Norway. He is a man within great portion of common sense
and heart--yes, a warm heart. This is not the first time I have remarked
heart without sentiment; they are distinct. The former depends on the
rectitude of the feelings, on truth of sympathy; these characters have
more tenderness than passion; the latter has a higher source--call it
imagination, genius, or what you will, it is something very different. I
have been laughing with these simple worthy folk--to give you one of my
half-score Danish words--and letting as much of my heart flow out in
sympathy as they can take. Adieu! I must trip up the rocks. The rain
is ever. Let me catch pleasure on the wing--I may be melancholy
to-morrow. Now all my nerves keep time with the melody of nature. Ah!
let me be happy whilst I can. The tear starts as I think of it. I must
flee from thought, and find refuge from sorrow in a strong
imagination--the only solace for a feeling heart. Phantoms of bliss!
ideal forms of excellence! again enclose me in your magic circle, and
wipe clear from my remembrance the disappointments that reader the
sympathy painful, which experience rather increases than damps, by giving
the indulgence of feeling the sanction of reason.

Once more farewell!

LETTER XI.

I left Portoer, the little have