th a wheel to move the
saw, as well as a wheel to move the beam or the tree; and seen from a
little distance, the chapel, saw-mills, houses, and cabins, all seem
to be enveloped in a soft olive haze that emanates from the dark-green
firs and the paler birches which either singly or in groups extend
from the winding banks of the Maan to the crests of the lofty
mountains.

Such is the fresh and laughing hamlet of Dal, with its picturesque
dwellings, painted, some of them, in delicate green or pale pink
tints, others in such glaring colors as bright yellow and blood-red.
The roofs of birch bark, covered with turf, which is mown in the
autumn, are crowned with natural flowers. All this is indescribably
charming, and eminently characteristic of the most picturesque country
in the world. In short, Dal is in the Telemark, the Telemark is in
Norway, and Norway is in Switzerland, with thousands of fiords that
permit the sea to kiss the feet of its mountains.

The Telemark composes the broad portion of the immense horn that
Norway forms between Bergen and Christiania.

This dependency of the prefecture of Batsberg, has the mountains and
glaciers of Switzerland, but it is not Switzerland. It has gigantic
water-falls like North America, but it is not America. The landscape
is adorned with picturesque cottages, and processions of inhabitants,
clad in costumes of a former age, like Holland, but it is not Holland.
The Telemark is far better than any or all of these; it is the
Telemark, noted above all countries in the world for the beauty of
its scenery. The writer has had the pleasure of visiting it. He has
explored it thoroughly, in a kariol with relays of post-horses--when
he could get them--and he brought back with him such a vivid
recollection of its manifold charms that he would be glad to convey
some idea of it to the reader of this simple narrative.

At the date of this story, 1862, Norway was not yet traversed by the
railroad that now enables one to go from Stockholm to Drontheim, by
way of Christiania. Now, an extensive network of iron rails extends
entirely across these two Scandinavian countries, which are so averse
to a united existence. But imprisoned in a railroad-carriage, the
traveler, though he makes much more rapid progress than in a kariol,
misses all the originality that formerly pervaded the routes of
travel. He misses the journey through Southern Sweden on the curious
Gotha Canal, in which the steamboats, b