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of having to rise up in your bed, at some midnight hour, to conclude an unfinished legend to a mysterious visitant."

"Oh!" said the Norwegian youth, quickly, "I did not mean to promise that. No, no! I only mean that I will finish it in fifty years—if you live so long."

198

. CHAPTER XVI.

Last night I said, "Thank God I am on land!" to-day I scarcely know whether I am on land or water. I know only that I am in misery.

Listen to my story, kind creatures at home, for wide as is the space between us, I feel as if I were obtaining your sympathy while pouring out my griefs on paper.

From Christiania, where I had seen the sun eclipsed and the first sod of the railway turned, I went to Drammen; saw a grand view from a tremendous hill on the way thither, a splendid river; romantic scenery around a neat wooden town, and twenty-six houses burned down, in what the Irish people would call "less than no time." Guns were firing, drums beating, National Guards marching, and the Fire-king laughing at all; when, finding it impossible to get on by land, as every horse, even of passers-by, was pressed into service against his majesty, being taken to draw the water-carts—I thought it more desirable to get away by means of the steam-boat, on the beautiful Drammen Fiord, and river of that name.

I passed through a most lovely scene to Frederickstadt, where I met the carriage of Mr. Pelly, the proprietor of the great Sarpsborg works, and of the pleasant estate of Borregaard.

The hospitable owners of that agreeable mansion were absent in England; but the house was left open to the occupancy of such a wandering waif as myself. Kind Mr. Simpson received me, and showed me all the manufactures of that little colony, a manufacturing town in itself, built on the magnificent and once solitary Sarpsborg Falls, or, in the language of the land, Sarp-fos.

This Schaffhausen of Norway must needs be beautiful in itself, for it borrows no aid from the charms of nature around it, and is wonderfully encumbered with the deformities of art. It supports a whole town of manufactories, and the deafening clang of all sorts of machinery mingle "with the roar of its mighty flood. There is an iron foundry to make on the spot the machinery used; all sorts of tools and implements are made here; there are saw mills and flour mills; places dark, noisy, and fearful to walk through, where I shuddered to feel a plank between my feet and the torrent.

The form and direction of these torrents have been much altered hy a singular and melancholy landslip which occurred here a hundred and fifty years ago. The old mansion of Borregaard stood on the elevated bank of the Glommen, and was occupied by the proprietor of the estate, which has since been purchased by Sir Henry Pelly, and the modern mansion of which was occupied by Mr. E. Pelly, during my peaceful visit to Borregaard. This old mansion, which was very strong, with high towers and double walls, suddenly sunk into the torrent, when every soul within it had quietly retired to their nightly rest, with the exception of one servant girl, who had been detained out, and, on returning home at eleven o'clock, on a winter's night, beheld a strange vision before her;—the ground, the house, and all that inhabited it, disappeared in a moment from her eyes—thundered down the abyss, and were swept over by the foaming flood. Every creature within it, a family and household of fourteen persons, perished in their house and home; while saying peace and safety, sudden destruction came. The violence of the torrent, it is believed, had undermined the bank on which the mansion stood: the rent is still visible. The great out-works which surround a Northern mansion, for farming and housekeeping purposes, were engulphed at the same time, and upwards of two hundred head of cattle are also said ♦to have descended alive into the same mighty stream.

Sarp-fos once formed several rapids, which extended to Sarpsborg, a town which was entirely destroyed by Charles XII., but under the influence of the English proprietor is again rising from its ashes, and likely to assume some commercial importance, as it is of easy access from the sea.

These rapids, I was told, and I know not if the tale has ever before been recorded, were the theatre of another, though lesser tragedy, which only tends to add another confirmation to the usually believed assertion that "the course of true love never did run smooth."

A young Norseman of a bold, determined temper, loved a maiden on the banks of the

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