ening 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 by 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

Glommen, and wooed her to be his bride. The maid would have consented, but her parents would not, and in the North, the consent of parents or guardians is a necessary to a marriage. They chose her another husband, and she was to be married. On the eve of the preliminary betrothal, came the rejected suitor, and found the maiden with all her friends, relatives, and neighbours, preparing to cross the river above the falls, in order to celebrate the event at its other side. He was a skilful boatman, and the bride elect was committed to his charge; he rowed her away; in the middle of the stream, which flowed swift but calmly there, his oars were dropped. The group assembled on the bank beheld the boat drive down the rushing stream; they saw the boatman stand erect in it, with one arm clasp the maiden to his breast, with the other hand raise his hat high above his head, and waving it around, with a loud exulting cheer, and without either aiding or resisting his fate, dash down the dreadful gulf in his self-guided boat, and bury himself and his love in the cataract of foam.

I thought I saw the young Norse lover, when I stood at the falls of the Glommen; saw him a great deal plainer than I saw the great old mansion,

with all its sleepers, and its living animals, sink down quietly into the same abyss.

I left pleasant Borregaard and the kind substitute for its hospitable owners, regretting only that I had not had the additional pleasure of meeting them. On the steam-boat that took me away, I found two unexpected companions; one was a little black dog, a favourite with its master, who chose ungratefully to follow me; the other was a Pacha of three tails!—a real Pacha of three tails! I had never seen a specimen of the kind, though of course I had heard much of it, and from childhood's hour until life's even, had I wondered much what kind of thing a Pacha of three tails could be. Judge then how fully I realised the old fable of the mouse coming out of the mountain, when I saw a fine-looking, and very moderately moustached German, with a great wide-rimmed, wide-awake hat, and a broad-skirted coat, and a mark on his forehead, as if a ball had struck it but could not enter. This was a Generalissimo of the Turkish army; General in the Spanish army; and verily I know not what else, in every army in every country of Europe-except England. How came this to pass? Why, the year 1848 had come and gone, and a man who told me himself, he could

have only aspired to the rank of Captain by` staying at home, had brought his sword wherever it was wanted, and had gained—how much honour you can judge, when he was able to announce himself as a Pacha of three tails.

I went to Frederikshalde, and saw a brisk commercial town, and had the honour of being conveyed in-what a nice little girl with an air of pretty pride told me was-Frederikshalde's steam-boat, the first it had sent forth. I took this child with me as a guide in a peasant's cart, driven by a rough and intelligent boy. We went up lovely Tistedalen; but here natural beauty, unlike that of Gulbrandsdal, is deformed, and strangely perplexed, by frightful wooden factories and numberless saw-mills: and yet, rising. below these, the flourishing town of Frederikshalde appears to be their product; owing her prosperity, not to the natural beauty, but to the artificial deformities on the most picturesque waterfalls of a stream that flows from Lake Fem; which lake is seen to advantage from a field adjoining an ugly old house, called Wien, from whence my young conductors brought me by a wooden bridge over the falls; a wild and pretty scene, although we saw it in mist and sunshine; and then on by a