The Start. 91 



forgotten mornings, when nature wakens to life, wreaths 

 of mist glittering like silver over the mountains, their 

 tops soaring above the mist like islands out of the sea ! 

 Then the day gleaming over the dazzling white snow- 

 peaks ! And the evenings, and the sunsets with the 

 pale moon overhead, white mountains and islands lay 

 hushed and dreamlike as a youthful longing! Here and 

 there past homely little havens with houses around them 

 set in smiling green trees. Ah ! those snug homes in 

 the lee of the skerries awake a longing for life and 

 warmth in the breast. You may shrug your shoulders 

 as much as you like at the beauties of nature, but it is a 

 fine thing for a people to have a fair land, be it never so 

 poor. Never did this seem clearer to me than now when 

 I was leaving it. 



Every now and then a hurrah from land at one time 

 from a troop of children, at another from grown-up 

 people, but mostly from wondering peasants who gaze 

 long at the strange-looking ship and muse over its 

 enigmatic destination. And men and women on board 

 sloops and ten-oared boats stand up in their red shirts 

 that glow in the sunlight, and rest on their oars to look 

 at us. Steamboats crowded with people came out from 

 the towns we passed to greet us and bid us God-speed 

 on our way with music, songs, and cannon salutes. The 

 great tourist steamboats clipped flags to us and fired 

 salutes, and the smaller craft did the same. It is 

 embarrassing and oppressive to be the object of homage 



