DIFFICULTIES IN MAKING NORWAY, 
227 
to find one’s way into any harbour along this coast, 
fenced off, as it is, from the ocean by a complicated 
outwork of lofty islands, which, in their turn, are 
hemmed in by nests of sunken rocks, sown as thick as 
peas, for miles to seaward. There are no pilots until 
you are within the islands, and no longer want them,— 
no lighthouses or beacons of any sort; and all that you 
have to go by is the shape of the hill-tops: but as, on 
the clearest day, the outlines of the mountains have 
about as much variety as the teeth ot a saw, and as on 
a cloudy day, which happens about seven times a week, 
you see nothing but the line of their dark roots,—the 
