I much regret not being able to shake hands with him, but I am leaving my companions after sincere and heartfelt farewells to take my passage on the mail boat _Haakon Jarl_, which is leaving in a few minutes. Dr. Ekelund accompanies me to Trondhjem. One of the officers on board hands me letters and papers from France. Now, then, I am going to have a foretaste of the pleasure of again seeing those dear to me; I already feel that they are near me. The _Haakon Jarl_ is a superb steamer, conducting the mail service along the coasts of Norway, where railways are unknown. Navigation through the fjords is full of charms and surprises. The landscape is of the most varied description: at one time tall rocks, snow-capped like the mountains of Spitzbergen; at another, green wooded hills, fertile prairies with large herds of cattle grazing, and arable land in all its luxuriance. Little hamlets on the mountain sides, villages, châlets nestling mid fir trees and beeches suggest the picturesque scenery of Switzerland. The vessel threads her way through the islands, and touches at all the stations on her route. The plaintive sound of the siren re-echoes from the mountains, announces her arrival, and small vessels surround the steamer to receive and deliver dispatches, to take off passengers and their luggage, and then to make for their various destinations. [Illustration: A WHALE.] The fore-deck is one mass of cases, heaps of bricks, casks, bales, bark, and articles of every description. With the exception of a few tardy tourists going from Tromsö to Trondhjem, as it is already late in the season, passengers seem to change at every station. In some places the banks on either side are quite near, and it requires all the skill of the captain to make his way between the beacons, and avoid the numerous rocks scattered along the course. During the winter the passage is lighted by the lighthouse, but just now the nights are short, and there is very little darkness. We pass a great many vessels going through the Loffoden Islands. Meals are served in a sumptuous saloon, and the traditional amateur concert takes place after dinner. The evening is spent in smoking cigars on deck, where Nature is the leading feature on the programme. The scene is as full of variety as of surprises. First the sun, whose immense scarlet disc sinks slowly into the wave, leaving in its track a fiery horizon. The whole sky is coloured with tints running the gamut from violet to light grey. Clouds assume fantastic forms, merge into one another, transform their outlines, then disappear; then the pale moon appears, and its silvery glimmer is reflected on the waters. I stand for hours together in an ecstasy of admiration before these changing pictures, so little known to Parisians. A few stars are shining in the firmament; the air is pure, the night calm, and the atmosphere pleasant.