without the gradual transitions between extremes, upon which the quiet
life here in the south is built; in other words, there are more
occasions for fancy, adventure and chance, than for calm reasoning, and
quiet activity with certain results.

A Nordlander, therefore, down here, is at first apt to feel like
Gulliver, who has come to Lilliput, and, on the whole, does not get on
well among the inhabitants, until he has screwed down his old customary
ideas to the simple proportions of their insignificant life; in short,
until he has taught himself to use his intellect, instead of his fancy.

The Lap on snow-shoes with his reindeer, the Fin, the Russian, not to
mention the constantly moving Nordlander himself, who, though slow on
land, is quick in his boat--are all undeniably far more interesting
people than the dull southern rustic, whose imagination reaches scarcely
farther than his own field, or to wondering whereabouts in the pasture
he must go to fetch his horse.

When Southerners talk about storms and waves, they mean a little bit of
a storm and rough sea in the Kristiania Fjord, which can even do a
little damage in the harbour; and they consider it deeply affecting when
a clumsy boatman is drowned. A storm suggests something very different
to my mind: a sudden down-rushing wind from the mountains, which carries
away houses--for which reason they are secured with ropes at home; waves
from the Arctic Sea, which bury high rocks and islands in foam, and roll
ground-seas of innumerable fathoms' depth, so that vessels are suddenly
dashed to pieces in the middle of the ocean; crowds of brave men sailing
for their very lives before the wind, and not for their lives only, but
also to save the dearly-won cargo for the sake of those at home, and,
even in deadly peril, trying to lend a hand to a capsized comrade; I