Throndhjem (pronounced Tronyem) looked very pretty and
picturesque, with its red-roofed wooden houses sparkling
in the sunshine, its many windows filled with flowers,
its bright fiord covered with vessels gaily dressed in
flags, in honour of the Crown Prince's first visit to
the ancient capital of the Norwegian realm. Tall,
pretentious warehouses crowded down to the water's edge,
like bullies at a public show elbowing to the foremost
rank, orderly streets stretched in quiet rows at right
angles with each other, and pretty villas with green
cinctures sloped away towards the hills. In the midst
rose the king's palace, the largest wooden edifice in
Europe, while the old grey cathedral - stately and grand,
in spite of the slow destruction of the elements, the
mutilations of man's hands, or his yet more degrading
rough-cast and stucco reparations - still towered above
the perishable wooden buildings at his feet, with the
solemn pride which befits the shrine of a royal saint.
I cannot tell you with what eagerness I drank in all the
features of this lovely scene; at least, such features
as Time can hardly alter - the glancing river, from whence
the city's ancient name of Nidaros, or "mouth of the
Nid," is derived, - the rocky island of Munkholm, the
bluff of Lade, - the land-locked fiord and its pleasant
hills, beyond whose grey stony ridges I knew must lie
the fatal battle-field of Sticklestad. Every spot to me
was full of interest, - but an interest noways connected
with the neat green villas, the rectangular streets, and
the obtrusive warehouses.
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