y face, and I began to feel faint and sick with so much
suffering and loss of rest. The boy aggravated us so much by his
laziness, that Braisted ran ahead and cuffed his ears, after which he
made better speed. After a drive through interminable woods, we came
upon the banks of the Kalix, which were steep and fringed with splendid
firs. Then came the village of Mansbyn, where, thank Heaven, we got
something to eat, a warm room, and a bed.

While we were at supper, two travellers arrived, one of whom, a
well-made, richly-dressed young fellow, was ushered into our room. He
was a _bruk-patron_ (iron-master), so the servant informed us, and from
his superfine broad-cloth, rings, and the immense anchor-chain which
attached him to his watch, appeared to be doing a thriving business. He
had the Norse bloom on his face, a dignified nose, and English whiskers
flanking his smoothly-shaven chin. His air was flushed and happy; he was
not exactly drunk, but comfortably within that gay and cheerful
vestibule beyond which lies the chamber of horrors. He listened to our
conversation for some time, and finally addressed me in imperfect
English. This led to mutual communications, and a declaration of our
character, and object in travel--nothing of which would he believe.
"Nobody can possibly come here for pleasure," said he; "I know better;
you have a secret political mission." Our amusement at this only
strengthened him in his suspicions. Nevertheless he called for a bottle
of port wine, which, when it came, turned out to be bad Malaga, and
insisted on drinking a welcome. "You are in latitude 66 deg. north," said
he; "on the Kalix, where no American has ever been before, and I shall
call my friend to give a _skal_ to your country. We have been to the
church, where my friend is stationed."

With that he went out, and soon returned with a short, stout, broad
faced, large-headed man of forty or thereabouts. His manner was
perfectly well-bred and self-possessed, and I took him to be a
clergyman, especially as the iron-master addressed him as "Brother
Horton." "Now," said he, "welcome to 66 deg. north, and prosperity to free
America! Are you for Buchanan or Fremont?" Brother Horton kept a
watchful eye upon his young friend, but cheerfully joined in the
sentiment. I gave in return: "_Skal_ to Sweden and the Swedish people,"
and hoped to get rid of our jolly acquaintance; but he was not to be
shaken off. "You don't know me," he said; "and I do