This beverage
appears to be generally used by the Finns for quenching thirst, instead
of water. Our postilions were sitting silently upon the bench, and we
followed their example, lit our pipes, and puffed away, while the
cooper, after the first glance, went on with his work; and the other
members of his family, clustered together in the dusky corner behind the
fireplace, were equally silent. Half an hour passed, and the spirit
moved no one to open his mouth. I judged at last that the horses had
been baited sufficiently, silently showed my watch to the postilions,
who, with ourselves, got up and went away without a word having been
said to mar the quaint drollery of the incident.

While at Haparanda, we had been recommended to stop at Kingis Bruk, at
the junction of the Tornea and Muonio. "There," we were told, "you can
get everything you want: there is a fine house, good beds, and plenty to
eat and drink." Our blind interpreter at Kardis repeated this advice.
"Don't go on to Kexisvara;" (the next station) said he, "stop at Kengis,
where everything is good." Toward Kengis, then, this oasis in the arctic
desolation, our souls yearned. We drove on until ten o'clock in the
brilliant moonlight and mild, delicious air--for the temperature had
actually risen to 25 deg. above zero!--before a break in the hills announced
the junction of the two rivers. There was a large house on the top of a
hill on our left, and, to our great joy, the postilions drove directly
up to it. "Is this Kengis?" I asked, but their answers I could not
understand, and they had already unharnessed their horses.

There was a light in the house, and we caught a glimpse of a woman's
face at the window, as we drove up. But the light was immediately
extinguished, and everything became silent. I knocked at the door, which
was partly open, but no one came. I then pushed: a heavy log of wood,
which was leaning against it from the inside, fell with a noise which
reverberated through the house. I waited awhile, and then, groping my
way along a passage to the door of the room which had been lighted,
knocked loudly. After a little delay, the door was opened by a young
man, who ushered me into a warm, comfortable room, and then quietly
stared at me, as if to ask what I wanted. "We are travellers and
strangers," said I, "and wish to stop for the night." "This is not an
inn," he answered; "it is the residence of the _patron_ of the iron
works." I may here remark that