carpenter, who lived on the hill above, to give us quarters in his
house, so that we might be near enough to take our meals together.
Nothing could have suited us better. We took possession at once, and
then descended the hill to a dinner--I had ventured to hint at our
famished condition--of capercailie, cranberries, soft bread, whipped
cream, and a glass of genuine port.

Warmed and comforted by such luxurious fare, we climbed the hill to the
carpenter's house, in the dreary Arctic twilight, in the most cheerful
and contented frame of mind. Was this, indeed, Lapland? Did we, indeed,
stand already in the dark heart of the polar Winter? Yes; there was no
doubt of it. The imagination could scarcely conceive a more desolate
picture than that upon which we gazed--the plain of sombre snow, beyond
which the black huts of the village were faintly discernible, the
stunted woods and bleak hills, which night and the raw snow clouds had
half obscured, and yonder fur-clad figure gliding silently along beside
his reindeer. Yet, even here, where Man seemed to have settled out of
pure spite against Nature, were comfort and hospitality and kindness. We
entered the carpenter's house, lit our candles and pipes, and sat down
to enjoy at ease the unusual feeling of shelter and of home. The
building was of squared fir-logs, with black moss stuffed in the
crevices, making it very warm and substantial. Our room contained a
loom, two tables, two beds with linen of voluptuous softness and
cleanness, an iron stove (the first we had seen in Sweden), and the
usual washing apparatus, besides a piece of carpet on the floor. What
more could any man desire? The carpenter, Herr Knoblock, spoke some
German; his son, Ludwig, Mr. Wolley's servant, also looked after our
needs; and the daughter, a fair, blooming girl of about nineteen,
brought us coffee before we were out of bed, and kept our fire in order.
Why, Lapland was a very Sybaris in comparison with what I had expected.

Mr. Wolley proposed to us another luxury, in the shape of a vapour-bath,
as Herr Forstrom had one of those bathing-houses which are universal in
Finland. It was a little wooden building without windows. A Finnish
servant-girl who had been for some time engaged in getting it in
readiness, opened the door for us. The interior was very hot and moist,
like an Oriental bathing-hall. In the centre was a pile of hot stones,
covered with birch boughs, the leaves of which gave out an agreeab