in Sweden, in the shape of
government taxes, tithes, and the obligation of supporting a portion of
the army, who are distributed through the provinces. Thus Dalecarlia,
they informed me, with a population of 132,000, is obliged to maintain
1200 troops. The tax on land corresponded very nearly with the statement
made by my female postillion the previous day. Dalecarlia, its mines
excepted, is one of the poorest of the Swedish provinces. Many of its
inhabitants are obliged to wander forth every summer, either to take
service elsewhere, or to dispose of the articles they fabricate at home,
in order, after some years of this irregular life, to possess enough to
enable them to pass the rest of their days humbly at home. Our
fellow-passengers told me of several who had emigrated to America, where
they had spent five or six years. They grew home-sick at last, and
returned to their chilly hills. But it was not the bleak fir-woods, the
oat-fields, or the wooden huts which they missed; it was the truth, the
honesty, the manliness, and the loving tenderness which dwell in
Dalecarlian hearts.

We had a strong wind abeam, but our little steamer made good progress
down the lake. The shores contracted, and the white church of Leksand
rose over the dark woods, and between two and three o'clock in the
afternoon, we were moored in the Dal River, where it issues from the
Siljan. The Elfdal peddlers shouldered their immense packs and set out,
bidding us a friendly adieu as we parted. After establishing ourselves
in the little inn, where we procured a tolerable dinner, we called upon
the _Domprost_ Hvasser, to whom I had a letter from a countryman who
made a pedestrian journey through Dalecarlia five years ago. The
parsonage was a spacious building near the church, standing upon the
brink of a lofty bank overlooking the outflow of the Dal. The Domprost,
a hale, stout old man, with something irresistibly hearty and cheering
in his manner, gave us both his hands and drew us into the room, on
seeing that we were strangers. He then proceeded to read the letter.
"Ho!" he exclaimed, "to think that he has remembered me all this time!
And he has not forgotten that it was just midsummer when he was here!"
Presently he went out, and soon returned with a basket in one hand and
some plates in the other, which he placed before us and heaped with fine
ripe cherries. "Now it is autumn," said he; "it is no longer midsummer,
but we have a little of the sum