INCIDENTS OF THE RETURN JOURNEY.

We left Haparanda on the 30th of January.  After six days of true Arctic weather ­severer than any registered by De Haven’s expedition, during a winter in the polar ice ­the temperature rose suddenly to 26 deg. below zero.  We were happy and jolly at getting fairly started for Stockholm at last, and having such mild (!) weather to travel in.  The difference in our sensations was remarkable.  We could boldly bare our faces and look about us; our feet kept warm and glowing, and we felt no more the hazardous chill and torpor of the preceding days.  On the second stage the winter road crossed an arm of the Bothnian Gulf.  The path was well marked out with fir-trees ­a pretty avenue, four or five miles in length, over the broad, white plain.  On the way we saw an eruption of the ice, which had been violently thrown up by the confined air.  Masses three feet thick and solid as granite were burst asunder and piled atop of each other.

We travelled too fast this day for the proper enjoyment of the wonderful scenery on the road.  I thought I had exhausted my admiration of these winter forests ­but no, miracles will never cease.  Such fountains, candelabra, Gothic pinnacles, tufts of plumes, colossal sprays of coral, and the embodiments of the fairy pencillings of frost on window panes, wrought in crystal and silver, are beyond the power of pen or pencil.  It was a wilderness of beauty; we knew not where to look, nor which forms to choose, in the dazzling confusion.  Silent and all unmoved by the wind they stood, sharp and brittle as of virgin ore ­not trees of earth, but the glorified forests of All-Father Odin’s paradise, the celestial city of Asgaard.  No living forms of vegetation are so lovely.  Tropical palms, the tree-ferns of Penang, the lotus of Indian rivers, the feathery bamboo, the arrowy areca ­what are they beside these marvellous growths of winter, these shining sprays of pearl, ivory and opal, gleaming in the soft orange light of the Arctic sun?

At Sangis we met a handsome young fellow with a moustache, who proved to be the Lansman of Kalix.  I was surprised to find that he knew all about us.  He wondered at our coming here north, when we might stay at home thought once would be enough for us, and had himself been no further than Stockholm.  I recognised our approach to Nasby by the barrels set in the snow ­an ingenious plan of marking the road in places where the snow drifts, as the wind creates a whirl or eddy around them.  We were glad to see Nasby and its two-story inn once more.  The pleasant little handmaiden smiled all over her face when she saw us again.  Nasby is a crack place:  the horses were ready at once, and fine creatures they were, taking us up the Kalix to Mansbyn, eight miles in one hour.  The road was hard as a rock and smooth as a table, from much ploughing and rolling.

The next day was dark and lowering, threatening snow, with a raw wind from the north-west, and an average temperature of 15 deg. below zero.  We turned the north-western corner of the Bothnian Gulf in the afternoon, and pushed on to Old Lulea by supper-time.  At Perso, on the journey north, I had forgotten my cigar-case, an old, familiar friend of some years’ standing, and was overjoyed to find that the servant-girl had carefully preserved it, thinking I might return some day.  We drove through the streets of empty stables and past the massive church of Old Lulea, to the inn, where we had before met the surly landlord.  There he was again, and the house was full, as the first time.  However we obtained the promise of a bed in the large room, and meanwhile walked up and down to keep ourselves warm.  The guests’ rooms were filled with gentlemen of the neighborhood, smoking and carousing.  After an hour had passed, a tall, handsome, strong fellow came out of the rooms, and informed us that as we were strangers he would give up the room to us and seek lodgings elsewhere.  He had drunk just enough to be mellow and happy, and insisted on delaying his own supper to let us eat first.  Who should come along at this juncture but the young fellow we had seen in company with Brother Horton at Mansbyn, who hailed us with:  “Thank you for the last time!” With him was a very gentlemanly man who spoke English.  They were both accompanied by ladies, and were returning from the ball of Pitea.  The guests all treated us with great courtesy and respect, and the landlord retired and showed his surly face no more.  Our first friend informed me that he had been born and brought up in the neighborhood, but could not recollect such a severe winter.

As we descended upon the Lulea River in the morning we met ten sleighs coming from the ball.  The horses were all in requisition at the various stations, but an extra supply had been provided, and we were not detained anywhere.  The Norrland sleds are so long that a man may place his baggage in the front part and lie down at full length behind it.  A high back shields the traveller from the wind, and upon a step in the rear stands the driver, with a pair of reins as long as a main-top-bowline, in order to reach the horse, who is at the opposite end of a very long pair of shafts.  In these sleds one may travel with much comfort, and less danger of overturning, though not so great speed as in the short, light, open frames we bought in Sundsvall.  The latter are seldom seen so far north, and were a frequent object of curiosity to the peasants at the stations.  There is also a sled with a body something like a Hansom cab, entirely closed, with a window in front, but they are heavy, easily overturned, and only fit for luxurious travellers.

We approached Pitea at sunset.  The view over the broad embouchure of the river, studded with islands, was quite picturesque, and the town itself, scattered along the shore and over the slopes of the hills made a fair appearance.  It reminded me somewhat of a small New-England country town, with its square frame houses and an occasional garden.  Here I was rejoiced by the sight of a cherry-tree, the most northern fruit-tree which I saw.  On our way up, we thought Pitea, at night and in a snow-storm, next door to the North Pole.  Now, coming from the north, seeing its snowy hills and house-roofs rosy with the glow of sunset, it was warm and southern by contrast.  The four principal towns of West and North Bothnia are thus characterised in an old verse of Swedish doggerel:  Umea, the fine; Pitea, the needle-making; Lulea, the lazy; and in Tornea, everybody gets drunk.

We took some refreshment, pushed on and reached Abyn between nine and ten o’clock, having travelled seventy miles since morning.  The sleighing was superb.  How I longed for a dashing American cutter, with a span of fast horses, a dozen strings of bells and an ebony driver!  Such a turnout would rather astonish the northern solitudes, and the slow, quaint northern population.  The next day we had a temperature of 2 deg. above zero, with snow falling, but succeeded in reaching Skelleftea for breakfast.  For the last two or three miles we travelled along a hill-side overlooking a broad, beautiful valley, cleared and divided into cultivated fields, and thickly sprinkled with villages and farm-houses.  Skelleftea itself made an imposing appearance, as the lofty dome of its Grecian church came in sight around the shoulder of the hill.  We took the wrong road, and in turning about split one of our shafts, but Braisted served it with some spare rope, using the hatchet-handle as a marlingspike, so that it held stoutly all the rest of the way to Stockholm.

We went on to Burea that night, and the next day to Djekneboda, sixty miles farther.  The temperature fluctuated about the region of zero, with a heavy sky and light snow-falls.  As we proceeded southward the forests became larger, and the trees began to show a dark green foliage where the wind had blown away the snow, which was refreshing to see, after the black or dark indigo hue they wear farther north.  On the 4th of February, at noon, we passed through Umea, and congratulated ourselves on getting below the southern limit of the Lapland climate.  There is nothing to say about these towns; they are mere villages with less than a thousand inhabitants each, and no peculiar interest, either local or historical, attaching to any of them.  We have slept in Lulea, and Pitea, and dined in Umea, ­and further my journal saith not.

The 5th, however, was a day to be noticed.  We started from Angersjo, with a violent snow storm blowing in our teeth ­thermometer at zero.  Our road entered the hilly country of Norrland, where we found green forests, beautiful little dells, pleasant valleys, and ash and beech intermingled with the monotonous but graceful purple birch.  We were overwhelmed with gusts of fine snow shaken from the trees as we passed.  Blinding white clouds swept the road, and once again we heard the howl of the wind among boughs that were free to toss.  At Afwa, which we reached at one o’clock, we found a pale, weak, sickly young Swede, with faded moustaches, who had decided to remain there until next day.  This circumstance induced us to go on, but after we had waited half an hour and were preparing to start, the weather being now ten times worse than before, he announced his resolution to start also.  He had drunk four large glasses of milk and two cups of coffee during the half hour.

We went ahead, breaking through drifts of loose snow which overtopped our sleds, and lashed by the furious wind, which drove full in our faces.  There were two or three plows at work but we had no benefit from them, so long as we were not directly in their wake.  Up and down went our way, over dark hills and through valleys wild with the storm, and ending in chaos as they opened toward the Bothnian Gulf.  Hour after hour passed by, the storm still increased, and the snow beat in our eyes so that we were completely blinded.  It was impossible to keep them open, and yet the moment we shut them the lashes began to freeze together.  I had a heavy weight of ice on my lids, and long icicles depending from every corner of my beard.  Yet our frozen noses appeared to be much improved by the exposure, and began to give promise of healing without leaving a red blotch as a lasting record of what they had endured.  We finally gave up all attempts to see or to guide the horse, but plunged along at random through the chaos, until the postillion piloted our baggage-sled into the inn-yard of Onska, and our horse followed it.  The Swede was close upon our heels, but I engaged a separate room, so that we were freed from the depressing influence of his company.  He may have been the best fellow in the world, so far as his heart was concerned, but was too weak in the knees to be an agreeable associate.  There was no more stiffness of fibre in him than in a wet towel, and I would as soon wear a damp shirt as live in the same room with such a man.  After all, it is not strange that one prefers nerve and energy, even when they are dashed with a flavour of vice, to the negative virtues of a character too weak and insipid to be tempted.

Our inn, in this little Norrland village, was about as comfortable and as elegant as three-fourths of the hotels in Stockholm.  The rooms were well furnished; none of the usual appliances were wanting; the attendance was all that could be desired; the fare good and abundant, and the charges less than half of what would be demanded in the capital.  Yet Stockholm, small as it is, claims to be for Sweden what Paris is to France, and its inhabitants look with an eye of compassion on those of the provinces.  Norrland, in spite of its long winter, has a bracing, healthy climate, and had it not been for letters from home, facilities for studying Swedish, occasional recreation and the other attractions of a capital, I should have preferred waiting in some of those wild valleys for the spring to open.  The people, notwithstanding their seclusion from the world, have a brighter and more intelligent look than the peasants of Uppland, and were there a liberal system of common school education in Sweden, the raw material here might be worked up into products alike honourable and useful to the country.

The Norrlanders seem to me to possess an indolent, almost phlegmatic temperament, and yet there are few who do not show a latent capacity for exertion.  The latter trait, perhaps, is the true core and substance of their nature; the former is an overgrowth resulting from habits and circumstances.  Like the peasants, or rather small farmers, further north, they are exposed to the risk of seeing their summer’s labours rendered fruitless by a single night of frost.  Such a catastrophe, which no amount of industry and foresight can prevent, recurring frequently (perhaps once in three years on an average), makes them indifferent, if not reckless; while that patience and cheerfulness which is an integral part of the Scandinavian as of the Saxon character, renders them contented and unrepining under such repeated disappointments.  There is the stuff here for a noble people, although nature and a long course of neglect and misrule have done their best to destroy it.

The Norrlanders live simply, perhaps frugally, but there seems to be little real destitution among them.  We saw sometimes in front of a church, a representation of a beggar with his hat in his hand, under which was an iron box, with an appeal to travellers to drop something in for the poor of the parish; but of actual beggars we found none.  The houses, although small, are warm and substantial, mostly with double windows, and a little vestibule in front of the door, to create an intermediate temperature between the outer and inner air.  The beds, even in many of the inns, are in the family room, but during the day are either converted into sofas or narrow frames which occupy but little space.  At night, the bedstead is drawn out to the required breadth, single or double, as may be desired.  The family room is always covered with a strong home-made rag carpet, the walls generally hung with colored prints and lithographs, illustrating religion or royalty, and as many greenhouse plants as the owner can afford to decorate the windows.  I have seen, even beyond Umea, some fine specimens of cactus, pelargonium, calla, and other exotics.  It is singular that, with the universal passion of the Swedes for flowers and for music, they have produced no distinguished painters or composers ­but, indeed, a Linnaeus.

We spent the evening cosily in the stately inn’s best room, with its white curtains, polished floor, and beds of sumptuous linen.  The great clipper-plows were out early in the morning, to cut a path through the drifts of the storm, but it was nearly noon before the road was sufficiently cleared to enable us to travel.  The temperature, by contrast with what we had so recently endured, seemed almost tropical ­actually 25 deg. above zero, with a soft, southern breeze, and patches of brilliant blue sky between the parting clouds.  Our deliverance from the Arctic cold was complete.