ever, as a mile one way
or the other could make but little difference; and as Matarengi lies due
west of Avasaxa, across the river, we decided to stop there and take
dinner on the Arctic Circle.

The increase of villages on both banks, with the appearance of a large
church, denoted our approach to Matarengi, and we saw at once that the
tall, gently-rounded, isolated hill opposite, now blazing with golden
snow, could be none other than Avasaxa. Here we were, at last, entering
the Arctic Zone, in the dead of winter--the realization of a dream which
had often flashed across my mind, when lounging under the tropical
palms; so natural is it for one extreme to suggest the opposite. I took
our bearings with a compass-ring, as we drove forward, and as the summit
of Avasaxa bore due east we both gave a shout which startled our
postilion and notably quickened the gait of our horses. It was impossible
to toss our caps, for they were not only tied upon our heads, but frozen
fast to our beards. So here we were at last, in the true dominions of
Winter. A mild ruler he had been to us, thus far, but he proved a despot
before we were done with him.

Soon afterwards, we drove into the inn at Matarengi, which was full of
country people, who had come to attend church. The landlord, a sallow,
watery-eyed Finn, who knew a few words of Swedish, gave us a room in an
adjoining house, and furnished a dinner of boiled fish and barley mush,
to which was added a bottle labelled "Dry Madeira," brought from
Haparanda for the occasion. At a shop adjoining, Braisted found a
serviceable pipe, so that nothing was wanting to complete our jubilee.
We swallowed the memory of all who were dear to us, in the dubious
beverage, inaugurated our Arctic pipe, which we proposed to take home as
a _souvenir_ of the place, and set forward in the most cheery mood.

Our road now crossed the river and kept up the Russian side to a place
with the charming name of Torakankorwa. The afternoon twilight was even
more wonderful than that of the forenoon. There were broad bands of
purple, pure crimson, and intense yellow, all fusing together into fiery
orange at the south, while the north became a semi-vault of pink, then
lilac, and then the softest violet. The dazzling Arctic hills participated
in this play of colors, which did not fade, as in the South, but stayed,
and stayed, as if God wished to compensate by this twilight glory for the
loss of the day. Nothing in Italy, n