-were frozen in
for the winter. We crossed, ascended a long hill, and drove on through
fir woods to Fjal, a little hamlet with a large inn. Here we got
breakfast; and though it may be in bad taste to speak of what one eats,
the breakfast was in such good taste that I cannot pass over it without
lingering to enjoy, in memory, its wonderful aroma. Besides, if it be
true, as some shockingly gross persons assert, that the belly is a more
important district of the human economy than the brain, a good meal
deserves chronicling no less than an exalted impression. Certain it is,
that strong digestive are to be preferred to strong thinking
powers--better live unknown than die of dyspepsia. This was our first
country meal in Norrland, of whose fare the Stockholmers have a horror,
yet that stately capital never furnished a better. We had beefsteak and
onions, delicious blood-puddings, the tenderest of pancakes (no
_omelette soufflee_ could be more fragile), with ruby raspberry jam, and
a bottle of genuine English porter. If you think the bill of fare too
heavy and solid, take a drive of fifteen miles in the regions of Zero,
and then let your delicate stomach decide.

In a picturesque dell near Fjal we crossed the rapid Indal River, which
comes down from the mountains of Norway. The country was wild and
broken, with occasional superb views over frozen arms of the Gulf, and
the deep rich valleys stretching inland. Leaving Hernosand, the capital
of the province, a few miles to our right, we kept the main northern
road, slowly advancing from station to station with old and tired
horses. There was a snow-storm in the afternoon, after which the sky
came out splendidly clear, and gorgeous with the long northern twilight.
In the silence of the hour and the deepening shadows of the forest
through which we drove, it was startling to hear, all at once the sound
of voices singing a solemn hymn. My first idea was, that some of those
fanatical Dissenters of Norrland who meet, as once the Scotch Covenanters,
among the hills, were having a refreshing winter meeting in the woods;
but on proceeding further we found that the choristers were a company of
peasants returning from market with their empty sleds.

It was already dark at four o'clock, and our last horses were so slow
that the postilion, a handsome, lively boy, whose pride was a little
touched by my remonstrances, failed, in spite of all his efforts, to
bring us to the station before seven