etting pretty bad there for a family, and I
thought I had better pay a visit to Finland while the war was going
on." This accounted for the peculiar sentiments of my fellow-traveler!
He seemed to be a very nice old gentleman, and I was sorry to find him
tinctured with the heresies of rebellion. Farther conversation with
him satisfied me that if he could get his property out of Montgomery,
and put it in Massachusetts, he would be a very respectable Union man.
I don't think his heart was in the movement, though his pocket,
doubtless, felt a considerable interest in it.

The town of Abo, formerly the capital of Finland--now a place of no
great importance except as a custom-house and military station--is
beautifully situated on the banks of a river called the Aurajoki,
about three miles above its mouth. Vessels of medium draught,
including the coasting steamers, have no difficulty in ascending as
far as the bridge, where they lie alongside the wharves and receive or
discharge freight. Those of larger draught usually anchor off the
village of Boxholm, a picturesque gathering of red cottages, with
high peaked roofs, situated at the entrance of the river. Above the
village, on the summit of a rocky cliff, stands the fort of Abohus,
ready at a moment's notice to pour a broadside into any enemy of
Imperial Russia that may undertake to pass up the river.

Abo, since the removal of the capital and University to Helsingfors
and the great conflagration of 1827, which destroyed two thirds of the
town, has fallen into decay, and now does not contain a population of
more than ten or twelve thousand souls. Spread over an area of several
miles square, with a sufficient number of houses to accommodate twice
or three times the population, its broad, stone-paved thoroughfares
and numerous untenanted buildings have a peculiarly desolate
appearance. Back a little from the river the pedestrian may walk half
a mile at midday without meeting a single soul in the streets. A dead
silence reigns over these deserted quarters, as if the prevailing
lethargy had fallen upon the few inhabitants that remain. Grass grows
on the sidewalks, and the basement walls of the houses are covered
with moss. A dank, chilly mildew seems to hang in the air. One might
become green all over, like a neglected tomb-stone, should he forget
himself and stand too long in one spot. I spent a considerable portion
of the day rambling through these melancholy by-ways, and must