Synopsis

We went on board the little iron Swedish propeller, Carl Johan, at Lübeck, on the morning of December , A.D. , having previously taken our age for Stockholm. What was our dismay, after climbing over hills of freight on deck, and creeping down a narrow companionway, to find the cabin stowed full of bales of wool and barrels of butter. There was a little pantry ading it, with a friendly stewardess therein, who, in answer to my inquiries, assured us that we would probably be placed in a hut. After further search, I