The scenery of Finland is, as a rule, neither grand nor impressive. It has not the mountains of Switzerland topped with everlasting snow, nor the rocky fjords of Norway; no dear little Tyrolese chalets, nor sweet English cottages set in fair gardens, no splendid stretches of emerald-green sward, and iron-bound coast scenery such as is the delight of the tourist in Ireland, nor purple-crowned hills as in Scotland; nevertheless, it has a charm of its own, and can boast more lakes, canals, and rivers, all connected in some marvellous way, than any of the countries mentioned.

It is indeed a land of many thousand lakes, and one might add many, many thousand islands. There are large islands covered with pine forests, tiny solitary rocky islets, on which perchance a house has been built for a pilot; mere patches of earth islands, where flourishes one solitary pine, that looks from a distance as if it were actually growing on the surface of the water.

Round the coast line there are dangerous and hidden haunts where smuggling goes on to a large extent, while, when traversing the inland lakes, big steamers have to keep to certain routes marked by buoys—sometimes merely by sticks.

Except in the far North the country is very flat, and even in the North a few hundred feet is the limit of the highest land. Further South even less elevation is found, although the country is by no means so uniformly level as Holland, Denmark, or Russia.

One can travel nearly all over Finland in steamers, and very comfortable steamers they are too, with nice little cabins and good restaurants. Provided with one's own deck-chair, many pleasant days can be passed on the calm waters round the coast, or the yet calmer lakes and canals inland, where one marvels at the engineering skill and the wonderful steering powers of English-speaking captains of Finnish birth.

We decided on our way back from Sordavala to stop at the famous cataract of Imatra. It was one of the few railway journeys we made during our jaunt in Finland, for we always went by water for choice, and it proved somewhat remarkable.

Can there be such a thing as a musical train? If so, verily the name would apply to that by which we travelled. The passengers were made up of odds and ends; among them were most of the students who had taken part in the Festival, a great many representatives of various choirs, some of the athletes who had charmed us with their gymnastic exercises, for which the country is famous, and several visitors like ourselves. Of course, these folk never previously practised singing together, but after Professor Dickenson, standing on the platform, had returned thanks on behalf of the visitors for their cordial reception in Sordavala, which speech was replied to by the Mayor of the town, some one called upon the audience to sing the national air "Maamme." The voices rose and fell immediately. Heads were poked out from carriage windows in order that lusty throats might sing their beloved air. All at once three students on the platform waved their caps on high, and a regular musical performance ensued. To a stranger it seemed a remarkable demonstration.

Supposing the occupants of an English train were suddenly called upon to sing "God save the King," what would be the result? Why, that more than half the passengers would prove so shy they could not even attempt it; another quarter might wander about the notes at their own sweet will, and, perhaps, a small percentage would sing it in tune. But then, just think, the Finns are so imbued with music, and practise so continually—for they seem to sing on every conceivable occasion—that the sopranos naturally took up their part, the basses and the tenors kept to their own notes, and perfect harmony prevailed.

Not content with singing half a dozen songs while waiting for the train to get under way, many carriage loads sang off and on during the whole seven hours of the journey to Andrea, where we changed in order to catch a train for Imatra. Having an hour to spare at this junction, a walk was suggested along the railway line. This was not at all so dangerous a feat as might be imagined, for although only a single line, trains ran so very seldom that pedestrians might walk up and down for half a day and never see one.

We wandered with a delightful man whose rÔle it was to act as interpreter between the Finnish and Swedish languages in the House of Commons, a position called tulkki or translator, just as Canada uses interpreters for English and French.

We were amazed to find him conversant with all kinds of English literature; he spoke with familiarity of Dickens, Thackeray, Shakespeare, twelve of whose plays, by the bye, have been translated into Finnish and performed at the theatre, and he was even acquainted with the works of Rudyard Kipling, Swinburne, Browning, and Mrs. Humphry Ward. With equal aptitude he discussed Daudet and Zola, Tolstoi and Tourgenieff, and, to our astonishment, we found that although he spoke only indifferent German, he could read English, French, German, and Russian authors in the original.

As we wandered down the railway line, our attention was arrested by an extraordinary carriage which stood on a siding. A sort of engine was in front, but, behind, a glass house composed the remainder of the waggon. We had never before seen anything like it, and wondered if it could be an observatory on wheels, until we noticed that in the forepart of the train was a snow-plough, such as is to be seen on every engine in Norway during mid-winter, a plough which closely resembles an American cow-catcher.

"That," remarked our friend, "is a Finnish snow-plough. It is with the greatest difficulty we can keep the lines clear in winter, and it is not sufficient to have an ordinary snow-plough attached to the engine, therefore, just as ice-breakers endeavour to keep the port of HangÖ open during winter, so these snow-ploughs ply to and fro along the railway lines, throwing up vast heaps of snow on each side, until they make a wall sometimes ten or twelve feet high. These walls form a sort of protection to the trains, and gradually become so hard that, by the end of the winter snow, they might be built of stone, they are so strong."

There are not many railways in Finland, the first being laid in 1862; with the exception of private ones, which are narrow, they all have the wide Russian gauge.

Speaking of the ice-breaker at HangÖ, we may say that, in spite of all endeavours to keep the only winter port of Finland open during the cold months, ice sometimes gains the mastery, and for several weeks that Finnish port becomes closed.

Our friend was a most interesting companion, and explained something of the mysteries of the University. He told us that it was first founded in 1640 at Åbo, but in 1829, when Åbo was burnt to ashes and many thousand volumes were destroyed, it was considered advisable to move the University to Helsingfors, a town which at that time had a larger population than the older capital.

"You see," he said, "we have no Court here, no great wealth, but few nobility, and, therefore, every one and everything is centred round our University. It comprises four faculties—Theology, Law, Medicine, and Philosophy."

"What does your title of Magister mean?" we ventured to ask.

"It is equivalent to your M.A.," he said; "but our degrees are only given every fourth year, when we keep up much old-fashioned pomp. Crowds of people come to see the ceremony, and all the successful candidates, as they receive their degrees, are given, if they are Master of Arts, a gold ring, if doctors, a silk-covered hat, while on their heads a crown of laurels is actually placed. It is an old custom for each man to choose one from among his lady friends to be his wreath-binder, and she is supposed to undertake the making of his laurel crown. This was all very well so long as men only took the degree, but great jokes have arisen since women have stepped in, because ladies naturally think it is only right that men should weave their laurel-wreaths."

"And do they?"

"I believe they do. If not actually with their own hands, they superintend the making of such wreaths for their lady friends, whom we welcome to our University with open arms."

When we had arrived at Andrea, on our journey to Imatra from the Russian frontier, out tumbled a number of cyclists, who found to their distress that it would be necessary to wait about half an hour to continue their journey. It was overpoweringly hot; these young students stood on the platform discussing the situation, and at last they decided to cycle the twenty or thirty miles instead of waiting for the train. They took off their coats and strapped them on to the handles of their machines, and in pretty flannel shirts, gaily chaffing and laughing, off they started for their ride. We rather pitied them, as we saw them start under those melting sun's rays, and preferred our own idea of a quiet stroll.

At last we heard the whistle of our train, and had to scamper back along the railway line in order to secure our seats.

We crawled along, in the usual fashion of Finnish trains, to the world-renowned Imatra. Arrived at the hotel, which is built beside the roaring cataract, where thousands of tons of water rush and tear from January to December, we went into the dining-room to order dinner, and there, sitting round the table in the best of spirits, were the students, who had actually ridden quicker from Andrea than our train had brought us.

Parts of Finland are very beautiful, and travelling through the country is a most interesting experience; but, at the same time, there are none of the excellent motor roads such as we find in France or Germany. It is not a good country for motorists, waterways being its chief attraction, and its boat service is excellent; but the roads, although well marked by sign-posts and mile-stones (kilometres), are certainly not good.

Oh! the joy that night of being in a real hotel, with a real brass bedstead and a real spring mattress, to say nothing of once again seeing a proper sized wash-hand basin and jug.

Above the roar of the seething waters, fretting at our very feet, claps of thunder made themselves heard, and rain descended in torrents, while vivid, flashes of lightning lit up the wondrous cataract of Imatra.

Thunderstorms are quite common in those parts, and we felt glad of that one, as it did something to dispel for a time the oppressive heat.

Next morning the scene was changed, and as we looked in calm weather from the balcony window, we were fascinated by the vast volume of water dashing ceaselessly on its ruthless way below.

Later, sitting on a rocky boulder, we gazed in awe at the scene before us. This was Imatra. This is one of the three famous falls which form the chain of a vast cataract. This avalanche of foam and spray, this swirling, tearing, rushing stream, this endless torrent pursuing its wild course, year in, year out—this was Imatra, one of the strongest water powers in the world—the Niagara of Europe.

Not a waterfall in the real sense of the word, for within the space of half a mile the water only actually falls about forty feet; but that narrow channel, scarcely twenty yards across, with its rock-bound walls, is daily washed by thousands and thousands of tons of foaming water, poured into it from the quickly flowing Vuoksen's wide waters.

As we sat and contemplated one of the grandest efforts of creation, this wonderful compression of a vast river into a narrow gorge, we realised how small is the power of man compared with the mighty strength of nature. See how the waves, which can be likened only to the waves of the sea in time of storm, as if in fury at their sudden compression, rush over that rock, then curl back, and pause in the air a moment before tearing on, roaring and hissing with rage, to the whirlpool farther down the stream. See how they dash from side to side, see how the spray rises in the air for the dainty sunlight to play among its foam. Hear the noise, like that of thunder, as a great angry white horse dashes down that storm-washed chasm. This is strength and force and power, this is beauty and grandeur. This is Imatra, one of Finland's gems set in a regal crown.

Such a scene enters one's very soul; such grand majestic power, such might, such force, inspire one with lofty feelings, and make one realise a greater power, a greater strength than our poor world can give. Are we not all the better for looking on such scenes? These vast glories of nature, however, should be viewed in peace to enable the spectator to enjoy their greatness and to receive their full influence. Niagara is more vast—and Niagara is boarded by chimneys and men's villainy. Imatra, if humbler, therefore, is almost more impressive.

Yet the hand of the Philistine is, alas! to be found even in primitive Finland. As the modern Roman lights his glorious Colosseum with red and purple fires, so the Finn illumines his wondrous falls with electric light; spans it by the most modern of modern bridges, and does not even attempt to hide "the latest improvements" by a coating of pine trunks. Worse still, he writes or carves his name on every bench and on numerous rocks, and erects hideous summer-houses built of wooden plankings and tin, where the knotted pine-tree would have been as useful and twice as picturesque.

Finland, pause! If you wish to entice travellers to your shores, to bring strangers among you, keep your beautiful nature unspoiled, or, where change is absolutely necessary, try to imitate nature's own methods by using the glorious trees around you, instead of iron and tin shaped by man's hand; pause before you have murdered your natural loveliness by ghastly modernity, or you will be too late.

Attend to your sanitation if you will—that requires seeing to badly; provide more water and more towels for travellers who are accustomed to wash themselves in private, but don't imagine hideous modern erections will attract tourists, they but discourage them.

Imatra is glorious. Wallinkoski, the lower fall, is more picturesque, perhaps, but both are wonderful; they are worth journeying far to see, and holding in recollection for ever. We have nothing like them anywhere in Britain. The Falls of Foyers are as crumbs in a loaf of bread when compared with Imatra. The fall at Badgastein is as nothing beside Finland's great cataract; HÖnefos in Norway a mere trifle. In Europe Imatra stands alone, with perhaps the exception of its solitary rival, TrollhÄttan in Sweden, the exquisite beauty of which is already marred by the sacrilegious hand of the Philistine.

Above all, Finland, you should not allow St. Petersburg to light her streets with your water power; there is enough water in Imatra to light half Europe—but keep it for yourselves, keep it as a pearl in a beautiful casket. Imatra is one of Finland's grandest possessions.

It seems impossible that salmon could live in such a cataract, but yet it is a fact that they do.

Verily, Finland is a paradise for fishermen. A paradise for lines and rods, reels and flies, for masters of the piscatorial art; there are to be found freshwater lakes, and glorious rivers full of fish. Some call it the heaven of anglers, and permission to fish can easily be obtained, and is absurdly inexpensive.

The best-known spot is Harraka, near Imatra, because the English Fishing Club from St. Petersburg found sport in those wonderful waters until they acquired Varpa Saari, an island a little farther down the river.

The Saimen Lake is about 150 miles long, and the river Vuoksen, which forms Imatra, joins this fishing water with the famous Ladoga, the largest lake in Europe, which again empties itself into the sea by the Neva. This is not a fishing-book, or pages might be written of happy hours spent with grayling or trout with a fly, or spinning from a boat with a minnow.

Kind reader, have you ever been driven in a Black Maria? That is, we believe, the name of the cumbersome carriage which conveys prisoners from one police-station to another, or to their prison home? We have; but it was not an English Black Maria, and, luckily, we were never anywhere taken from one police-station to another. Our Black Maria was the omnibus that plies between Imatra and RÄttijÄrvi, some twenty miles distant, where we travelled in order to catch the steamer which was to convey us down the famous Saimen Canal back to our delightful IlkeÄsaari host, in time for the annual Johanni and the wonderful Kokko fires, more famous in Finland to-day than the Baal fires formerly were in Britain.

It was a beautiful drive; at least we gathered that it would have been a beautiful drive if we had not been shut up in the Black Maria. As it was, we were nearly jolted to death on the hardest of hard wooden seats, and arrived stiff, sore, and tired, with aching backs at RÄttijÄrvi.

A good dinner, however, soon made us forget our miseries, though it really seemed as if we had come in a prison van, when, the moment our Black Maria drew up at the small inn, a man rushed down the steps, seized upon our poor friend the Magister and began, violently gesticulating, to explain something about money.

What on earth had the poor Magister done that he should be jumped on in this way? Were we criminals without our knowledge, and was this our jailor who stood gesticulating, and scowling, and waving his arms about in excitement? We felt we must immediately produce our passports to prove our respectability, and, strong in our knowledge of innocence, were quite prepared to maintain our rights of freedom in spite of the appearance of any limb of Finnish law.

After all, it proved to be a mere flash in the pan. Explanation was soon vouchsafed. We had driven that morning in a private carriage to Wallinkoski to see the wonderful fall below Imatra, and the landlord, having forgotten to charge that journey in the bill, had allowed us to leave Imatra without paying for his beautiful equipage; discovering his mistake, however, as soon as our backs were turned, he had telephoned to the inn that we should send back the money by Black Maria. Though we had so dishonestly departed without paying our just debts, nothing worse came of the matter.

We might have been locked up in a Finnish prison!

We paid in coin for the carriage, and by our profound gratitude to the Magister and Grandpapa, who had added so ably to our enjoyment. Our time together for the moment was over, and once more my sister and I were alone.