Carl Linnæus was born in the month of May, 1707, at Rashult, in the parish of Stenbrohult, in Smaland, a province in the South of Sweden. His father, Nils Linnæus, was assistant minister of the parish, and became, in process of time, its pastor or rector, having married the daughter of his predecessor.[1]

Our Carl was the firstborn child of this marriage. The family of Linnæus had been peasants, and a remarkably lofty linden tree, growing near their native place, is reputed to have given origin to the names of Lindelius, or Tiliander (linden tree man). This origin of surnames taken from natural objects is not uncommon in Sweden.

Of his father, Linnæus has given us a few glimpses in his diary, which prepossess us in his favour, and make us wish that we knew more of the worthy pastor. He was brought up by his maternal uncle, Sven Tiliander, himself a clergyman, who educated the lad with his own children, and, being fond of plants and gardening, inspired in his nephew also a love for horticulture; so that this predilection appears to have been, in some degree, hereditary. Young Nils was sent, in due time, to school, and afterwards to the University of Lund, where he had to struggle, for some years, with poverty, and to apply very diligently to his studies, in order that he might qualify himself for the profession of his choice. Returning to his native place, he was admitted to holy orders, and was first curate, and afterwards co-pastor. Soon after he attained to this degree, he was married to the eldest daughter of the pastor, Christina Brodersonia, of whom her son says—“She possessed all the virtues of her sex, and was an excellent economist.” No doubt she found ample room for the exercise of this her distinguishing excellence, for her husband’s stipend was small, and she brought him a goodly family of two sons and three daughters. We may well believe that thrift and frugality were necessary in the ménage of this small household. Linnæus tells us that the young couple welcomed their firstborn with joy, and reared him with the tenderest solicitude, “devoting the utmost attention to impressing on his mind the love of virtue, both in precept and example.” He has drawn a charming picture of his birthplace; it was situated in a very pleasant valley adjoining the lake Möklen, which formed a bay, in the centre of which stood the parish church of Stenbrohult. On the banks of this fine lake, surrounded by hills and valleys, woods and cultivated grounds, the father of Linnæus dwelt; his garden and his fields yielding him, at the same time, both amusement and profit. The young Carl had no sooner left his cradle than he was constantly in the garden, in which, to use his own expression, he almost lived, delighted with the brilliant hues and fragrance of the beauteous shrubs and flowers which flourished there.

In a letter to Baron Haller, written at the time of his father’s death, Linnæus says: “He was an uncommon lover of plants, and had a select garden of numerous rare species.” The favourite taste of the father was quickly imbibed by the child, who was his constant companion while he cultivated the choice parterre, and eagerly tried to yield such slight aid as his childish powers permitted. He has recorded the first occasion when this innate passion was decidedly displayed, or rather, perhaps, when it sprung into consciousness. He was hardly four years old when he chanced to accompany his father to a rural fête at Möklen, and in the evening, it being a pleasant season of the year, the guests seated themselves on the flowery turf and listened to the good pastor, who entertained them with remarks on the names and properties of the plants which grew around them, showing them the roots of succisa, tormentilla, orchides, etc. The little Carl attended with the utmost eagerness to all he saw and heard, and “from that time never ceased harassing his father with questions about the name, qualities, and nature of every plant he met with.” An unlooked-for result of the evening lecture, and which seems to have cost the worthy man no small trouble, for the child (not unlike other children, for that matter) very often asked more than his father was able to answer; in addition to which he “used immediately to forget all he had learned, and especially the names of plants.” To cure him of this mischievous habit of inattention his father refused to answer his questions unless he would promise to remember what was told him, which judicious management wrought a speedy and effectual cure, insomuch that he tells us he ever afterwards retained with ease, whatever he heard. Besides this retentiveness of memory he possessed an “astonishing quickness of sight,” an almost necessary qualification for the study of his favourite science.

When the boy was eight years old a separate plot of ground was assigned him by his father, which was called “Carl’s garden,” and which he soon stored with collections of plants and wild flowers, gathered from the woods and fields around his dwelling. At the same time he introduced a variety of weeds, a treasure which it afterwards cost his father no small pains to eradicate from his flower-beds. The enterprising youngster even tried the experiment of establishing a swarm of wild bees and wasps in the garden, the result of which was a devastating warfare waged against the domestic hives.

At length it was thought desirable that these flowery pursuits should give way to more serious occupations, and he was committed to the charge of a private tutor, whom he calls “a passionate and morose man, better calculated for extinguishing a youth’s talents than for improving them.” Nor did he fare any better in his next remove, which was to the grammar school at Wexiö, where the masters “pursued the same methods, preferring stripes and punishments to encouragements and admonitions.” Probably the boy evinced his distaste for such coercive measures, since we find him soon removed from school to the care of another private teacher, of whose mild and gentle disposition he speaks in terms of approval. Nevertheless, he too failed to inspire in his pupil a love for the studies which were considered necessary as preparatory to admission into holy orders; for Nils Linnæus, desirous that his eldest son should become his assistant and eventually his successor, designed him for the Church. The boy had to work for three years before he was promoted to a higher “form” in the school, called the “circle;” and the principal use he seems to have made of the greater liberty allowed him in this new rank, was to shun the usual exercises and give himself up to the study of his favourite pursuit—the knowledge of flowers. He acknowledges that his time was chiefly spent in wandering about the outskirts of the town, and making himself acquainted with all the plants he could find. According to the system then pursued in Sweden, it was necessary that youths should pass from the schools or private tutors to a superior seminary, called the Gymnasium, where the higher branches of literature were taught; and accordingly, at the age of seventeen, the young Linnæus was removed thither. But the original predilections of his mind were then still more strikingly evinced and matured. He showed the strongest distaste for theological studies. In the metaphysics, ethics, Greek and Hebrew, and theology his companions far outstripped him; but in mathematics, and particularly physics, he as much excelled them. His favourite science, botany, which at that time was wholly neglected, still continued to be his most engrossing pursuit, and he soon contrived to form a small library of books in that branch. Among others he mentions the “Chloris Gothica” of Bromelius, and Rudbeck’s “Hortus Upsaliensis,” which he confesses his inability then to comprehend clearly. Nevertheless he says he “continued to read them day and night, and committed them to memory.” His own copies of these books, “used with the utmost care and neatness,” were preserved among his library, and after his death were sold with his collection. The zeal and eagerness he evinced in these studies procured him, both among masters and scholars, the name of “the Little Botanist.”

At the end of two years his father went to Wexiö, “hoping to hear from the preceptors the most flattering account of his beloved son’s progress in his studies and morals.” But he was sorely disappointed at learning that, unexceptionable as the general behaviour of the youth had been, he was evidently quite unfit for a divine; and, indeed, in the opinion of the authorities, it was a pity to incur any further expense towards giving him a learned education, some manual employment being far more suitable for him. The youth, they thought, would be well placed as apprentice to some tailor or shoemaker!

Grieved at having thus lost his labour, and supported his son at school for twelve years (an expense he could very ill afford) to no purpose, the venerable clergyman went his way, pondering what course to pursue. It chanced that he was suffering from a complaint which required medical advice, and he betook himself to the house of Dr. Rothmann, the provincial physician, also a lecturer in physics, to whom, in the course of conversation, he mentioned his perplexity with reference to his son Carl. Rothmann suggested that, though the opinions of his colleagues might be correct as to the boy’s inaptitude for theological studies, there was good reason to believe he might distinguish himself in the profession of medicine, and possibly that he might accomplish great things in the pursuit of natural history. At the same time he liberally offered, in case the father’s circumstances did not permit him to maintain his son in a course of studies, to take him into his own house, and provide for him during the year he must remain at the gymnasium.

This generous proposal was gratefully accepted, and the result was most satisfactory. Linnæus received from his benefactor a course of private instructions in physiology with so much success, that the youth was able to give a most accurate report of all he had been taught. At the same time, this worthy teacher put him into the right method of studying botany, showing the necessity of proceeding in a scientific manner, and directing his attention to the system of Tournefort. The very imperfections he found in this work stimulated his desire for something more perfect, and were, in this way, of use to the future naturalist.

The year following (1727) Linnæus proceeded to the University at Lund, furnished, as he has himself recorded, with a “not very creditable certificate.” This curiosity, after its kind, was to the effect that youth at school may be compared to plants, which sometimes baffle all the skill of the gardener, but, being transplanted to a different soil, occasionally turn out well. With this view, and no other, the bearer was sent to the University, which, possibly, might prove propitious to his progress!

Happily, the young man had a friend at the University, in his former preceptor—he of the mild and gentle disposition—who kept back the doubtful recommendation, and procured his matriculation as one of his private pupils.

At Lund, Linnæus lodged in the house of Dr. Stobæus, professor of medicine, and physician to the king. This eminent man, perceiving the industry of his lodger, and his acquirements in natural science, allowed him free access to his excellent museum of minerals, shells, and dried plants; and, highly delighted with the idea of a hortus siccus, Linnæus immediately began to collect all the plants which grew in the vicinity, and to “glue them upon paper.” Still, he was denied the privilege of access to the doctor’s library; but, as it fell out, he managed to obtain that also. He formed an acquaintance with a fellow-lodger, a young German student, who enjoyed the advantage he coveted, and, in return for teaching him the principles of physiology, he obtained of this youth books from Stobæus’s library. He passed whole nights in reading the volumes thus clandestinely procured; but it happened that the mother of Stobæus, who was infirm and ailing, lay awake several nights in succession, and seeing a light constantly burning in Linnæus’s room, fearful of fire, desired her son to chide the young Smalander for his carelessness.

Two nights after, at midnight, the lad was surprised by a visit from his host, who found him, to his astonishment, diligently poring over his books. Being asked why he did not go to bed, and whence he had procured the books, he was compelled to confess everything. Stobæus ordered him immediately to go to bed; and the next morning, calling for him, gave him permission to make what use he pleased of his library. From that time this excellent man admitted the youth to the utmost familiarity, received him at his own table, and treated him even as a son.

While botanizing in the country, in the following spring, Linnæus was bitten in the right arm by a venomous reptile, and so serious were the consequences that his life was endangered. As soon as he was partially recovered, he returned to his father’s house, in order to recruit his health during the summer vacation, and while staying in Smaland he was persuaded by his kind friend and benefactor, Dr. Rothmann, to quit Lund for Upsala, as a superior school of medicine, and affording besides, many other advantages of which he could easily avail himself.

In this University—the first and most ancient seat of Swedish learning, and the scene, in after-years, of his greatness—our young student underwent a severe process of training. Poor and unknown, he had no means of adding to the scanty pittance his parents were able to allow him. Scarcely could they afford to give the small sum of 200 silver ducats (about £8) towards the expenses of his education there. In a short time he found his pockets quite empty; and having no chance of obtaining private pupils, he vainly looked for any other source of maintenance. In a few words, he thus touchingly records the tale of his suffering, and the first beam of hope that shone across his path. As Petronius says, poverty is the attendant of a good mind; and Linnæus was not without it in this university, ... he was obliged to trust to chance for a meal, and in the article of dress was reduced to such shifts that he was obliged, when his shoes required mending, to patch them with folded paper instead of sending them to the cobbler.

Years afterwards, the most distinguished zoologist France ever produced, M. de Lamarck, stated to a friend, “I was poor, indeed, but I had not, like Linnæus, to gather up my fellow-students’ old shoes to wear.”

He repented of his journey to Upsala, and of his departure from the roof of Stobæus; but to return to Lund was a tiresome and expensive undertaking. Stobæus, too, had taken it very ill, that a pupil whom he loved so sincerely had left that University without consulting him.

At this time Linnæus, in spite of his great industry and simple manner of living, naturally had considerable anxieties about his success in life.

It chanced one day, in the autumn of the year 1728, whilst Linnæus was very intently examining some plants in the academical garden, there entered a venerable old clergyman, who asked him what he was about, whether he was acquainted with plants, whence he came, and how long he had been prosecuting his studies? To all these questions he returned satisfactory answers, and was then invited to accompany his interrogator to his house, which proved to be that of Dr. Olaus Celsius.

This estimable and learned man, to whom Scandinavia owes so much in regard to natural history, had just returned from Stockholm, where he had been engaged in preparing his celebrated work upon the plants mentioned in the Holy Scriptures, which he published in 1745, having travelled to the East on purpose to make it more complete. Little did Celsius imagine that the youth, whom he first met, by chance, in the academical garden at Upsala, was destined, in after years, by his genius, to immortalize its fame. He, however, soon discerned the merits of Linnæus, took him under his protection, offering him board and lodging in his own house, and allowing him the full use of his library, which was very rich in botanical books. Among all his patrons, Linnæus appears to have dearly cherished the memory of this venerable man, never referring to him but in terms of reverence and gratitude. The friendship and patronage of one so distinguished, did not fail to procure for the youth the advantages he so much needed. Before long, the son of Professor Rudbeck, and other young men, became his private pupils, and by this means his pecuniary wants were supplied.

Nothing, however, seems to have given Linnæus so much satisfaction in reviewing the events of this period of his early history, as the intimate friendship he now contracted with a fellow-student, named Artedi, who afterwards distinguished himself by his knowledge of fishes and umbelliferous plants. To the picture he has drawn of his friend, Linnæus has added a slight sketch of himself. There was a great difference in the personal appearance, as well as in the temperament and disposition of the two youths. Artedi was of a tall and handsome figure, more serious, and of a deliberate judgment; whereas his friend was short in stature and stout, hasty in temper, and of a sanguine turn. The two companions pursued their favourite studies with an honourable spirit of emulation. They divided the kingdoms and provinces of nature between them, and while Linnæus yielded the palm to Artedi in ichthyology (the science of fish), the latter acknowledged Linnæus to be his superior in entomology, or that of insects. Each kept his discoveries to himself, though for no great length of time, since not a day passed without one surprising the other by narrating some new fact, so that emulation produced mutual industry of research, and stimulated each to new exertions.

Linnæus was now in his twenty-second year, about which time he met with a review of Le Vaillant’s treatise, “Sur la Structure des Fleurs” (“On the Structure of Flowers”), by which his curiosity was excited to a close examination of the stamens and pistils (the central and reproductive structures), and, perceiving the essential importance of these parts of the plant, he formed the design of a new method of arrangement, founded upon these organs. This was the first dawning idea of that great system upon which his subsequent fame was based.

A flower of a complete kind consists of the parts of the plant which reproduce or form the seed, enclosed within two particular envelopes. The envelopes of the flower are the beautifully coloured parts called petals, which form the corolla, or inner envelope, and the duller-coloured or green sepals outside the corolla, and which form the calyx.

Protected by these coverings, are the central parts or organs. Quite in the middle of the flower is the ovary, made up of one or several portions—the pistils, which contain the future seeds or ovules. The top of the whole, which projects in the middle of the flower, is the stigma, and the prolonged part beneath it is the style, and this surmounts the seed-case or ovary. Outside this central part, and between it and the corolla, are the stamens, each of which—for their number varies—may consist of a stalk or filament, bearing an anther, which is coloured, and contains the pollen, or dust, which fertilizes the ovule, by falling on to the stigma.

These central parts are the reproductive organs, and are those which, above all others, are the most important, for without them a plant cannot increase and multiply, and would become extinct. The floral envelopes, beautiful as they are, are not so essential, and are of secondary importance in classification. Now, in some kinds of plants the stigma and the ovary exist in one individual and the stamens in another. The plant which bears the ovary is called the female, and that which has the pollen-making part is termed the male. Hence it is said that plants have sexes. But in a vast number of plants these organs are combined in the same individual. Linnæus considered the stamen to be of primary importance, and established eleven classes of plants distinguished by the numbers of the stamens, and these all relate to plants in which the male and female organs are combined in the same individual. Thus the red valerian has one stamen only, and it was classed in monandria, the first part of the word meaning “one” and the last “male.” The lilac has two stamens, and was classed in the diandria—“two male;” and other plants were classified up to those which have ten stamens, the pink, for instance, as decandria. An eleventh class included all plants which bear flowers containing from twelve to nineteen stamens, such as mignonette. Then two more classes were invented to comprise—1, plants with twenty or more stamens placed on the calyx, as the cherry; 2, others with twenty or more stamens which are placed on stalks rising from below the ovary, as in the buttercup. Other classes were formed according to the relative length of the stamens, as in the foxglove and wallflower, and also from the grouping of the stamens in bundles. Then there were three very important classes in which the sexes are in separate flowers. Finally, the flowerless plants, such as the ferns, lichens, and fungi, were united as cryptogamia, having their organs of reproduction more or less concealed.

The next part of the classification refers to orders which are subdivisions of classes. The orders of the first thirteen classes, mentioned above, are founded on the number of styles (or of stigmas if these are absent), and the names given, relate to the number and the term gynia, or female.

Thus the order monogynia includes plants of all the thirteen classes that have only one style to each flower, such as the primrose; and so on, until polygynia, or “many female”—plants of such an order, having more than twelve styles, like the rose and clematis.

One class has a very important division into two orders, one of which has naked and the other covered seeds; another has orders from the shape of the fruit or pod. Linnæus divided the cryptogamia into six orders—the ferns, mosses, liverworts, lichens, fungi, and seaweeds. There is no doubt that this classification enables the name of a plant to be discovered, if it has been properly described and named, very easily, and it added to the facilities of classificatory botany. But it did not bring plants having many other and very important characters together, and it separated many which are closely allied by similar structures. It was and is called the artificial system. It was not a natural classification like that foreshadowed by Ray. The careful distinction of the sexes of plants was, of course, the foundation of the system, and to that Linnæus paid great attention. Writing a little treatise on the subject, he showed it to Celsius, who communicated it to Dr. Rudbeck. This man, free from the usual jealousy of the age, took Linnæus as his assistant, and asked him to lecture in the botanical garden. Thus the young man became a teacher in the very place where he had applied the year before for the humble situation of gardener. Dr. Rudbeck, moreover, took him into his house as tutor to his children, and thus he had access to a fine collection of books and drawings on natural history subjects. His mornings were then occupied in giving instruction to the students, and his evenings in composing the new system and meditating a general reformation in botanical science. He had no time to waste at Upsala. It will have been noticed how kindly Linnæus was treated by a few true lovers of science, and it was greatly to the honour of the good simple people of science-loving Scandinavia.

People imagine that the progress and prosperity of scientific men depend upon themselves alone; but many a promising career has been arrested by petty jealousy and the expression of ill will on the part of those who are second-rate men of science. On the other hand, truly distinguished scientific men are mostly only too glad to assist earnest, hard-working, and meritorious students. Linnæus found that he was no exception to the rule that appears to determine that a prosperous poor man shall have enemies. He was opposed by a Dr. Rosen on his return from foreign travel, but Linnæus stood his ground. But when his father suggested a voyage into Lapland to collect plants, Linnæus gladly seized the opportunity, and after arrangements had been made, he went to stay awhile at home.

Early in 1732 Linnæus left his father’s house, to set out on his arduous undertaking. On his way to Upsala he paid a visit to his former friend and preceptor, Stobæus, at Lund, and studied his collection of minerals, the only branch of natural history with which (he tells us) he was unacquainted. He shortly after proceeded to Upsala, from which place he set out on his journey alone, May 12th, 1732, “being at that time within half a day of twenty-five years of age.”

During this journey Linnæus travelled over the greater part of Lapland, skirting the boundaries of Norway, and returned to Upsala by the eastern side of the Bothnian Gulf, having performed a journey of near four thousand English miles, mostly on foot, in five months. He necessarily endured many hardships and vast fatigue, and his life was several times imperilled. Bogs and forests intercepted his way, and food, even of the coarsest description, was occasionally not easily procured; yet, amid all difficulties, his spirit was unflagging, and obstacles only seemed to quicken his zeal. The natural curiosities of the country, the manners of the people, and the general features of the various regions he traversed, all were observed and written down for future use. He collected above a hundred plants, entirely undescribed and unknown before, and upon his return arranged all the flora of Lapland according to his own favourite system, and delivered an account of his journey publicly.

The result of his botanical observations was not published for several years afterwards, during his residence in Holland. This expedition was the first and most difficult of all the six journeys of Linnæus. He spoke of it afterwards in one of his academical addresses in these words: “My journey through Lapland was particularly toilsome, and I own that I was obliged to sustain more hardships and dangers in that sole peregrination through the frontier of our northern world, than in all the other travels I undertook in other parts. But having once sustained the toils of travelling, I buried in the oblivion of Lethe all the dangers and difficulties I endured, the invaluable fruits I reaped having compensated for every toil.” Writing to a friend on the same subject, he says: “All my food in these fatiguing excursions consisted, for the most part, of fish and reindeer’s milk. Bread, salt, and what is found everywhere else, did but seldom recreate my palate. One of the greatest nuisances which I met with in Lapland was the immense number of flies. I used to keep them off, by drawing a crape over my face.” The youthful traveller started on his adventurous journey “without encumbrances of any kind, and carried all his baggage on his back,” by which means alone he was enabled to prosecute the objects he had in view. Leaving Upsala by the northern gate, he travelled for a considerable distance through fertile corn-fields, bounded by hills, and the view terminated by extensive forests. With respect to situation and variety of prospects, the young Swede was of opinion that scarcely any city could stand a comparison with this. At a short distance from the gates he left, on the right, Old Upsala, the place renowned for the worship of the primeval gods of Sweden, and for the inauguration and residence of her earliest king. Here, in days of high antiquity, human sacrifices were offered at the shrines of the pagan deities, and here our traveller noticed the three large sepulchral mounds which tradition has assigned to the bodies of Odin, Frigga, and Thor.

“Cheered with the song of the charming lark,” which attended his steps through the lowland, his approach to the forest was welcomed by the redwing, “whose amorous warblings from the tops of the spruce firs” appeared to him to rival the nightingale itself. As the summer was advancing, he thought it not desirable to lose time by the way, nor to stray far from the high road in the early part of the tour; but attentively observing what presented itself to him as he passed along, he noted the various plants, animals, and insects, together with the general features of the country.

Arrived in the province of Medelpad, he ascended its highest mountain, leaving his horse “tied to an ancient Runic monumental stone.” He found several uncommon plants here; and from the summit, gazed on the country spread out below, varied with plains and cultivated fields, villages, lakes, and rivers—a most picturesque and romantic region. The descent was very difficult, and even dangerous. Leaving this mountain, he took his route along the sea-shore, which was spread with the wrecks of vessels, telling to the feeling heart of the young traveller a sad tale of woe. “How many prayers, sighs, tears, vows, and lamentations—all, alas! in vain—rose to my imagination at this melancholy spectacle!” he exclaims. The sight reminded him of a student who, going by sea from Stockholm to Abo, experienced so severely the terrors of the ocean, that he chose to walk back round the head of the Bothnian Gulf, rather than adventure himself again upon the deep. This youth, afterwards a Professor at Abo, assumed the surname of Tillands, expressive of his attachment to terra firma, and Linnæus named in honour of him, a plant which cannot bear wet.

In five or six days, Linnæus reached Hernosand, the principal town of Angermania, on the Bothnian Gulf, and visited a tremendously steep and lofty mountain called Skula, where was a cavern, which he desired to explore. Here he was within a hair’s breadth of a fatal accident, for one of the peasants who accompanied him, in climbing up, loosened a large stone, which was hurled down the track Linnæus had just left, and fell exactly on the spot he had occupied. “If I had not (he says) providentially changed my route, nobody would ever have heard of me more; I was surrounded by fire and smoke, and should certainly, but for the protecting hand of Providence, have been crushed to pieces.” From this point of the journey a change came over the face of nature. The country was covered over with snow, in some places inches deep; the pretty spring flowers disappeared, and in their place nothing but wintry plants were seen peeping through the snow. At length, on the 23rd of May, he reached Umœa, in West Bothnia, where he turned out of the main road to the left, designing to visit Lycksele, Lapmark; by which means he lost the advantage of the regular post horses, and found the ways so narrow and intricate, that at every step he stumbled. “In this dreary wilderness I began to feel very solitary, and to long earnestly for a companion (he says); the few inhabitants I met had a foreign accent, and always concluded their sentences with an adjective.”

As the night shut in, the way-worn traveller began also to long for a good meal, and has thus recorded the result of his application, on arriving at a village where he passed the night:—“On my inquiring what I could have for supper, they set before me the breast of a cock of the woods, which had been shot and dressed some time the preceding year. Its aspect was not very inviting; but the taste proved delicious, and I found, with pleasure, that these poor Laplanders know better than some of their more opulent neighbours, how to employ the good things which God has bestowed upon them.”

The bird is prepared by a process of salting and drying, and will keep even for three years, if necessary. Linnæus next proceeded up the river of Umœa as far as Lycksele, where he was hospitably received by the worthy pastor of the place; and the next day, being Whit-Sunday, he stayed there, and would fain have remained longer; but, for fear of the floods impeding his journey, he hastened his departure on the morrow, and on the 1st of June entered the territories of the native Laplanders, passing through wild forests, with no traces of roads. A more desolate picture of wretchedness than this region presented, could hardly be imagined. It was flooded by the rivers, and the bogs were utterly impassable. At every step the water was above the knees, and the feet felt the ice at the bottom. “We pursued our journey (continues the diary) with considerable labour and difficulty all night long, if that might be called night which was as light as the day, the sun disappearing for half an hour only, and the temperature of the air being rather cold.” The poor inhabitants had themselves, at this season, nothing to eat but a scanty supply of fish; for they had not begun to kill their reindeer, nor to milk them. In addition to these evils, the villainous bites of the gnats and other insects tortured the unhappy travellers, till at length he exclaims—“I had now my fill of travelling!”

Gladly would he have returned by the way he came, but he could find no road back; and even the hardy Laplanders themselves, “born to labour, as the birds to fly,” could not help complaining, and declared they had never been in such extremity before. It is evident that even the robust frame of Linnæus was beginning to yield to the combined effects of fatigue, exhaustion, and hunger. He at length obtained some food which he was able to eat, and after incredible exertions succeeded in retracing his steps to the river, on which he again embarked, and returned to Umœa; having, as he ingenuously acknowledged, “with the thoughtlessness of youth, undertaken more than he was able to perform.”

From Umœa, Linnæus proceeded to Pithœa, which he reached after two days’ journey, “the night being as pleasant for travelling as the day.” He notices the beauty of the fresh shoots of the spruce fir, which constitute one of the greatest ornaments of the forests which adorn this part of Sweden.

Being anxious to proceed with all haste, in order if possible to reach the Alps of Lulean Lapland, “in time to see the sun above the horizon at midnight, which is beheld then to the best advantage,” the traveller made no longer stay at Lulea than was needful for the purposes of exploring the neighbouring coast and islands. He has noted the various entomological and other specimens he observed, and, after admiring the beauty of some of them, exclaims, in a sort of rapture—“The observer of nature sees with admiration that the whole world is full of the glory of God.”

During this voyage, Swanberg, who has taken great delight in Linnæus’s conversation, offered to instruct him in the art of assaying within a very short time, if he would agree to visit Calix, on his way homeward. At Quickjock, the wife of the curate provided our traveller with stores sufficient for eight days, and procured him a Laplander, whose assistance as interpreter and servant was highly necessary.

“On my first ascending these wild Alps (he says), I felt as if in a new world. Here were no forests to be seen, but mountains upon mountains, larger and larger, as I advanced, all covered with snow; no road, no tracks, nor any sign of inhabitants were visible. The declining sun never disappeared sufficiently to allow any cooling shade, and by climbing to the more elevated parts of these lofty mountains, I could see it at midnight, above the horizon. This spectacle I considered as not one of the least of nature’s miracles, for what inhabitant of other countries would not wish to behold it? O Lord, how wonderful are thy works!”

In this frozen region there were no traces of verdure, save in the deep valleys between the mountains. Very few birds were visible, except some ptarmigans, those hardy inhabitants of the bleak mountain tops. A pretty little incident, recorded by Linnæus, shows so kind a heart that it must not be omitted here. “The little Alpine variety of the ptarmigan was now accompanied by its young. I caught one of these, upon which the hen ran so close to me that I could easily have taken her also. She kept continually jumping round and round me, but I thought it a pity to deprive the tender brood of their mother; neither would my compassion for the mother allow me long to detain her offspring, which I returned to her in safety.”

After a long and wearisome journey along these mountain passes, the traveller reached one of the cottages of the country. Here the inhabitants, sixteen in number, received him kindly, and gave him two reindeer skins to sleep between. In the morning some hundreds of reindeer came home to be milked, and it amazed the stranger to perceive that, although to his eyes they were all perfectly alike, yet each of the herd had its appropriate name, and was readily distinguished by the owners.

Steering his course south-west, Linnæus proceeded to the lofty ice mountains, or “main ridge of the country,” which he had no sooner reached, than a storm overtook him, accompanied by a shower of thin pieces of ice, which soon encrusted his garments. The cold was intense, and the whole country was one dazzling waste. No sooner, however, had he crossed the summit of the ridge than a change was perceptible, and soon, from the lofty heights, he beheld the ample forests of Norway lying far beneath. The whole appearance of the country was perfectly green, and, notwithstanding its vast extent, looked like a garden in miniature. The descent was slow and long protracted, but at length he reached the plains, of which he had enjoyed so glorious a prospect. “Nothing (he exclaims) could be more delightful to my feelings than this transition from all the severity of winter, to the warmth and beauty of summer. Oh! how most lovely of all is summer! The verdant herbage, the sweet-scented clover, the tall grass reaching up to my arms, the grateful flavour of the wild fruits, and the fine weather that welcomed me at the foot of these Alps, seemed to refresh me both in mind and body.”

Here Linnæus found himself close to the sea-coast, and he went to sea in a boat to search for the natural productions of that element. He would fain have approached the celebrated whirlpool, called the Maelstrom, but he found no one willing to venture it. On the 13th of July, he arrived at the parsonage house of Rorstadt, from the occupant of which, himself a traveller and a naturalist, Linnæus received a cordial welcome. A rather significant entry in Linnæus’ diary tells us that here, “in this far distant nook of the wide peopled earth,” the young enthusiast found an object of surpassing interest. “The pastor (he says) has a handsome daughter, named Sarah Rask, eighteen years of age; she seemed to me uncommonly beautiful.” The next morning, Linnæus took his leave of this elysium, and proceeded on his way. Climbing the mountains again, he found a work of “no small fatigue and exhaustion,” and he has given us a most painful account of the subsequent route he pursued towards the Alps of Tornea. “What I endured,” he concludes, “is hardly to be described; how many weary steps I had to set, the precipices that came in my way, and my excessive fatigue. Water was our only drink during the journey, and it never appeared so refreshing as when we sucked it out of the melting snow.” At length, tired of advancing further into this inhospitable country, he determined to return to Quickjock. In the course of his journey thither his life was twice endangered, but at length he reached the place of his destination, “having been four weeks without tasting bread.” After resting some days at Quickjock, Linnæus descended the river again to Lulea, where he “learned the art of assaying from the mine-master, Swanberg, at Calix, in two days and a night,” and thence his journey was continued through Tornea. He had intended to visit the mountains, but before he could get thither the winter set in, and he was obliged to return along the coast on the eastern side of the Bothnian Gulf. The last entry in his journal is dated October 10th, and is as follows: “About one o’clock, P.M., I arrived safe at Upsala. To the Maker and Preserver of all things be praise, honour, and glory for ever!”

At first, indeed, he seemed to reap but a humble reward for his toils. On his arrival at home, he presented to the Academy of Sciences an account of his expedition, which obtained their approbation, and they gave him 112 silver dollars (not more than £10)—his travelling expenses. In the following spring, he began a private course of lectures on the art of assaying (which he had learned so cleverly from his chance companion during the Lapland journey). This art had never been taught at Upsala before; and the novelty of the subject, the skilful manner in which he communicated instructions, and the reasonable terms he exacted, secured Linnæus a considerable number of pupils.