Bating the snuff-taking and the nasal twang in the singing, the service was pleasing even to us who heard no words that we could understand. We worshipped in spirit, and felt at home among the children of our Father, not one of whom knew that two strangers from beyond the sea were in their village church on this pleasant summer sabbath morning. Soderkoping proved to be more of a place than we had anticipated. It was, and is even a watering-place. Pleasantly planted on the banks of the great canal, with historic and towering heights rising by its side, and rejoicing also in the possession of a mineral spring, whose healing virtues have been spread among the people of this and other countries, it has become a resort for invalids. It maintains at one end of the village a series of bathing-houses, and modest lodgings for visitors, and a “conversation hall” of moderate dimensions, and some hundreds of the ill-to-do may be carefully cared for, and, perhaps, cured at the same time. But there is no hotel, nor any thing worth the name. The village is primitive, simple, neat as a new pin, not the sign of a new building going on anywhere. It might have been finished years ago, and kept in order to be looked at as a curiosity. The dwellings are, all of them, low, unpretending, small, and usually of wood. Dr. Gustaff Bottiger, physician and surgeon, called at our lodgings in Soderkoping. He spoke the French well, and English tolerably, and we were able to get on with him delightfully. He is a fine looking man, accomplished in manners, and superintendent of the “Water Cure.”