Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 We travel
 The bird phoenix
 The prison-cells
 The puppet-showman
 The "Skjaergaards"
 A story
 The mute book
 The Zather Dale
 The midsummer festival in...
 Faith and knowledge
 In the forest
 What the straws said
 Poet's symbol
 The Dal-Elv
 The swine
 Poetry's California
 Back Cover

Group Title: I Sverrig
Title: Pictures of Sweden
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00001842/00001
 Material Information
Title: Pictures of Sweden
Uniform Title: I Sverrig
Physical Description: iv, 324 p. : ; 21 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Andersen, H. C ( Hans Christian ), 1805-1875
Bentley, Richard, 1794-1871 ( Publisher )
Schulze and Co ( Printer )
Publisher: Richard Bentley
Place of Publication: London
Manufacturer: Schulze and Co.
Publication Date: 1851
Subject: Fairy tales   ( lcsh )
Description and travel -- Juvenile fiction -- Sweden   ( lcsh )
Fairy tales -- 1851   ( rbgenr )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1851   ( rbbin )
Genre: Fairy tales   ( rbgenr )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by Hans Christian Andersen.
General Note: Translation of I Sverrig.
General Note: Baldwin Library has a copy in embossed cloth binding.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00001842
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 000933615
notis - AEP4631
oclc - 08400931
lccn - 53052516
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Title Page
        Page i
        Page ii
    Table of Contents
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page 1
        Page 2
    We travel
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
    The bird phoenix
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
    The prison-cells
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
    The puppet-showman
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
    The "Skjaergaards"
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
    A story
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
    The mute book
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
    The Zather Dale
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
    The midsummer festival in Lacksand
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
        Page 224
    Faith and knowledge
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
        Page 233
        Page 234
        Page 235
        Page 236
    In the forest
        Page 237
        Page 238
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
        Page 251
        Page 252
        Page 253
        Page 254
        Page 255
        Page 256
        Page 257
        Page 258
        Page 259
        Page 260
    What the straws said
        Page 261
        Page 262
        Page 263
        Page 264
        Page 265
        Page 266
        Page 267
        Page 268
    Poet's symbol
        Page 269
        Page 270
        Page 271
        Page 272
        Page 273
        Page 274
        Page 275
        Page 276
    The Dal-Elv
        Page 277
        Page 278
        Page 279
        Page 280
        Page 281
        Page 282
        Page 283
        Page 284
        Page 285
        Page 286
        Page 287
        Page 288
        Page 289
        Page 290
        Page 291
        Page 292
        Page 293
        Page 294
        Page 295
        Page 296
        Page 297
        Page 298
    The swine
        Page 299
        Page 300
        Page 301
        Page 302
        Page 303
        Page 304
        Page 305
        Page 306
        Page 307
        Page 308
    Poetry's California
        Page 309
        Page 310
        Page 311
        Page 312
        Page 313
        Page 314
        Page 315
        Page 316
        Page 317
        Page 318
        Page 319
        Page 320
        Page 321
        Page 322
        Page 323
        Page 324
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


The Baldwin Library







Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.


SALA 189



. 263
. 271
a 291




IT is a delightful spring: the birds warble,
but you do not understand their song? Well,
hear it in a free translation.
"Get on my back," says the stork, our
green island's sacred bird, "and I will carry
thee over the Sound. Sweden also has fresh
and fragrant beech woods,- green meadows and
corn-fields. In Scania, with the flowering
apple-trees behind the peasant's house, you will
think that you are still in Denmark."
"Fly with me," says the swallow; "I fly
over Holland's mountain ridge, where the


beech-trees cease to grow; I fly further towards
the north than the stork. You shall see the
vegetable mould pass over into rocky ground;
see snug, neat towns, old churches and
mansions, where all is good and comfortable,
where the family stand in a circle around the
table and say grace at meals, where the least
of the children says a prayer, and, morning and
evening, sings a psalm. I have heard it, I
have seen it, when little, from my nest under
the eaves."
"Come with me! come with me !" screams
the restless sea-gull, and flies in an expecting
circle. Come with me to the Skjairgaards,
where rocky isles by thousands, with fir and
pine, lie like flower-beds along the coast;
where the fishermen draw the well-filled
nets !"
"Rest thee between our extended wings," sing
the wild swans. Let us bear thee up to the
great lakes, the perpetually roaring elvs (rivers),
that rush on with arrowy swiftness; where the
oak forest has long ceased, and the birch-tree


becomes stunted. Rest .thee between our
extended wings: we fly up to Sulitelma, the
island's eye, as the mountain is called; we fly
from the vernal green valley, up over the
snow-drifts, to the mountain's top, whence thou
canst see the North Sea, on. yonder side of
"We fly to Jemteland, where the rocky
mountains are high and blue; where the Foss
roars and rushes; where the torches are lighted
as budstikke,* to announce that the ferryman
is expected. Up to the deep, cold-running
waters, where the midsummer sun does not
set; where the rosy hue of eve is that of
That is the birds' song. Shall we lay it to
heart? Shall we accompany them ?-at least
a part of the way. We will not sit upon the
stork's back, or between the swans' wings. We
will go forward with steam, 'and with horses--

A chip of wood in the form of a halberd, circulated
for the purpose of convening the inhabitants of a district
in Sweden and Norway.



yes, also on our own legs, and glance now and
then from reality, over the fence into the region
of thought, which is always our near neighbour-
land; pluck a flower or a leaf, to be placed in
the note-book-for it sprung out during our
journey's flight: we fly and we sing. Sweden,
thou glorious land! Sweden, where, in ancient
times, the sacred gods came from Asia's
mountains I land that still retains rays of their
lustre, which streams from the flowers in the name
of "Linnaeus ;" which beams for thy chivalrous
men from Charles the Twelfth's banner; which
sounds from the obelisk on the field of Lutzen !
Sweden, thou land of deep feeling, of heart-felt
songs! home of the limpid elvs, where the
wild swans sing in the gleam of the Northern
Lights! Thou land, on whose deep, still lakes
Scandinavia's fairy builds her colonnades, and
leads her battling, shadowy host over the icy
mirror! Glorious Sweden! with thy fragrant
Linnaeus, with Jenny's soul-enlivening songs!
To thee will we fly with the stork and the
swallow, with the restless sea-gull and the wild



swans. Thy birch-woods exhale refreshing
fragrance under their sober, bending branches;
on the tree's white stem the harp shall hang:
the North's summer wind shall whistle
therein !




Ar n ll It ? t I.

WHOM did we meet at Trollhiitta? It is
a strange story, and we will relate it.
We landed at the first sluice, aid stood as it
were in a garden laid out in the English style.
The broad walks are covered with gravel, and
rise in short terraces between the sunlit green-
sward: it is charming, delightful here, but
by no means imposing. If one desires to be
excited in this manner, one must go a little
higher up to the older sluices, which deep
and narrow have burst through the hard rock.
It looks magnificent, and the water in its dark
bed far below is lashed into foam. Up here


one overlooks both ely and valley; the bank of
the river on the other side, rises in green un-
dulating hills, grouped with leafy trees and red-
painted wooden houses, which are bounded by
rocks and pine forests. Steam-boats and sailing
vessels ascend through the sluices; the water
itself is the attendant spirit that must bear
them up above the rock, and from the forest
itself it buzzes, roars and rattles. The din of
Trollhatta Falls mingles with the noise from
the saw-mills and smithies.
"In three hours we shall be through the
luices," said the Captain: "in that time you
will see the Falls. We shall meet again at the
inn up here."
We went from the path through the forest:
a whole flock of bare-headed boys surrounded
us. They would all be our guides; the one
screamed longer than the other, and every one
gave his contradictory explanation, how high
the water stood, and how high it did not stand,
or could stand. There was also a great
difference of opinion amongst the learned.



We soon stopped on a ling-covered rock, a
dizzying terrace. Before us, but far below, was
the roaring water, the Hell Fall, and over this
again, fall after fall, the rich, rapid, rushing
elv-the outlet of the largest lake in Sweden.
What a sight! what a foaming and roaring,
above-below! It is like the waves of the sea,
but of effervescing champagne-of boiling milk.
The water rushes round two rocky islands at
the top so that the spray rises like meadow
dew. Below, the water is more compressed,
then hurries down again, shoots forward
and returns in circles like smooth water, and
then rolls darting its long sea-like fall into
the Hell Fall. What a tempest rages in the
deep-what a sight! Words cannot express
it !
Nor could our screaming little guides. They
stood mute; and when they again began with
their explanations and stories, they did not come
far, for an old gentleman whom none of us had
noticed (but he was now amongst us), made
himself heard above the noise, with his singularly



sounding voice. He knew all the particulars
about the place, and about former days, as if
they had been of yesterday.
Here, on the rocky holms," said he, "it
was that the warriors in the heathen times, as
they are called, decided their disputes. The
warrior Starkodder dwelt in this district, and
liked the pretty girl Ogn right well; but she
was fonder of Hergrimmer, and therefore he
was challenged by Starkodder to combat here
by the falls, and met his death; but Ogn sprung
towards them, took her bridegroom's bloody
sword, and thrust it into her own heart. Thus
Stirkodder did not gain her. Then there passed
a hundred years, and again a hundred years: the
forests were then thick and closely grown;
wolves and bears prowled here summer and
winter; the place was infested with malignant
robbers, whose hiding-place no one could find.
It was yonder, by the fall before Top Island,
on the Norwegian side-there was their cave:
now it has fallen in The cliff there over-
hangs it !"



"Yes, the Tailor's Cliff !" shouted all the
boys. "It fell in the year 1755 !"
Fell!" said the old man, as if in astonish-
ment that any one but himself could know it.
"Everything will fall once, and the tailor
directly." The robbers had placed him upon
the cliff and demanded that if he would be
liberated from them, his ransom should be that
he should sew a suit of clothes up there; and
he tried it; but at the first stitch, as he drew
the thread out, he became giddy and fell down
into the gushing water, and thus the rock got
the name of 'The Tailor's Cliff.' One day
the robbers caught a young girl, and she
betrayed them, for she kindled a fire in the
cavern. The smoke was seen, the caverns dis-
covered, and the robbers imprisoned and
executed. That outside there is called 'The
Thieves' Fall,' and down there under the water
is another cave, the ely rushes in there and
returns boiling; one can see it well up here,
one hears it too, but it can be heard better
under the bergman's loft."



And we went on and on, along the Fall,
towards Top Island, continuously on smooth
paths covered with saw-dust, to Polham's
Sluice. A cleft had been made in the rock for
the first intended sluice-work, which was not
finished, but whereby art has created the most
imposing of all Trollhiitta's Falls; the hurrying
water falling here perpendicularly into the black
deep. The side of the rock is here placed in
connection with Top Island by means of a light
iron bridge, which appears as if thrown over the
abyss. We venture on to the rocking bridge
over the streaming, whirling water, and then
stand on the little cliff island, between firs and
pines, that shoot forth from the crevices. Before
us darts a sea of waves, which are broken by
the rebound against the stone block where we
stand, bathing us with the fine spray. The
torrent flows on each side, as if shot out from a
gigantic cannon, fall after fall: we look out over
them all, and are filled with the harmonic
sound, which since time began, has ever been
the same.



No one can ever get to the island there,"
said one of our party, pointing to the large
island above the topmost fall.
I however know one !" said the old man,
and nodded with a peculiar smile.
"Yes, my grandfather could!" said one of
the boys, scarcely any one besides has crossed
during a hundred years. The cross that is set up
over there was placed there by my grandfather.
It had been a severe winter, the whole of Lake
Venern was frozen; the ice dammed up the
outlet, and for many hours there was a dry
bottom. Grandfather has told about it: he went
over with two others, placed the cross up, and
returned. But -then there was such a thundering
and cracking noise, just as if it were cannons.
The ice broke up and the ely came over the
fields and forest. It is true, every word I say I"
One of the travellers cited Tegner:

Vildt Gota stortade frin Fjallen,
Hemsk Trollet fran sat Toppfall r6t !
Men Snillet kom och spriingt stod Hallen,
Med Skeppen i sitt skot I"



Poor mountain sprite," he continued, thy
power and glory recede! Man flies over thee
-thou mayst go and-learn of him."
The garrulous old man made a grimace, and
muttered something to himself-but we were
just by the bridge before the inn. The steam-
boat glided through the opened way, every one
hastened to get on board, and it directly shot
away above the Fall, just as if no Fall existed.
And that can be done !" said the old man.
He knew nothing at all about steam-boats, had
never before that day seen such a thing, and
accordingly he was sometimes up and some.
times down, and stood by the machinery and
stared at the whole construction, as if he were
counting all the pins and screws. The course of
the canal appeared to him to be something quite
new; the plan of it and the guide-books were
quite foreign objects to him: he turned them
and turned them-for read I do not think he
could. But he knew all the particulars about
the country-that is to say, from olden times.
I heard that he did not sleep at all the whole



night. He studied the passage of the steam-
boat; and when we in the morning ascended
the sluice terraces from Lake Venern, higher
and higher from lake to lake, away over the
high-plain--higher, continually higher--he was
in such activity that it appeared as if it could not
be greater-and then we reached Motala.
The Swedish author Tjorneros relates of
himself, that when a child he once asked what
it was that ticked in the clock, and they an-
swered him that it was one named Bloodless."
What brought the child's pulse to beat with
feverish throbs and the hair on his head to
rise, also exercised its power in Motala, over the
old man from Trollhitta.
We now went through the great manufactory
in Motala. What ticks in the clock, beats here
with strong strokes of the hammer. It is
Bloodless, who drank life from human thought
and thereby got limbs of metals, stone and
wood; it is Bloodless, who by human thought
gained strength, which man himself does not
physically possess. Bloodless reigns in Motala,



and through the large foundries and factories he
extends his hard limbs, whose joints and parts
consist of wheel within wheel, chains, bars, and
thick iron wires. Enter, and see how the
glowing iron masses are formed into long bars.
Bloodless spins the glowing bar! see how the
shears cut into the heavy metal plates; they cut
as quietly and as softly as if the plates were paper.
Here where he hammers, the sparks fly from the
anvil. See how he breaks the thick iron bars; he
breaks them into lengths; it is as if it were
a stick of sealing-wax that is broken. The
long iron bars rattle before your feet; iron plates
are planed into shavings; before you rolls the
large wheel, and above your head runs living
wire-long heavy wire! There is a hammering
and buzzing, and if you look around in the large
open yard, amongst great up-turned copper
boilers, for steam-boats and locomotives,
Bloodless also here stretches out one of his
fathom-long fingers, and hauls away. Every-
thing is living; man alone stands and is silenced
by-stop I



The perspiration oozes out of one's fingers'
ends: one turns and turns, bows, and knows not
one's self, from pure respect for the human
thought which here has iron limbs. And yet the
large iron hammer goes on continually with its
heavy strokes: it is as if it said: "Banco,
Banco! many thousand dollars; Banco, pure
gain! Banco Banco !"-Hear it, as I heard
it; see, as I saw!
The old gentleman from Trollhiitta walked
up and down in full contemplation; bent and
swung himself about; crept on his knees, and
stuck his head into corners and between the
machines, for he would know everything so
exactly ; he would see the screw in the propelling
vessels, understand their mechanism and effect
under water-and the water itself poured like
hail-drops down his forehead. He fell uncon-
scious, backwards into my arms, or else he would
have been drawn into the machinery, and been
crushed: he looked at me, and pressed my hand.
"And all this goes on naturally," said he;
"simply and comprehensibly. Ships go against



the wind, and against the stream, sail higher than
forests and mountains. The water must raise,
steam must drive them !"
"Yes," said I.
"Yes," said he, and again yes, with a sigh
which I did not then understand; but, months,
after, I understood it, and I will at once make
a spring to that time, and we are again at Troll-
I came here in the autumn, on my return
home; stayed some days in this mighty piece of
nature, where busy human life forces its way more
and more in, and, by degrees, transforms the pic-
turesque to the useful manufactory. Trollhiitta
must do her work; saw beams, drive mills, ham-
mer and break to pieces: one building grows up
by the side of the other, and in half a century
hence here will be a city. But that was not the
I came, as I have said, here again in the
autumn. I found the same rushing and roar-
ing, the same din, the same rising and sink-
ing in the sluices, the same chattering boys



who conducted fresh travellers to the Hell Fall,
to the iron-bridge island, and to the inn. I
sat here, and turned over the leaves of books,
collected here through a series of years, in
which travellers have inscribed their names,
feelings and thoughts at Trollhitta--almost
always the same astonishment, expressed in
different languages, though generally in Latin:
veni, vidi, obstupui.
One has written: "I have seen nature's
master-piece pervade that of art;" another
cannot say what he saw, and what he saw he
cannot say. A mine owner and manufacturer,
full of the doctrine of utility, has written:
"Seen with the greatest pleasure this useful
work for us in Varmeland, Trollhatta." The
wife of a dean from Scania expresses herself
thus. She has kept to the family, and only signed
in the remembrance book, as to the effect of her
feelings at Trollhatta. God grant my brother-
in-law fortune, for he has understanding!"
Some few have added witticisms to the others'
feelings; yet as a pearl on this heap of writing



shines Tegner's poem, written by himself in the
book on the 28th of June, 1804:

"Gotha kom i dans fran Seves fjallar, &c."

I looked up from the book and who should
stand before me, just about to depart again, but
the old man from Trollhitta! Whilst I had
wandered about, right up to the shores of Siljan,
he had continually made voyages on the. canal;
seen the sluices and manufactories, studied steam
in all its possible powers of service, and spoke
about a projected railway in Sweden, between the
Hjalmar and Venern. He had, however, never
yet seen a railway, and I described to him thesb
extended roads, which sometimes rise like
ramparts, sometimes like towering bridges, and
at times like halls of miles in length, cut
through rocks. I also spoke of America and
One takes breakfast in London, and the
same day one drinks tea in Edinburgh."
"That I can do !" said the man, and in as
cool a tone as if no one but himself could do it,



"I can also," said I; "and I have done
"And who are you, then ?" he asked.
"A common traveller," I replied; "a
traveller who pays for his conveyance. And
who are you?"
The man sighed.
"You do not know me: my time is past;
my power is nothing Bloodless is stronger
than I and he was gone.
I then understood who he was. Well, in
what humour must a poor mountain sprite be,
who only comes up every hundred years to see
how things go forward here on the earth!
It was the mountain sprite and no other, for
in our time every intelligent person is consider-
ably wiser; and I looked with a sort of proud
feeling on the present generation, on the gushing,
rushing, whirling wheel, the heavy blows of the
hammer, the shears that cut so softly through
the metal plates, the thick iron bars that were
broken like sticks of sealing-wax, and the music
to which the heart's pulsations vibrate : Banco,



Banco, a hundred thousand Banco 1" and all by
steam-by mind and spirit.
It was evening. I stood on the heights of
Trollhaitta's old sluices, and saw the ships with
outspread sails glide away through the meadows
like spectres, large and white. The sluice gates
were opened with a ponderous and crashing
sound, like that related of the copper gates of
the secret council in Germany. The evening was
so still that Trollhitta's Fall was as audible in the
deep stillness, as if it were a chorus from a
hundred water-mills--ever one and the same
tone. In one, however, there sounded a mightier
crash that seemed to pass sheer through
the earth; and yet with all this the endless
silence of nature was felt. Suddenly a large
bird flew out from the trees, far in the forest,
down towards the Falls. Was it the mountain
sprite ?-We will imagine so, for it is the most
interesting fancy.





4t Vir lIjiniL

IN the garden of Paradise, under the tree of
knowledge, stood a hedge of roses. In the
first rose a bird was hatched; its flight was like
that of light, its colours beautiful, its song
But when Eve plucked the fruit of know-
ledge, when she and Adam were driven from
the garden of Paradise, a spark from the
avenging angel's flaming sword fell into the
bird's nest and kindled it. The bird died in
the flames, but from the red egg there flew a
new one-the only one-the ever only bird


Phoenix. The legend states that it takes up its
abode in Arabia; that every hundred years it
burns itself up in its nest, and that a new
Phoenix, the only one in the world, flies out
from the red egg.
The bird hovers around us, rapid as the
light, beautiful in colour, glorious in song.
When the mother sits by the child's cradle, it
is by the pillow, and with its wings flutters a
glory around the child's head. It flies through
the chamber of contentment, and there is the
sun's radiance within:-the poor chest of
drawers is odoriferous with violets.
But the bird Phoenix is not alone Arabia's
bird: it flutters in the rays. of the Northern
Lights on Lapland's icy plains; it hops amongst
the yellow flowers in Greenland's short summer.
Under Fahlun's copper rocks, in England's coal
mines, it flies like a powdered moth over the
hymn-book in the pious workman's hands. It
sails on the lotus-leaf down the sacred waters of
the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindoo girl
glisten on seeing it.



The bird Phoenix Dost thou not know it ?
The bird of Paradise, song's sacred swan It
sat on the car of Thespis, like a croaking raven,
and flapped its black, dregs-besmeared wings;
over Iceland's minstrel-harp glided the swan's
red, sounding bill. It sat on Shakspeare's
shoulder like Odin's raven, and whispered in
his ear: "Immortality !" It flew at the min-
strel competition, through Wartzburg's knightly
The bird Phoenix Dost thou not know it ?
It sang the Marseillaise for thee, and thou
didst kiss the plume that fell from its wing: it
came in the lustre of Paradise, and thou
perhaps didst turn thyself away to some poor
sparrow that sat with merest tinsel on its wings.
The bird of Paradise! regenerated every
century, bred in flames, dead in flames; thy
image set in gold hangs in the saloons of the
rich, even though thou fliest often astray and
alone. "The bird Phoenix in Arabia"-is
but a legend.



In the garden of Paradise, when thou wast
bred under the tree of knowledge, in the first
rose, our Lord kissed thee and gave thee thy
proper name-Poetry.




KINNAKULLA, Sweden's hanging gardens!
Thee will we visit. We stand by the lowest
terrace in a plenitude of flowers and ver-
dure; the ancient village church leans its grey
pointed wooden tower, as if it would fall;
it produces an effect in the landscape: we would
not even be without that large flock of birds,
which just now chance to fly away over the
mountain forest.
The high road leads up the mountain with
short palings on either side, between which we
see extensive plains with hops, wild roses, corn-


fields, and delightful beech woods, such as are
not to be found in any other place in Sweden.
The ivy winds itself around old trees and stones
-even to the withered trunk green leaves are
lent. We look out over the flat, extended woody
plain, to the sunlit church-tower of Maristad,
which shines like a white sail on the dark green
sea: we look out over the Venern Lake, but can-
not see its further shore. Skjiirgaardens' wood-
crowned rocks lie like a wreath down in the
lake; the steam-boat comes-see down by the
cliff under the red-roofed mansions, where the
beech and walnut trees grow in the garden.
The travellers land; they wander under shady
trees away over that pretty light green meadow,
which is enwreathed by gardens and woods:
no English park has a finer verdure than the
meadows near Hellekis. They go up to "the
grottos," as they call the projecting masses of
red stone higher up, which, being thoroughly
kneaded with petrifactions, project from the
declivity of the earth, and remind one of the
mouldering colossal tombs in the Campagna of



Rome. Some are smooth and rounded off by
the streaming of the water, others bear the moss
of ages, grass and flowers, nay, even tall trees.
The travellers go from the forest road up to
the top of Kinnakulla, where a stone is raised
as the goal of their wanderings. The traveller
reads in his guide-book about the rocky strata
of Kinnakulla: At the bottom is found
sandstone, then alum-stone, then limestone, and
above this red-stone, higher still slate, and
lastly, trap." And, now that he has seen
this, he descends again, and goes on board.
He has seen Kinnakulla :-yes, the stony rock
here, amidst the swelling verdure, showed him
one heavy, thick stone finger, and most of the
travellers think that they are like the devil,
if they lay hold upon one finger, they have the
body-but it is not always so. The least
visited side of Kinnakulla is just the most
characteristic, and thither will we go.
The road still leads us a long way on this
side of the mountain, step by step downwards,
in long terraces of rich fields: further down,



the slate-stone peers forth in flat layers, a green
moss upon it, and it looks like threadbare
patches in the green velvet carpet. The
high road leads over an extent of ground
where the slate-stone lies like a firm floor. In
the Campagna of Rome, one would say it is a
piece of via appia, or antique road; but it is
Kinnakulla's naked skin and bones that we
pass over. The peasant's house is composed of
large slate-stones, and the roof is covered with
them; one sees nothing of wood except that of
the door, and above it, of the large painted
shield, which states to what regiment the soldier
belongs who got this house and plot of ground
in lieu of pay.
We cast another glance over Venern, to
Locki's old palace, to the town of Lendkjobing,
and are again near verdant fields and noble
trees, that cast their shadows over Blomberg,
where, in the garden, the poet Geier's spirit seeks
the flower of Kinnakulla in his grand-daughter,
little Anna.
The plain expands here behind Kinnakulla;



it extends for miles around, towards the
horizon. A shower stands in the heavens; the
wind has increased: see how the rain falls to
the ground like a darkening veil. The branches
of the trees lash one another like penitential
dryades. Old Husaby church lies near us,
yonder; though the shower lashes the high
walls, which alone stand, of the old Catholic
Bishop's palace. Crows and ravens fly through
the long glass-less windows, which time has
made larger; the rain pours down the cre-
vices in the old grey walls, as if they were
now to be loosened stone from stone: but
the church stands-old Husaby church-so
grey and venerable, with its thick walls, its
small windows, and its three spires stuck
against each other, and standing, like nuts, in
a cluster.
The old trees in the churchyard cast their
shade over ancient graves. Where is the district's
"Old Mortality," who weeds the grass, and
explains the ancient memorials? Large granite
stones are laid here in the form of coffins,



ornamented with rude carvings from the times
of Catholicism. The old church-door creaks in
the hinges. We stand within its walls, where
the vaulted roof was filled for centuries with the
fragrance of incense, with monks, and with the
song of the choristers. Now it is still and
mute here: the old men in their monastic
dresses have passed into their graves; the
blooming boys that swung the censer are in
their graves; the congregation-many genera-
tions-all in their graves; but the church still
stands the same. The moth-eaten, dusty
cowls, and the bishops' mantle, from the days
of the cloister, hang in the old oak presses; and
old manuscripts, half eaten up by the rats, lie
strewed about on the shelves in the sacristy.
In the left aisle of the church there still
stands, and has stood time out of mind, a carved
image of wood, painted in various colours which
are still strong: it is the Virgin Mary with the
child Jesus. Fresh flower wreaths are hung
around hers and the child's head; fragrant gar-
lands are twined around the pedestal, as festive



as on Madonna's birthday feast in the times of
Popery. The young folks who have been
confirmed, have this day, on receiving the
sacrament for the first time, ornamented this old
image-nay, even set the priest's name in
flowers upon the altar; and he has, to our
astonishment, let it remain there.
The image of Madonna seems to have become
young by the fresh wreaths: the fragrant flowers
here have a power like that of poetry-they
bring back the days of past centuries to our own
times. It is as if the extinguished glory around
the head shone again; the flowers exhale perfume:
it is as if incense again streamed through the
aisles of the church-it shines around the altar
as if the consecrated tapers were lighted-it is a
sunbeam through the window.
The sky without has become clear: we drive
again in under Cleven, the barren side of Kinna-
kulla: it is a rocky wall, different from almost all
the others. The red stone blocks lie, strata on
strata, forming fortifications with embrasures,
projecting wings and round towers; but shaken,



split and fallen in ruins-it is an architectural
fantastic freak of nature. A brook falls gushing
down from one of the highest points of the
Cleven, and drives a little mill. It looks like a
plaything which the mountain sprite had placed
there and forgotten.
Large masses of fallen stone blocks lie dispersed
round about; nature has spread them in the
forms of carved cornices. The most significant
way of describing Kinnakulla's rocky wall is to
call it the ruins of a mile-long Hindostanee
temple: these rocks might be easily trans-
formed by the hammer into sacred places like the
Ghaut mountains at Ellara. If a Brahmin were
to come to Kinnakulla's rocky wall, he would re-
cognise the temple of Cailasa, and find in the
clefts and crevices whole representations from
Ramagena and Mahaharata. If one should then
speak to him in a sort of gibberish-no matter
what, only that, by the help of Brockhaus's
"Conversation-Lexicon" one might mingle
therein the names of some of the Indian specta-
cles:-Sakantala, Vikramerivati, Uttaram Rama-



tscheritram, &c.-the Brahmin would be com-
pletely mystified, and write in his note-book:
"Kinnakulla is the remains of a temple, like
those we have in Ellara; and the inhabitants
themselves know the most considerable works
in our oldest Sanscrit literature, and speak in
an extremely spiritual manner about them."
But no Brahmin comes to the high rocky
walls-not to speak of the company from the
steam-boat, who are already far over the lake
Venern. They have seen wood-crowned Kinna-
kulla, Sweden's hanging gardens-and we also
have now seen them.






( ra n m at tr

GRANDMOTHER is so old, she has so many
wrinkles, and her hair is quite white; but her
eyes! they shine like two stars, nay, they are
much finer-they are so mild, so blissful to look
into. And then she knows the most amusing
stories, and she has a gown with large, large
flowers on it, and it is of such thick silk that it
actually rustles. Grandmother knows so much,
for she has lived long before father and mother-
that is quite sure.
Grandmother has a psalm-book with thick
silver clasps, and in that book she often reads.


In the middle of it lies a rose, which is quite
flat and dry; but it is not so pretty as the roses
she has in the glass, yet she smiles the kindliest
to it, nay, even tears come into her eyes!
Why does Grandmother look thus on the
withered flower in the old book ? Do you
know why ?
Every time that Grandmother's tears fall on
the withered flower the colours become fresher;
the rose then swells and the whole room is
filled with fragrance; the walls sink as if they
were but mists; and round about, it is the
green, the delightful grove, where the sun
shines between the leaves. And Grandmother-
yes, she is quite young; she is a beautiful girl,
with yellow hair, with round red cheeks, pretty
and charming-no rose is fresher. Yet the eyes,
the mild, blissful eyes,-yes, they are still
Grandmother's! By her side sits a man,
young and strong: he presents the rose to her
and she smiles. Yet grandmother does not
smile so,-yes; the smile comes,-he is gone.
--Many thoughts and many forms go past!



That handsome man is gone; the rose lies in
the psalm-book, and grandmother,-yes, she
again sits like an old woman, and looks on the
withered rose that lies in the book.
Now grandmother is dead !
She sat in the arm-chair, and told a long,
long, sweet story. And now it is ended!"
said she, "and I am quite tired: let me
now sleep a little !" And so she laid her head
back to rest. She drew her breath, she slept, but
it became more and more still; and her face was
so full of peace and happiness-it was as if the
sun's rays passed over it. She smiled, and then
they said that she was dead.
She was laid in the black coffin; she lay
swathed in the white linen: she was so pretty,
and yet the eyes were closed-but all the
wrinkles were gone. She lay with a smile around
her mouth: her hair was so silvery white, so
venerable, one was not at all afraid to look on
the dead, for it was the sweet, benign grand-
mother. And the psalm-book was laid in the
coffin under her head (she herself had requested



it), and the rose lay in the old book-and then
they buried grandmother.
On the grave, close under the church-wall,
they planted a rose-tree, and it became full of
roses, and the nightingale sang over it, and the
organ in the church played the finest psalms
that were in the book under the dead one's
head. And the moon shone straight down on
the grave-but the dead was not there: every
child could go quietly in the night-time and
pluck a rose there by the churchyard-wall. The
dead know more than all we living know-
the dead know the awe we should feel at
something so strange as their coming to us.
The dead are better than us all, and therefore
they do not come.
There is earth over the coffin, there is earti
within it; the psalm-book with its leaves is dus'
the rose with all its r collections has gone rI
dust. But above it bloom new roses, above iT
sings the nightingale, and the organ plays:-we
think of the old grandmother with the mild,



eternally young eyes. Eyes can never die!
Ours shall once again see her young, and beau-
tiful, as when she for the first time kissed the
fresh red rose which is now dust in the grave.






BY separation from other men, by solitary
confinement, in continual silence, the criminal
is to be punished and amended; therefore
were prison-cells contrived. In Sweden there
were several, and new ones have been built. I
visited one for the first time in Mariestad. This
building lies close outside the town, by a
running water, and in a beautiful landscape.
It resembles a large white-washed summer
residence, window above window.
But we soon discover that the stillness of
the grave rests over it. It is as if no one


dwelt here, or like a deserted mansion in the
time of the plague. The gates in the walls
are locked: one of them is opened for us: the
gaoler stands with his bunch of keys: the
yard is empty, but clean-even the grass
weeded away between the stone paving. We
enter the waiting-room, where the prisoner is
received: we are shown the bathing-room,
into which he is first led. We now ascend a
flight of stairs, and are in a large hall, extending
the whole length and breadth of the building.
Galleries run along the floors, and between
these the priest has his pulpit, where he
preaches on Sundays to an invisible congre-
gation. All the doors facing the gallery are
half opened: the prisoners hear the priest, but
cannot see him, nor he them. The whole is a
well-built machine-a nightmare for the spirit.
In the door of every cell there is fixed a glass,
about the size of the eye: a slide covers it, and
the gaoler can, unobserved by the prisoner,
see everything he does; but he must come
gently, noiselessly, for the prisoner's ear is



wonderfully quickened by solitude. I turned
the slide quite softly, and looked into the closed
space, when the prisoner's eye immediately met
mine. It is airy, clean, and light within the
cell, but the window is placed so high that it is
impossible to look out of it. A high stool,
made fast to a sort of table, and a hammock,
which can be hung upon hooks under the
ceiling, and covered with a quilt, compose the
whole furniture.
Several cells were opened for us. In one of
these was a young, and extremely pretty girl.
She had lain down in her hammock, but sprang
out directly the door was opened, and her first
employment was to lift her hammock down,
and roll it together. On the little table stood
a pitcher with water, and by it lay the remains
of some oatmeal cakes, besides the Bible and
some psalms.
In the cell close by sat a child's murderess.
I saw her only through the little glass in the
door. She had had heard our footsteps; heard
us speak; but she sat still, squeezed up into
D 3



the corner by the door, as if she would hide
herself as much as possible: her back was
bent, her head almost on a level with her lap,
and her hands folded over it. They said this
unfortunate creature was very young. Two
brothers sat here in two different cells: they
were punished for horse stealing; the one was
still quite a boy.
In one cell was a poor servant girl. They
said : She has no place of resort, and without
a situation, and therefore she is placed here."
I thought I had not heard rightly, and repeated
my question, "why she was here," but got the
same answer. Still I would rather believe that
I had misunderstood what was said-it would
otherwise be abominable.
Outside, in the free sunshine, it is the busy
day; in here it is always midnight's stillness.
The spider that weaves its web down the wall,
the swallow which perhaps flies a single time
close under the panes there high up in the wall-
even the stranger's footstep in the gallery, as he
passes the cell-doors, is an event in that mute,



solitary life, where the prisoners' thoughts are
wrapped up in themselves. One must read of
the martyr-filled prisons of the Inquisition, of
the crowds chained together in the Bagnes,
of the hot, lead chambers of Venice, and
the black, wet gulf of the wells-be thoroughly
shaken by these pictures of misery, that we
may with a quieter pulsation of the heart
wander through the gallery of the prison-cells.
Here is light, here is air;-here it is more
humane. Where the sunbeam shines mildly in
on the prisoner, there also will the radiance
of God shine into the heart.




THE painter Callot- who does not know
the name, at least from Hoffmann's "in
Callot's manner?"-has given a few excellent
pictures of Italian beggars. One of these is a
fellow, on whom the one rag lashes the other:
he carries his huge bundle and a large flag with
the inscription, Capitano de Baroni." One
does not think that there can in reality be found
such a wandering rag-shop, and we confess that
in Italy itself we have not seen any such; for
the beggar-boy there, whose whole clothing


often consists only of a waistcoat, has in it not
sufficient costume for such rags.
But we see it in the North. By the canal
road between the Venern and Vigen, on the
bare, dry rocky plain there stood, like beauty's
thistles in that poor landscape, a couple of
beggar-boys, so ragged, so tattered, so pictu-
resquely dirty, that we thought we had Callot's
originals before us, or that it was an ar-
rangement of some industrious parents, who
would awaken the traveller's attention and
benevolence. Nature does not form such things:
there was something so bold in the hanging on
of the rags, that each boy instantly became a
Capitano de Baroni.
The younger of the two had something
round him that had certainly once been the
jacket of a very corpulent man, for it reached
almost to the boy's ancles; the whole hung fast
by a piece of the sleeve and a single brace,
made from the seam of what was now the rest
of the lining. It was very difficult to see the
transition from jacket to trowsers, the rags



glided so into one another. The whole clothing
was arranged so as to give him an air-bath:
there were draught holes on all sides and ends;
a yellow linen clout fastened to the nethermost
regions seemed as if it were to signify a shirt.
A very large straw hat, that had certainly been
driven over several times, was stuck sideways
on his head, and allowed the boy's wiry, flaxen
hair to grow freely through the opening where
I the crown should have been: the naked brown
shoulder and upper part of the arm, which was
just as brown, were the prettiest of the whole.
The other boy had only a pair of trowsers on.
They were also ragged, but the rags were bound
fast into the pockets with packthread; one
string round the ancles, one under the knee,
and another round about the waist. He, however,
kept together what he had, and that is always
Be off!" shouted the Captain, from the
vessel; and the boy with the tied-up rags turned
round, and we-yes, we saw nothing but pack-



thread, in bows, genteel bows. The front part
of the boy only was covered: he had only the
foreparts of trowsers-the rest was packthread,
the bare, naked packthread.


IN Sweden, it is not only in the country,
but even in several of the provincial towns,
that one sees whole houses of grass turf or with
roofs of grass turf; and some are so low that
one might easily spring up to the roof, and sit
on the fresh greensward. In the early spring,
whilst the fields are still covered with snow,
but which is melted on the roof, the latter
affords the first announcement of spring, with
the young sprouting grass where the sparrow
twitters: Spring comes !"
Between Motala and Vadstene, close by the



high road, stands a grass-turf house-one of the
most picturesque. It has but one window,
broader than it is high, and a wild rose branch
forms the curtain outside.
We see it in the spring. The roof is so
delightfully fresh with grass, it has quite the
tint of velvet; and close to it is the chimney,
nay, even a cherry-tree grows out of its side,
now full of flowers: the wind shakes the
leaves down on a little lamb that is tethered to
the chimney. It is the only lamb of the
family. The old dame who lives here, lifts it up
to its place herself in the morning and lifts it down
again in the evening, to give it a place in the
room. The roof can just bear the little lamb,
but not more-this is an experience and a cer-
tainty. Last autumn-and at that time the
grass turf roofs are covered with flowers, mostly
blue and yellow, the Swedish colours-there
grew here a flower of a rare kind. It shone in
the eyes of the old Professor, who on his
botanical tour came past here. The Professor
was quickly up on the roof, and just as quick



was one of his booted legs through it, and so
was the other leg, and then half of the Professor
himself-that part where the head does not sit;
and as the house had no ceiling, his legs hovered
right over the old dame's head, and that in
very close contact. But now the roof is again
whole; the fresh grass grows where learning
sank; the little lamb bleats up there, and the
old dame stands beneath, in the low doorway,
with folded hands, with a smile on her mouth,
rich in remembrances, legends and songs, rich
in her only lamb on which the cherry-tree strews
its flower-blossoms in the warm spring sun.
As a background to this picture lies the
Vettern-the bottomless lake as the commonalty
believe-with its transparent water, its sea-like
waves, and in calm, with" Hegring," or fata
morgana on its steel-like surface. We see
Vadstene palace and town, "the city of the
dead," as a Swedish author has called it-
Sweden's Herculaneum, reminiscence's city.
The grass-turf house must be our box, whence
we see the rich mementos pass before us-



memorials from the chronicle of saints, the
chronicle of kings and the love songs that still
live with the old dame, who stands in her low
house there, where the lamb crops the grass on
the roof. We hear her, and we see with her
eyes; we go from the grass-turf house up to the
town, to the other grass-turf houses, where poor
women sit and make lace, once the celebrated
work of the rich nuns here in the cloister's
wealthy time.
How still, solitary and grass-grown are these
streets! We stop by an old wall, mouldy-
green for centuries already. Within it stood the
cloister; now there is but one of its wings
remaining. There, within that now poor garden
still bloom Saint Bridget's leek, and once
rare flowers. King John and the Abbess, Ana
Gylte, wandered one evening there, and the
King cunningly asked: "If the maidens in the
cloister were never tempted by love ?" and the
Abbess answered, as she pointed to a bird that
just then flew over them: "It may happen!
One cannot prevent the bird from flying over



the garden; but one may surely prevent it
from building its nest there !"
Thus thought the pious Abbess, and there
have been sisters who thought and acted like her.
But it is quite as sure that in the same garden
there stood a pear-tree, called the tree of death;
and the legend says of it, that whoever
approached and plucked its fruit would soon die.
Red and yellow pears weighed down its branches
to the ground. The trunk was unusually large;
the grass grew high around it, and many a
morning hour was it seen trodden down. Who
had been here during the night ?
A storm arose one evening from the lake,
and the next morning the large tree was found
thrown down; the trunk was broken, and out
from it there rolled infants' bones-the white
bones of murdered children lay shining in the
The pious but love-sick sister Ingrid, this
Vadstene's Heloise, writes to her heart's beloved,
Axel Nilsun-for the chronicles have preserved
it for us :-



Broderne og Systarne leka paa Spil, drikke
Vin och dansa med hvarandra i Tradgarden !"
(The brothers and sisters amuse themselves
in play, drink wine and dance with one another
in the garden).
These words may explain to us the history of
the pear-tree: one is led to think of the orgies
of the nun-phantoms in Robert le Diable," the
daughters of sin on consecrated ground. But
"judge not, lest ye be judged," said the purest
and best of men that was born of woman. We
will read Sister Ingrid's letter, sent secretly to
him she truly loved. In it lies the history of
many, clear and human to us:-
Jag djerfues for ingen utan for dig allena
bekanna, att jag former illa anda mit Ave
Maria eller lisa mit Paternoster, utan du
kommer mig ichagen. Ja i sjelfa messen
kommer mig fore dit tackleliga Ansigte och
vart karliga omgange. Jag tycker jag kan icke
skifta mig for n genann an Menniska, jungfru
Maria, St. Birgitta och himmelens Harskaror
skalla kanske straffe mig harfar? Men du vet



det val, hjertans kiraste att jag med fri vilja
och uppsit aldrig dissa regular samtykt. Mine
foraldrer hafva vil min kropp i dette fangelset
insatt, men hjertit kan intet sa snart frin
verlden ater kalles !"
(T dare not confess to any other than to thee,
that I am not able to repeat my Ave Maria or
read my Paternoster, without calling thee to
mind. Nay, even in the mass itself thy comely
face appears, and our affectionate intercourse
recurs to me. It seems to me that I cannot
confess to any other human being-the Virgin
Mary, St. Bridget, and the whole host of heaven
will perhaps punish me for it. But thou knowest
well, my heart's beloved, that I have never
consented with my free-will to these rules. My
parents, it is true, have placed my body in
this prison, but the heart cannot so soon be
weaned from the world)."
How touching is the distress of young hearts!
It offers itself to us from the mouldy parch-
ment, it resounds in old songs. Beg the grey-
haired old dame in the grass turf-house to sing to



thee of the young, heavy sorrow, of the saving
angel-and the angel came in many shapes.
You will hear the song of the cloister robbery;
of Herr Carl who was sick to death; when the
young nun entered the corpse chamber, sat down
by his feet and whispered how sincerely she had
loved him, and the knight rose from his bier
and bbre her away to marriage and pleasure in
Copenhagen. And all the nuns of the cloister
sang: Christ grant that such an angel were to
come, and take both me and thee !"
The old dame will also sing for thee of the
beautiful Ogda and Oluf Tyste; and at once the
cloister is revived in its splendour, the bells ring,
stone houses arise-they even rise from the
waters of the Vettern: the little town becomes
churches and towers. The streets are crowded
with great, with sober, well-dressed persons.
Down the stairs of the town hall descends
with a sword by his side and in fur-lined
cloak, the most wealthy citizen of Vad-
stene, the merchant Michael. By his side
is his young, beautiful daughter Agda, richly-



dressed and happy; youth in beauty, youth in
mind. All eyes are turned on the rich man-
and yet forget him for her, the beautiful. Life's
best blessings await her; her thoughts soar
upwards, her mind aspires; her future is
happiness! These were the thoughts of the
many--and amongst the many there was one
who saw her as Romeo saw Juliet, as Adam
saw Eve in the garden of Paradise. That one
was Oluf, the handsomest young man, but poor
as Agda was rich. And he must conceal his
love; but as only he lived in it, only he knew
of it; so he became mute and still, and after
months had passed away, the town's folk called
him Oluf Tyste (Oluf the silent).
Nights and days he combated his love;
nights and days he suffered inexpressible
torment; but at last-one dew-drop or one
sunbeam alone is necessary for the ripe rose to
open its leaves-he must tell it to Agda. And
she listened to his words, was terrified, and
sprang away; but the thought remained with
him, and the heart went after the thought and



stayed there; she returned his love strongly and
truly, but in modesty and honour; and therefore
poor Oluf came to the rich merchant and
sought his daughter's hand. But Michael shut
the bolts of his door and his heart too. He
would neither listen to tears nor supplications,
but only to his own will; and as little Agda also
kept firm tc her will, her father placed her in
Vadstene cloister. And Oluf was obliged to
submit, as it is recorded in the old song, that
they cast

"-- den svarta Muld
Alt ofver skon Agdas arm."*

She was dead to him and the world. But
one night, in tempestuous weather, whilst the
rain streamed down, Oluf Tyste came to the
cloister wall, threw his rope-ladder over it, and
however high the Vettern lifted its waves, Oluf
and little Agda flew away over its fathomless
depths that autumn night.
Early in the morning the nuns missed little

The black mould over the beautiful Agda's arm.



Agda. What a screaming and shouting-
the cloister is disgraced! The Abbess and
Michael the merchant swore that vengeance and
death should reach the fugitives. Lindkjoping's
severe bishop, Hans Brask, fulminated his ban
over them, but they were already across the
waters of the Vettern; they had reached the
shores of the Venern, they were on Kinnakulla,
with one of Oluf's friends, who owned the
delightful Hellekis.
Here their marriage was to be celebrated.
The guests were invited, and a monk from the
neighboring cloister of Husaby, was fetched to
marry them. Then came the messenger with the
bishop's excommunication, and this-but not
the marriage ceremony-was read to them.
All turned away from them terrified. The
owner of the house, the friend of Oluf's youth,
pointed to the open door and bade them depart
instantly. Oluf only requested a car and horse
wherewith to convey away his exhausted
Agda; but they threw sticks and stones after



them, and Oluf was obliged to bear his poor
bride in his arms far into the forest.
Heavy and bitter was their wandering. At
last, however, they found a home: it was in
Guldkroken, in West Gothland. An honest old
couple gave them shelter and a place by the
hearth: they stayed there till Christmas, and on
that holy eve there was to be a real Christmas
festival. The guests were invited, the furmenty
set forth; and now came the clergyman of the
parish to say prayers; but whilst he spoke he
recognized Oluf and Agda, and the prayer
became a curse upon the two. Anxiety and
terror came over all; they drove the excommu-
nicated pair out of the house, out into the biting
frost, where the wolves went in flocks, and the
bear was no stranger. And Oluf felled wood
in the forest, and kindled a fire to frighten away
the noxious animals and keep life in Agda-he
thought that she must die. But just then she
was stronger of the two.
Our Lord is almighty and gracious; He will



not leave us!" said she. "He has one here
on the earth, one who can save us, one, who
has proved like us, what it is to wander
amongst enemies and wild animals. It is the
King-Gustavus Vasa! He has languished like
us !-gone astray in Dalecarlia in the deep
snow! he has suffered, tried, knows it-he can
and he will help us!"
The King was in Vadstene. He had called
together the representatives of the kingdom there.
He dwelt in the cloister itself, even there where
little Agda, if the King did not grant her
pardon, must suffer what the angry Abbess
dared to advise: penance and a painful death
awaited her.
Through forests and by untrodden paths, in
storm and snow, Oluf and Agda came to
Vadstene. They were seen: some showed fear,
others insulted and threatened them. The
guard of the cloister made the sign of the cross
on seeing the two sinners, who dared to ask
admission to the King.
"I will receive and hear all," was his royal
E 3



message, and the two lovers fell trembling at
his feet.
And the King looked mildly on them; and as
he long had had the intention to humiliate the
proud Bishop of Lindkjoping, the moment was
not unfavourable to them; the King listened
to the relation of their lives and sufferings, and
gave them his word, that the excommunication
should be annulled. He then placed their hands
one in the other, and said that the priest should
also do the same soon; and he promised them
his royal protection and favour.
And old Michael, the merchant, who feared
the King's anger, with which he was threatened,
became so mild and gentle, that he, as the
King commanded, not only opened his house
and his arms to Oluf and Agda, but displayed
all his riches on the wedding-day of the young
couple. The marriage ceremony took place in
the cloister church, whither the King himself led
the bride, and where, by his command, all the
nuns were obliged to be present, in order to
give still more ecclesiastical pomp to the festival.



And many a heart there silently recalled the
old song about the cloister robbery and looked
at Oluf Tyste:

Krist gif en sadan Angel
Kom, tog bad mig och dig !"*

The sun now shines through the open
cloister-gate. Let truth shine into our hearts;
let us likewise acknowledge the cloister's share
of God's influence. Every cell was not quite a
prison, where the imprisoned bird flew in despair
against the window-pane; here sometimes was
sunshine from God in the heart and mind, from
hence also went out comfort and blessings.
If the dead could rise from their graves they
would bear witness thereof: if we saw them in
the moonlight lift the tombstone and step forth
towards the cloister, they would say: "Blessed
be these walls !" if we saw them in the sunlight
hovering in the rainbow's gleam, they would
say: Blessed be these walls !"

Christ grant that such an angel were to come,
and take both me and thee!



How changed the rich, mighty Vadstene
cloister, where the first daughters of the land
were nuns, where the young nobles of the land
wore the monk's cowl. Hither they made
pilgrimages from Italy, from Spain: from far
distant lands, in snow and cold, the pilgrim
came barefooted to the cloister door. Pious men
and women bore the corpse of St. Bridget
hither in their hands from Rome, and all the
church-bells in all the lands and towns they
passed through, tolled when they came.
We go towards the cloister-the remains
of the old ruin. We enter St. Bridget's cell
-it still stands unchanged. It is low, small
and narrow: four diminutive frames form the
whole window, but one can look from it
out over the whole garden, and far away
over the Vettern. We see the same beautiful
landscape that the fair Saint saw as a frame
around her God, whilst she read her morning
and evening prayers. In the tile-stone of
the floor there is engraved a rosary: before
it, on her bare knees, she said a pater-noster



at every pearl there pointed out. Here is
no chimney-no hearth, no place for it. Cold
and solitary it is, and was, here where the
world's most far-famed woman dwelt, she
who by her own sagacity, and by her con-
temporaries was raised to the throne of female
From this poor cell we enter one still
meaner, one still more narrow and cold,
where the faint light of day struggles in through
a long crevice in the wall. Glass there never
was here: the wind blows in here. Who was
she who once dwelt in this cell ?
In our times they have arranged light,
warm chambers close by: a whole range opens
into the broad passage. We hear merry songs;
laughter we hear, and weeping: strange figures
nod to us from these chambers. Who are
these ? The rich cloister of St. Bridget's,
whence kings made pilgrimages, is now
Sweden's mad-house. And here the numerous
travellers write their names on the wall. We
hasten from the hideous scene into the splendid



cloister church,-the blue church, as it is
called, from the blue stones of which the walls
are built-and here, where the large stones
of the floor cover great men, abbesses and
queens, only one monument is noticeable, that
of a knightly figure carved in stone, which
stands aloft before the altar. It is that of the
insane Duke Magnus. Is it not as if he stepped
forth from amongst the dead, and announced
that such afflicted creatures were to be where
St. Bridget once ruled ?
Pace lightly over the floor! Thy foot
treads on the graves of the pious: the flat,
modest stone here in the corner covers the
dust of the noble Queen Philippa. She, that
mighty England's daughter, the great-hearted,
the immortal woman, who with wisdom and
courage defended her consort's throne, that
consort who rudely and barbarously cast her
off Vadstene's cloister gave her shelter-the
grave here gave her rest.
We seek one grave. It is not known-it is
forgotten, as she was in her lifetime. Who was



she? The cloistered sister Elizabeth, daughter
of the Holstein Count, and once the bride of
King Hakon of Norway. Sweet creature! she
proudly-but not with unbecoming pride-
advanced in her bridal dress, and with her court
ladies, up to her royal consort. Then came King
Valdemar, who by force and fraud stopped the
voyage, and induced Hakon to marry Margaret,
then eleven years of age, who thereby got the
crown of Norway. Elizabeth was sent to Vadstene
cloister, where her will was not asked. After-
wards when Margaret-who justly occupies a
great place in the history of Scandinavia, but
only comparatively a small one in the hearts-
sat on the throne, powerful and respected, visited
the then flourishing Vadstene, where the Abbess
of the cloister was St. Bridget's grand-daughter,
her childhood's friend, Margaret kissed every
monk on the cheek. The legend is well known
about him, the handsomest, who thereupon
blushed. She kissed every nun on the hand,
and also Elizabeth, her, whom she would
only see here. Whose heart throbbed loudest



at that kiss ? Poor Elizabeth, thy grave is
forgotten, but not the wrong thou didst
We now enter the sacristy. Here, under
a double coffin lid, rests an age's holiest saint
in the North, Vadstene cloister's diadem and
lustre-St. Bridget.
On the night she was born, says the
legend, there appeared a beaming cloud in
the heavens, and on it stood a majestic virgin,
who said: Of Birger is born a daughter
whose admirable voice shall be heard over
the whole world." This delicate and singular
child grew up in the castle of her father,
Knight Brake. Visions and revelations appeared
to her, and these increased when she, only
thirteen years of age, was married to the
rich Ulf Gudmundsen, and became the
mother of many children. "Thou shalt be
my bride and my agent," she heard Christ
say, and every one of her actions was, as
she averred, according to his announcement.
After this she went to Niddaros, to St. Oluf's



holy shrine: she then went to Germany, France,
Spain and Rome.
Sometimes honoured and sometimes mocked,
she travelled, even to Cyprus and Palestine.
Conscious of approaching death, she again
reached Rome, where her last revelation was,
that she should rest in Vadstene, and that this
cloister especially should be sanctified by God's
love. The splendour of the Northern lights does
not extend so far around the earth as the glory
of this fair saint, who now is but a legend.
We bend with silent, serious thoughts before
the mouldering remains in the coffin here---
those of St. Bridget and her daughter St.
Catherine; but even of these the remem-
brance will be extinguished. There is a tra-
dition amongst the people, that in the time of
the Reformation the real remains were carried
off to a cloister in Poland, but this is not
certainly known. Vadstene, at least, is not the
repository of St. Bridget and her daughter's dust.
Vadstene was once great and glorious. Great
was the cloister's power, as St. Bridget saw it in



the prospect of death. Where is now the cloister's
might ? It reposes under the tomb-stones-the
graves alone speak of it. Here, under our feet,
only a few steps from the church door, is a stone
in which are carved fourteen rings: they announce
that fourteen farms were given to the cloister,
in order that he who moulders here might have
this place, fourteen feet within the church door.
It was Boa Johnson Grip, a great sinner; but
the cloister's power was greater than that of all
sinners: the stone on his grave records it with
no ordinary significance of language.
Gustavus, the first Vasa, was the sun-the
ruling power: the brightness of the cloister star
must needs pale before him.
There yet stands a stone outline of Vadstene's
rich palace which he erected, with towers and
spires, close by the cloister. At a far dis-
tance on the Vettern, it looks as if it still stood
in all its splendour; near, in moonlight nights,
it appears the same unchanged edifice, for the
fathom-thick walls yet remain; the carvings
over the windows and gates stand forth in light



and shade, and the moat round about, which is
only separated from the Vettern by the narrow
carriage road, takes the reflection of the
immense building as a mirrored image.
We now stand before it in daylight. Not a
pane of glass is to be found in it; planks and
old doors are nailed fast to the window frames;
the balls alone still stand on the two towers,
broad, heavy, and resembling colossal toadstools.
The iron spire of the one still towers aloft in the
air; the other spire is bent: like the hands on a
sun-dial it shows the time-the time that is
gone. The other two balls are half fallen down;
lambs frisk about between the beams, and the
space below is used as a cow-stall.
The arms over the gateway have neither
spot nor blemish: they seem as if carved
yesterday; the walls are firm, and the stairs look
like new. In the palace yard, far above the
gateway, the great folding door was opened,
whence once the minstrels stepped out and
played a welcome greeting from the balcony, but
even this is broken down: we go through the



spacious kitchen, from whose white walls, a
sketch of Vadstene palace, ships, and flowering
trees, in red chalk, still attract the eye.
Here where they cooked and roasted, is now
a large empty space: even the chimney is gone;
and from the ceiling where thick, heavy beams
of timber have been placed close to one another,
there hangs the dust-covered cobweb, as if the
whole were a mass of dark grey dropping stones.
We walk from hall to hall, and the wooden
shutters are opened to admit daylight. All is
vast, lofty, spacious, and adorned with antique
chimney-pieces, and from every window there
is a charming prospect over the clear, deep
Vettern. In one of the chambers in the ground
floor sat the insane Duke Magnus, (whose
stone image we lately saw conspicuous in the
church) horrified at having signed his own
brother's death-warrant; dreamingly in love
with the portrait of Scotland's Queen, Mary
Stuart; paying court to her and expecting
to see the ship, with her, glide over the sea
towards Vadstene. And she came-he thought



she came-in the form of a mermaid, raising
herself aloft on the water: she nodded and called
to him, and the unfortunate Duke sprang out
of the window down to her. We gazed out of
this window, and below it we saw the deep moat
in which he sank.
We enter the yeoman's hall, and the council
hall, where, in the recesses of the windows,
on each side, are painted yeomen in strange
dresses, half Dalecarlians and half Roman
In this once rich saloon, Svanta Steenson
Sture knelt to Sweden's Queen, Catherine
L6jonhufved: she was Svanta Sture's love, be-
fore Gustavus Vasa's will made her his Queen.
The lovers met here: the walls are silent as to
what they said, when the door was opened and
the King entered, and saw the kneeling Sture,
and asked what it meant. Margaret answered
craftily and hastily: He demands my sister
Martha's hand in marriage!" and the King
gave Svanta Sture the bride the Queen had
asked for him.



We are now in the royal bridal chamber,
whither King Gustavus led his third consort.
Catherine Steenbock, also another's bride, the
bride of the Knight Gustavus. It is a sad
Gustavus of the three roses, was in his youth
honoured by the King, who sent him on a
mission to the Emperor Charles the Fifth. He
returned adorned with the Emperor's costly
golden chain-young, handsome, joyous and
richly clad, he returned home, and knew well
how to relate the magnificence and charms of
foreign lands: young and old listened to him
with admiration, but young Catherine most of
all. Through him the world in her eyes became
twice as large, rich, and beautiful; they became
dear to each other, and their parents blessed their
love. The love-pledge was to be drunk,-when
there came a message from the King, that the
young Knight must, without delay, again bear a
letter and greeting to the Emperor Charles.
The betrothed pair separated with heavy hearts,
but with a promise of mutual inviolable troth.


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