Skoetkonge stretched the iron chains across the
mouth of the Maelar Lake, there is now a splendid bridge with shops
above and the Streamparterre below: there we see the little steamer
'Nocken,'[K] steering its way, filled with passengers from Diurgarden
to the Streamparterre. And what is the Streamparterre? The Neapolitans
would tell us: It is in miniature--quite in miniature--the
Stockholmers' "Villa Reale." The Hamburgers would say: It is in
miniature--quite in miniature--the Stockholmers' "Jungfernstieg."

[Footnote K: The water-sprite.]

It is a very little semi-circular island, on which the arches of the
bridge rest; a garden full of flowers and trees, which we overlook
from the high parapet of the bridge. Ladies and gentlemen promenade
there; musicians play, families sit there in groups, and take
refreshments in the vaulted halls under the bridge, and look out
between the green trees over the open water, to the houses and
mansions, and also to the woods and rocks: we forget that we are in
the midst of the city.

It is the bridge here that unites Stockholm with Nordmalen, where the
greatest part of the fashionable world live, in two long Berlin-like
streets; yet amongst all the great houses we will only visit one, and
that is the theatre.

We will go on the stage itself--it has an historical signification.
Here, by the third side-scene from the stage-lights, to the right, as
we look down towards the audience, Gustavus the Third was assassinated
at a masquerade; and he was borne into that little chamber there,
close by the scene, whilst all the outlets were closed, and the motley
group of harlequins, polichinellos, wild men, gods and goddesses with
unmasked faces, pale and terrified crept together; the dancing
ballet-farce had become a real tragedy.

This theatre is Jenny Lind's childhood's home. Here she has sung in
the choruses when a little girl; here she first made her appearance in
public, and was cheeringly encouraged when a child; here, poor and
sorrowful, she has shed tears, when her voice left her, and sent up
pious prayers to her Maker. From hence the world's nightingale flew
out over distant lands, and proclaimed the purity and holiness of art.

How beautiful it is to look out from the window up here, to look over
the water and the Streamparterre to that great, magnificent palace, to
Ladegaards land, with the large barracks, to Skipholmen and the rocks
that rise straight up from the water, with So