low, 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!

TROLLHAeTTA.

* * * * *

Who did we meet at Trollhaetta? It is a strange story, and we will
relate it.

We landed at the first sluice, and 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 greensward: 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 elv and valley; the bank of the
river on the other side, rises in green undulating 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 Trollhaetta Falls mingles with the noise from the
saw-mills and smithies.

"In three hours we shall be through the sluices," 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 rol