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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
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