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cornfields, 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 cannot
see its further shore. Skjärgaardens’ woodcrowned
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
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