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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
contemporaries was raised to the throne of female
saints.
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
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