Kinnakulla, Sweden's hanging gardens! Thee will we visit. We stand by
the lowest terrace in a plenitude of flowers and verdure; the ancient
village church leans its grey pointed wooden tower, as if it would
fall; it produces an effect in the landscape: we would not even be
without that large flock of birds, which just now chance to fly away
over the mountain forest.

The high road leads up the mountain with short palings on either side,
between which we see extensive plains with hops, wild roses,
corn-fields, 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' wood-crowned 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 Rome. Some are smooth and
rounded off by the streaming of the water, others bear the moss of
ages, grass and flowers, nay, even tall trees.

The travellers go from the forest road up to the top of Kinnakulla,