h oaks, pines and
firs, so Scandinavian, dreaming in the declining sun? It is twilight;
the night comes on, the lamps are lighted in the city below, the stars
are kindled in the firmament above, and the tower of Redderholm's
church rises aloft towards the starry space. The stars shine through
there; it is as if cut in lace, but every thread is of cast-iron and
of the thickness of beams.

We go down there, and in there, in the stilly eve.--A world of spirits
reigns within. See, in the vaulted isles, on carved wooden horses,
sits armour, that was once borne by Magnus Ladelaas, Christian the
Second, and Charles the Ninth. A thousand flags that once waved to the
peal of music and the clang of arms, to the darted javelin and the
cannon's roar, moulder away here: they hang in long rags from the
staff, and the staves lie cast aside, where the flag has long since
become dust. Almost all the Kings of Sweden slumber in silver and
copper coffins within these walls. From the altar aisle we look
through the open-grated door, in between piled-up drums and hanging
flags: here is preserved a bloody tunic, and in the coffin are the
remains of Gustavus Adolphus. Who is that dead opposite neighbour in
the chapel, across there in the other side-aisle of the church? There,
below a glass lid, lies a dress shot through, and on the floor stands
a pair of long, thick boots--they belonged to the hero-King, the
wanderer, Charles XII., whose realm is now this narrow coffin.

How sacred it is here under this vaulted roof! The mightiest men of
centuries are gathered together here, perishable as these moth-eaten
flags--mute and yet so eloquent. And without there is life and
activity: the world goes on in its old course; generations change in
the old houses; the houses change--yet Stockholm is always the heart
of Sweden, Birger's city, whose features are continually renewed,
continually beautified.

DIURGAERDEN.

* * * * *

Diurgaerden is a large piece of land made into a garden by our Lord
himself. Come with us over there. We are still in the city, but before
the palace lie the broad hewn stone stairs, leading down to the water,
where the Dalkulls--i.e., the Dalecarlian women--stand and ring with
metal bells. On board! here are boats enough to choose amongst, all
with wheels, which the Dalkulls turn. In coarse white linen, red
stockings, with green heels, and singularly thick-soled shoes, with
the upper-lea