The bird of Paradise! regenerated every century, bred in flames, dead in flames; thy image set in gold hangs in the saloons of the rich, even though thou fliest often astray and alone.  “The bird Phoenix in Arabia”—­is but a legend.

In the garden of Paradise, when thou wast bred under the tree of knowledge, in the first rose, our Lord kissed thee and gave thee thy proper name—­Poetry.

KINNAKULLA.

* * * * *

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.  Skjaergaardens’ 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, where a stone is raised as the goal of their wanderings.  The traveller reads in his guide-book about the rocky strata of Kinnakulla:  “At the bottom is found sandstone, then alum-stone, then limestone, and above this red-stone, higher still slate, and lastly, trap.”  And, now that he has seen this, he descends again, and goes on board.  He has seen Kinnakulla:—­yes, the stony rock here, amidst the swelling verdure, showed him one heavy, thick stone finger, and most of the travellers think that they are like the devil, if they lay hold upon one finger, they have the body—­but it is not always so.  The least visited side of Kinnakulla is just the most characteristic, and thither will we go.