A lone tower, rising above a mass of ruins, with a single wall surmounted by a heap of stones, strikingly resembling a huge lion, is all that remains of Hongfel, one of the most extensive of the old-time castles of Sweden. Here the river divides into two. We enter the left branch, passing near a fertile island; and, as the sun is going down behind a bank of threatening clouds, the city of Gottenburg, a seaport on the German ocean, rises upon our view with commanding beauty as we approach, and see the towers of its churches and the roofs of its principal buildings glistening in the last rays of the summer’s setting sun. The harbor is well protected, and the forest of masts presented all the appearances of a busy seaport. The usual crowd was on the wharf as our boat came to, but perfect order prevailed. No rush was made for baggage or passengers, but each one waited to be called for,—a model of good breeding that might be shown to advantage in the wilds of western civilization. Those of us who had become _well_ acquainted in three days’ companionship now shook hands and bade each other farewell in our several tongues, the broken-legged sailor not being forgotten, as he lay in his bunk waiting to be taken to the hospital. We were soon distributed in our several directions, and parted, perhaps not to meet again, certainly not all of us, in this world. It will give you an idea of the prices that rule in this country if I tell you that at the wharf we stepped into a carriage with two horses, our luggage was put on, we were driven to the hotel _Gotha Kallare_, the luggage was taken up to the chambers, and the price for the whole service was less than fifty cents of our money. Sweden still bears the palm of cheapness over all the countries I have seen.