Chapter VI: Part II (2)

Every evening at nine o'clock, as the ayah sits by the little creature lying awake in bed, the silvery tongue of a dial tolls the hour. Reader, you know who she is. She is the granddaughter of her that faded away about sunset in gazing at her twin orphans. Her name is Grace. And she is the niece of that elder and once happy Grace, who spent so much of her happiness in this very room, but whom, in her utter desolation, we saw in the boudoir with the torn letter at her feet. She is the daughter of that other sister, wife to a military officer, who died abroad. Little Grace never saw her grandmama, nor her lovely aunt that was her namesake, nor consciously her mama. She was born six months after the death of the elder Grace; and her mother saw her only through the mists of mortal suffering, which carried her off three weeks after the birth of her daughter.

This view was taken several years ago; and since then the younger Grace in her turn is under a cloud of affliction. But she is still under eighteen; and of her there may be hopes. Seeing such things in so short a space of years, for the grandmother died at thirty-two, we say--Death we can face: but knowing, as some of us do, what is human life, which of us is it that without shuddering could (if consciously we were summoned) face the hour of birth?

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Being constantly almost an absentee from London, and very often from other great cities, so as to command oftentimes no favourable opportunities for overlooking the great mass of public journals, it is possible enough that other slanders of the same tenor may have existed. I speak of what met my own eye, or was accidentally reported to me--but in fact all of us are exposed to this evil of calumnies lurking unseen--for no degree of energy, and no excess of disposable time, would enable any one man to exercise this sort of vigilant police over _all_ journals. Better, therefore, tranquilly to leave all such malice to confound itself.

NORTHERN LIGHTS.

"It was on a bright July morning that I found myself whirled away
by railroad from Berlin, 'that great ostrich egg in the sand,'
which the sun of civilization is said to have hatched."

In these words, and with this somewhat far-fetched simile, does a German tourist, Edward Boas by name, commence his narrative of a recent pilgrimage to the far north. Undeterred by the disadvantageous accounts given of those regions by a traveller who had shortly before visited them, and unseduced by the allurements of more southerly climes, he boldly sets forth to breast the mountains and brave the blasts of Scandinavia, and to form his own judgment of the country and its inhabitants. Almost, however, before putting foot on Scandinavian ground, Mr Boas, who, as a traveller, is decidedly of the gossiping and inquisitive class, fills three chapters with all manner of pleasant chatter about himself, and his feelings, and his fancies, and the travelling companions he meets with. His liveliness and versatility, and a certain bantering satirical vein, in which he occasionally indulges, would have caused us to take his work, had we met with it in an English translation, for the production of a French rather than a German pen.

Leaving the railway at Angermunde, our traveller continues his journey by the mail, in which he has two companions; a lady, "with an arm like ivory," about whom he seems more than half inclined to build up a little episodical romance, and a young man from the neighbouring town of Pasewalk, "on whose thick lips," we are informed, "the genius of stupidity seemed to have established its throne." This youth expressed his great regret that the good old customs of Germany had become obsolete, and expatiated on the necessity of striving to restore them. "Those were fine times," he said, "when nobles made war on their own account, burned down the villages, and drove the cattle of the peasants on each other's territory. To themselves personally, however, they did no harm; and if by chance Ritter Jobst fell into the hands of Ritter Kurt, the latter would say, 'Ritter Jobst, you are my prisoner on parole, and must pay me a ransom of five hundred thalers.' And thereupon they passed their time right joyously together, drinking and hunting the livelong day. But Ritter Jobst wrote to his seneschal that, by fair means or foul, he must squeeze the five hundred thalers out of his subjects, who were in duty bound to pay, to enable their gracious lord to return home again. Those were the times," concluded the young Pasewalker, "and of such times should I like to witness the return."

Now, Mr Boas considerably disapproved of these aspirations after the days of the robber knights, and he accordingly, to avoid hearing any more of them, took a nap in his corner, which helped him on nearly to Stralsund.

"This city," he says, "has acquired an undeserved renown through Wallenstein's famous vow, 'to have it, though it were hung from heaven by chains.' This puts me in mind of the trick of a reviewer who, by enormous and exaggerated praise, induces us to read the stupid literary production of some dear friend of his own. We take up the book with great expectations, and find it--trash. It is easy to see that Stralsund was founded by a set of dirty fish-dealers. Clumsy, gable-ended houses, streets narrow and crooked, a wretched pavement--such is the city. A small road along the shore, encumbered with timber, old casks, filth and rubbish--such is the quay."

In this uninteresting place, Mr Boas is compelled to pass eight-and-forty hours, waiting for a steamer. He fills up the time with a little dissertation on Swedish and Pomeranian dialects, and with a comical legend about a greedy monk, who bartered his soul to the devil for a platter of lampreys. By a stratagem of the abbot's, Satan was outwitted; and, taking himself off in a great rage, he dropped the lampreys in the lake of Madue, near Stargard, where to this day they are found in as great perfection as in the lakes of Italy and Switzerland. This peculiarity, however, might be accounted for otherwise than by infernal means, for Frederick the Great was equally successful in introducing the sturgeon of the Wolga into Pomeranian waters, where it is still to be met with.

A day's sail brings our traveller to the port of Ystad, where he receives his first impressions of Sweden, which are decidedly favourable. At sunrise the next morning he goes on board the steamer Svithiod, bound from Lubeck to Stockholm. At the same time with himself are shipped three wandering Tyrolese musicians, who are proceeding northwards to give the Scandinavians a taste of their mountain melodies, and two or three hundred pigs, all pickled; the pigs, that is to say. He finds on board a numerous and agreeable society, of which and of the passage he gives a graphic description.

"The ship's bell rang to summon us to breakfast. There is a certain epic copiousness about a Swedish _frukost_. On first getting up in the morning it is customary to take a _Kop caffe med skorpor_, a cup of coffee and a biscuit, and in something less than two hours later one sits down to a most abundant meal. This commences with a _sup_, that is to say, a glass of carraway or aniseed brandy; then come tea, bread and butter, ham, sausage, cheese and beer; and the whole winds up with a warm _Kötträtt_, a beefsteak or cutlet."

Truly a solid and savoury repast. Whilst discussing it in the cabin of the Svithiod, Mr Boas makes acquaintance with his fellow-voyagers.

"At the top of the table sat our captain, a jovial pleasant man. He
was very attentive to the passengers, had a prompt and friendly
answer to every question; in short, he was a Swede all over. Near
him were placed the families of two clergymen, in whose charge was
also travelling a young Swedish countess, a charming,
innocent-looking child, whose large dark eyes seemed destined, at
no very distant period, to give more than one heartache. Beside
them was a tall man, plainly dressed, and of military appearance.
This was Count S----, (Schwerin, probably,) a descendant of that
friend and lieutenant of Frederick the Great who, on the 6th May
1757, purchased with his life the victory of Prague. He was
returning from the hay-harvest on those estates which had belonged
to his valiant forefather, whose heirs had long been kept out of
them for lack of certain documents. But Frederick William III.
said, 'Right is right, though wax and parchment be not there to
prove it;' and he restored to the family their property, which is
worth half-a-million.

"The Count's neighbour was Fru Nyberg, a Swedish poetess, who
writes under the name of Euphrosyne. In Germany, nobody troubles
himself about the 'Dikter af Euphrosyne,' but every educated Swede
knows them and their authoress. The latter may once have been
handsome, but wrinkles have now crept in where roses formerly
bloomed. Euphrosyne was born in 1785--authoresses purchase their
fame dearly enough at the price of having their age put down in
every lexicon. A black tulle cap with flame-coloured ribands
covered her head; round her neck she wore a string of large amber
beads, a gold watch-chain, and a velvet riband from which her
eyeglass was suspended. She was quiet, and retiring, spoke little,
and passed the greater portion of the day in the cabin. Fru Nyberg
was returning from Paris, and had with her a young lady of
distinguished family, Emily Holmberg by name. This young person
possesses a splendid musical talent; her compositions are
remarkable for charming originality, and are so much the more
prized that the muse of Harmony has hitherto been but niggard of
her gifts to the sons and daughters of Sweden. There was something
particularly delicate and fairy-like in the whole appearance of
this maiden, whose long curls floated round her transparent white
temples, while her soft dove-like eyes had a sweet and slightly
melancholy expression.

"Next to Miss Holmberg, there sat a handsome young man, in a sort
of loose caftan of green velvet. His name was Baron R----, and he
was a descendant of the man who cast lots with Ankarström and
Horn, which of them should kill the King. He had formerly been one
of the most noted lions and _viveurs_ of Stockholm, but had
latterly taken to himself a beautiful wife, and had become a more
settled character; though his exuberant spirits and love of
enjoyment still remained, and rendered him the gayest and most
agreeable of travelling companions. Nagel, the celebrated violin
player, and his lively little wife, were also among the passengers.
They were returning from America, where he had been exchanging his
silvery notes against good gold coin. Nagel is a Jew by birth, a
most accomplished man, speaking seven languages with equal
elegance, and much esteemed in the musical circles of Stockholm."

A young Swedish woman, named Maria, whose affecting little history Mr Boas learns and tells us--an Englishman--"a thorough Englishman, who, as long as he was eating, had no eyes or ears for any thing else," and a French _commis voyageur_, travelling to get orders for coloured papers, champagne, and silk goods, completed the list of all those of the party who were any way worthy of mention. The Frenchman, Monsieur Robineau by name, had a little ugly face, nearly hidden by an enormous beard, wore a red cap upon his head, and looked altogether like a bandy-legged brownie or gnome. The scene at daybreak the next morning is described with some humour.

"A dull twilight reigned in the cabin, the lamp was burning low and
threatening to go out, the first glimmer of day was stealing in
through the windows, and the Englishman had struck a light in order
to shave himself. From each berth some different description of
noise was issuing; the Lubecker was snoring loudly, Baron R---- was
twanging a guitar, Monsieur Robineau singing a barcarole, and every
body was calling out as loud as he could for something or other.
Karl, the steward, was rushing up and down the cabin, so confused
by the fifty different demands addressed to him, that he knew not
how to comply with any one of them.

"'Karl, clean my boots!'

"'Ja, Herr.'

"'Karl, some warm water and a towel.'

"'Ja, Herr.'

"'_Amis, la matinée est belle! Sur le rivage
assemblez-vouz!_--Karl, the coffee!--_conduis ta barque avec
prudence! Pêcheur, parle bas!_ ... Karl, the coffee!'

"'Ja, Herr.'

"'Karl, my carpet-bag!'

"'Karl, are you deaf? Did you not hear me ask for warm water?'

"'Ja, Herr.'

"'_Jette tes filets en silence! Pêcheur, parle bas!_--Coffee,
coffee, coffee!--_Le roi des mers ne t'échappera pas!_'

"'Ja, Herr.'

"'Karl, look at these boots! You must clean them again.'

"'No, you must first find my carpet-bag.'

"'Karl, you good-for-nothing fellow, if you do not bring me the
water immediately, I will complain to the captain.'

"'_Pêcheur, parle bas! Conduis ta barque avec prudence!_ ... Karl,
the coffee, or by my beard I will have you impaled as soon as I am
Emperor of Turkey!'

"'Ja Herr! Ja, Herr! Ja, Herr!'"

Aided by the various talents and eccentricities of the passengers, by the grimaces of the Frenchman, and the songs of the Tyrolese minstrels, the time passed pleasantly enough; till, on the morning of the third day after leaving Ystad, the Svithiod was at the entrance of Lake Maeler, opposite the fortress of Waxholm, which presents more of a picturesque than of an imposing appearance.

"It consists of a few loopholed parapets and ramparts, and of a
strong round tower of grey stone, looking very romantic but not
very formidable, and nevertheless entirely commanding the narrow
passage. A sentry, wrapped in his cloak, stood upon the wall and
hailed us through a speaking-trumpet. At the very moment that the
captain was about to answer, another steamer came round a bend of
the channel, meeting the Svithiod point-blank. The sentinel
impatiently repeated his summons, and for a moment there appeared
to be some danger of our either running foul of the other boat, or
getting a shot in our hull from the fort. They do not understand
joking at Waxholm, as was learned a short time since to his cost by
the commander of the Russian steamer Ischora, who did not reply
when summoned. Hastily furnishing the required information to the
castle, our captain shouted out the needful orders to his crew, and
we passed on in safety.

"The steamer which we now met bore the Swedish flag, and was
conveying the Crown Prince Oscar (the grandson of a lawyer and a
silk-mercer) and his wife, to Germany. They had left Stockholm in
the night time, to avoid all public ceremony and formality. A crowd
of artillerymen now lined the walls of Waxholm to give the usual
salute, and we could hear the booming of the guns long after we
were out of sight of ship and fort. In another hour I obtained my
first view of Stockholm."

Stockholm, the Venice of the North, has been thought by many travellers to present a more striking _coup-d'oeil_ than any other European capital, Constantinople excepted. Built upon seven islands, formed by inlets of the sea and the Maeler Lake, it spreads over a surface very large in proportion to the number of its houses and inhabitants, and exhibits a singular mixture of streets, squares, and churches, with rock, wood, and water. The ground on which it stands is uneven, and in many places declivitous; the different parts of the city are connected by bridges, and on every side is seen the fresh green foliage of the north. The natural canals which intersect Stockholm are of great depth, and ships of large burden are enabled to penetrate into the very heart of the town. The general style of building offers little to admire; the houses being for the most part flat-fronted, monotonous, and graceless, without any species of architectural decoration to relieve their inelegant uniformity. It is the position of the city, the air of lightness given to it by the water, which traverses it in every direction, and the life and movement of the port, that form its chief recommendations. In their architectural ideas the Swedes appear to be entirely utilitarian, disdainful of ornament; and if a house of more modern and tasteful build, with windows of a handsome size, cornices, and entablatures, is here and there to be met with, it is almost certain to have been erected by Germans or some other foreigners. The royal palace, of which the first stone was laid in the reign of Charles XII., is a well-conceived and finely executed work; some of the churches are also worthy of notice; but most of the public buildings derive their chief interest, like the squares and market-places, from their antiquity, or from historical associations connected with them. Few cities offer richer stores to the lovers of the romance of history than does the capital of Sweden. One edifice alone, the Ritterhaus--literally, the House of Knights or Lords--in which the Swedish nobility were wont to hold their Diets, would furnish subject-matter for a score of romances. Not a door nor a window, scarce a stone in the building, but tells of some sanguinary feud, or fierce insurrection of the populace, in the troublous days of Sweden. From floor to ceiling of the great hall in which the Diet held its sittings, hang the coats of arms of Swedish counts, barons, and noblemen. A solemn gloomy light pervades the apartment, and unites with the grave black-blue coverings of the seats and balustrades, to convey the idea that this is no arena for showy shallow orators, but a place in which stern truth and naked reality have been wont to prevail. The chair of Gustavus Vasa, of inlaid ivory, and covered with purple velvet, stands in this room.

Mr Boas, the pages of whose book are thickly strewn with legends and historical anecdotes, many of them interesting, devotes a chapter to the Ritterhaus and its annals. One tragical history, connected with that building, appears worthy of extraction:

"One of the chief favourites of Gustavus III. was Count Armfelt, a
young man of illustrious family, and of unusual mental and personal
accomplishments. At an early age he entered the royal guards, and
proved, during the war with Russia, that his courage in the field
fully equalled his more courtierlike merits. He rapidly ascended in
military grade, and, finally, the king appointed him governor of
Stockholm, and named him President of the Council of Regency,
which, in case of his death, was to govern Sweden during the
minority of the heir to the throne. Shortly after these dignities
had been conferred upon Armfelt, occurred the famous masquerade and
the assassination of Gustavus.

"Upon this event happening, a written will of the king's was
produced, of more recent date than the appointment of the Count,
and, according to which, the guardianship of the Prince Royal was
to devolve upon Duke Karl Sundermanland, the brother of Gustavus.
This was a weak, sensual, and vindictive prince, of limited
capacity, and easily led by flattery and deceit. He belonged to a
secret society, of which Baron Reuterholm was grand-master. A
couple of mysterious and well-managed apparitions were sufficient
to terrify the duke, and render him ductile as wax. The most
implicit submission was required of him, and soon the crafty
Reuterholm got the royal authority entirely into his own hands.
There was discontent and murmuring amongst the true friends of the
royal family, but Reuterholm's spies were ubiquitous, and a
frowning brow or dissatisfied look was punished as a crime. Amongst
others, Count Armfelt, who took no pains to conceal his indignation
at the scandalous proceedings of those in power, was stripped of
his offices, and ordered to set out immediately as ambassador to
Naples.

"This command fell like a thunderbolt upon the head of the Count,
whom every public and private consideration combined to retain in
Stockholm. Loath as he was to leave his country an undisputed prey
to the knaves into whose hands it had fallen, he was perhaps still
more unwilling to abandon one beloved being to the snares and
dangers of a sensual and corrupt court.

"It was on a September evening of the year 1792, and the light of
the moon fell cold and clear upon the white houses of Stockholm,
though the streets that intersected their masses were plunged in
deep shadow, when a man, muffled in a cloak, and evidently desirous
of avoiding observation, was seen making his way hastily through
the darkest and least frequented lanes of that city. Stopping at
last, he knocked thrice against a window-shutter; an adjacent door
was opened at the signal, and he passed through a corridor into a
cheerful and well-lighted apartment. Throwing off his cloak, he
received and returned the affectionate greeting of a beautiful
woman, who advanced with outstretched hand to meet him. The
stranger was Count Armfelt--the lady, Miss Rudenskjöld--the most
charming of the court beauties of the day. The colour left her
cheek when she perceived the uneasiness of her lover; but when he
told her of the orders he had received, her head sank upon his
breast, and her large blue eyes swam in tears. Recovering, however,
from this momentary depression, she vowed to remain ever true to
her country and her love. The Count echoed the vow, and a kiss
sealed the compact. The following morning a ship sailed from
Stockholm, bearing the new ambassador to Naples.

"Scarcely had Armfelt departed, when Duke Karl began to persecute
Miss Rudenskjöld with his addresses. At first he endeavoured, by
attention and flatteries, to win her favour; but her avoidance of
his advances and society increased the violence of his passion,
until at last he spoke his wishes with brutal frankness. With
maidenly pride and dignity, the lady repelled his suit, and
severely stigmatized his insolence. Foaming with rage, the duke
left her presence, and from that moment his love was exchanged for
a deadly hatred.

"Baron Reuterholm had witnessed with pleasure the growth of the
regent's passion for the beautiful Miss Rudenskjöld; for he knew
that the more pursuits Duke Karl had to occupy and amuse him, the
more undivided would be his own sway. It was with great
dissatisfaction, therefore, that he received an account of the
contemptuous manner in which the proud girl had treated her royal
admirer. The latter insisted upon revenge, full and complete
revenge, and Reuterholm promised that he should have it. Miss
Rudenskjöld's life was so blameless, and her conduct in every
respect so correct, that it seemed impossible to invent any charge
against her; but Reuterholm set spies to work, and spies will
always discover something. They found out that she kept up a
regular correspondence with Count Armfelt. Their letters were
opened, and evidence found in them of a plan to declare the young
prince of age, or at least to abstract Duke Karl from the
corrupting influence of Reuterholm. The angry feelings entertained
by the latter personage towards Miss Rudenskjöld were increased
tenfold by this discovery, and he immediately had her thrown into
prison. She was brought to trial before a tribunal composed of
creatures of the baron, and including the Chancellor Sparre, a man
of unparalleled cunning and baseness, than whom Satan himself could
have selected no better advocate. During her examination, Fraulein
von Rudenskjöld was most cruelly treated, and the words of the
correspondence were distorted, with infamous subtlety, into
whatever construction best suited her accusers. Sparre twisted his
physiognomy, which in character partook of that of the dog and the
serpent, into a thoughtful expression, and regretted that,
according to the Swedish laws, the offence of which Miss
Rudenskjöld was found guilty, could not be punished by the lash.
The pillory, and imprisonment in the Zuchthaus, the place of
confinement for the most guilty and abandoned of her sex, formed
the scarce milder sentence pronounced upon the unfortunate victim.

"It was early on an autumn morning--a thick canopy of grey clouds
overspread the heavens--and the dismal half-light which prevailed
in the streets of Stockholm made it difficult to decide whether or
not the sun had yet risen. A cold wind blew across from Lake
Maeler, and caused the few persons who had as yet left their houses
to hasten their steps along the deserted pavement. Suddenly a
detachment of soldiers arrived upon the square in front of the
Ritterhaus, and took up their station beside the pillory. The
officer commanding the party was a slender young man of agreeable
countenance; but he was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he
gave the words of command. The prison-gate now opened, and Miss
Rudenskjöld came forth, escorted by several jailers. Her cheeks
were whiter than the snow-white dress she wore; her limbs trembled;
her long hair hung in wild dishevelment over her shoulders, and yet
was she beautiful--beautiful as a fading rose. They led her up the
steps of the pillory, and the executioner's hand was already
stretched out to bind her to the ignominious post, when she cast a
despairing glance upon the bystanders, as though seeking aid. As
she did so, a shrill scream of agony burst from her lips. She had
recognised in the young officer her own dearly-loved brother, who,
by a devilish refinement of cruelty, had been appointed to command
the guard that was to attend at her punishment.

"Strong in her innocence, the delicate and gently-nurtured girl had
borne up against all her previous sufferings; but this was too
much. Her senses left her, and she fell fainting to the ground. Her
brother also swooned away, and never recovered his unclouded
reason. To his dying day his mind remained gloomy and unsettled.
The very executioners refused to inflict further indignity on the
senseless girl, and she was conducted back to her dungeon, where
she soon recovered all the firmness which she had already displayed
before her infamous judges.

"Meanwhile Armfelt was exposed in Italy to the double danger of
secret assassination, and of a threatened requisition from the
Swedish government for him to be delivered up. He sought safety in
flight, and found an asylum in Germany. His estates were
confiscated, his titles, honours, and nobility declared forfeit,
and he himself was condemned by default as a traitor to his
country."

Concerning the ultimate fate of this luckless pair of lovers, Mr Boas deposeth not, but passes on to an account of the disturbances in 1810, when the Swedish marshal, Count Axel Fersen, suspected by the populace as cause of the sudden death of the Crown Prince, Charles Augustus, was attacked, while following the body of the prince through the streets of Stockholm. He was sitting in full uniform in his carriage, drawn by six milk-white horses, when he was assailed with showers of stones, from which he took refuge in a house upon the Ritterhaustmarkt. In spite of the exertions of General Silversparre, at the head of some dragoons, the mob broke into the house, and entered the room in which Fersen was. He folded his hands, and begged for mercy, protesting his innocence. But his entreaties were in vain. A broad-shouldered fellow, a shopkeeper, named Lexow, tore off his orders, sword, and cloak, and threw them through the window to the rioters, who with furious shouts reduced them to fragments. Silversparre then proposed to take the count to prison, and have him brought to trial in due form. But, on the way thither, the crowd struck and ill-treated the old man; and, although numerous troops were now upon the spot, these remained with shouldered arms, and even their officers forbade their interference. They appeared to be there to attend an execution rather than to restore order. The mob dragged the unfortunate Fersen to the foot of Gustavus Vasa's statue, and there beat and ill-treated him till he died. It was remarked of the foremost and most eager of his persecutors, that although dressed as common sailors, their hands were white and delicate, and linen of fine texture peeped betrayingly forth from under their coarse outer garments. Doubtless more than one long-standing hatred was on that day gratified. It was still borne in mind, that Count Fersen's father had been the chief instrument in bringing Count Eric Brahe, and several other nobles, to the scaffold, upon the very spot where, half a century later, his son's blood was poured out.

The murder of the Count-Marshal was followed by an attack upon the house of his sister, the Countess Piper; but she had had timely notice, and escaped by water to Waxholm. Several officers of rank, who strove to pacify the mob, were abused, and even beaten; until at length a combat ensued between the troops and the people, and lasted till nightfall, when an end was put to it by a heavy fall of rain. The number of killed and wounded on that day could never be ascertained.

These incidents are striking and dramatic--fine stuff for novel writers, as Mr Boas says--but we will turn to less sanguinary subjects. In a letter to a female friend, who is designated by the fanciful name of Eglantine, we have a sketch of the present state of Swedish poetry and literature. According to the account here given us, Olof von Dalin, who was born in Holland in 1763, was the first to awaken in the Swedes a real and correct taste for the _belles lettres_. This he did in great measure by the establishment of a periodical called the _Argus_. He improved the style of prose writing, and produced some poetry, which latter appears, however, to have been generally more remarkable for sweetness than power. We have not space to follow Mr Boas through his gallery of Swedish _literati_, but we will extract what he says concerning three authoresses, whose works, highly popular in their own country and in Germany, have latterly attracted some attention in England. These are--Miss Bremer, Madame Flygare-Carlén, and the Baroness Knorring, the delineators of domestic, rural, and aristocratic life in Sweden.

"Frederica Bremer was born in the year 1802. After the death of her
father, a rich merchant and proprietor of mines, she resided at
Schonen, and subsequently with a female friend in Norway. She now
lives with her mother and sister alternately in the Norrlands
Gatan, at Stockholm, or at their country seat at Arsta. If I were
to talk to you about Miss Bremer's romances, you would laugh at me,
for you are doubtless ten times better acquainted with them than I
am. But you are curious, perhaps, to learn something about her
appearance, and _that_ I can tell you.

"You will not expect to hear that Miss Bremer, a maiden lady of
forty, retains a very large share of youthful bloom; but,
independently of that, she is really any thing but handsome. Her
thin wrinkled physiognomy is, however, rendered agreeable by its
good-humoured expression, and her meagre figure has the benefit of
a neat and simple style of dress. From the style of her writings, I
used always to take her to be a governess; and she looks exactly
like one. She knows that she is not handsome, and on that account
has always refused to have her portrait taken; the one they sell of
her in Germany is a counterfeit, the offspring of an artist's
imagination, stimulated by speculative book-sellers. This summer,
there was a quizzing paragraph in one of the Swedish papers, saying
that a painter had been sent direct from America to Rome and
Stockholm, to take portraits of the Pope and of Miss Bremer.

"In Sweden, the preference is given to her romance of _Hemmet_,
(Home,) over all her other works. Any thing like a bold originality
of invention she is generally admitted to lack, but she is skilled
in throwing a poetical charm over the quiet narrow circle of
domestic life. She is almost invariably successful in her female
characters, but when she attempts to draw those of men, her
creations are mere caricatures, full of emptiness and
improbability. Her habit of indulging in a sort of aimless and
objectless philosophizing vein, _à propos_ of nothing at all, is
also found highly wearisome. For my part, it has often given me an
attack of nausea. She labours, however, diligently to improve
herself; and, when I saw her, she had just been ordering at a
bookseller's two German works--Bossen's _Translation of Homer_, and
Creuzer's _Symbolics_.

"Emily Flygare is about thirty years of age. She is the daughter of
a country clergyman, and has only to write down her own
recollections in order to depict village life, with its pains and
its pleasures. Accordingly, that is her strongest line in
authorship; and her book, _Kyrkoinvigningen_, (the Church
Festival,) has been particularly successful. Married in early life
to an officer, she contracted, after his death, several
engagements, all of which she broke off, whereby her reputation in
some degree suffered. At last she gave her hand to Carlén, a very
middling sort of poet, some years younger than she is; and she now
styles herself--following the example of Madame Birch-Pfeiffer, and
other celebrated singers--Flygare-Carlén. She lives very happily at
Stockholm with her husband, and is at least as good a housewife as
an authoress, not even thinking it beneath her dignity to
superintend the kitchen. Her great modesty as to her own merits,
and the esteem she expresses for her rivals, are much to her
credit. She is a little restless body, and does not like sitting
still. Her countenance is rather pleasing than handsome, and its
charm is heightened by the lively sparkle of her quick dark eyes.

"The third person of the trio is the Baroness Knorring, a very
noble lady, who lives far away from Stockholm, and is married to an
officer. She is between thirty and forty years old, and it is
affirmed that she would be justified in exclaiming with
Wallenstein's Thekla--

'Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.'

She was described to me as nervous and delicate, which is perhaps
the right temperament to enable her accurately to depict in her
romances the strained artificiality and silken softness of
aristocratic existence. Her style also possesses the needful
lightness and grace, and she accordingly succeeds admirably in her
sketches of high life, with all its elegant nullities and
spiritless pomp. One of her best works is the romance of
_Cousinerna_, (The Cousins,) which, as well as the other works of
Knorring, Bremer, and Flygare, has been placed before the German
public by our diligent translators."

Upon the subjects of Swedish society and conversation, Mr Boas is pleased to be unusually funny. Like the foreigner who asserted that Goddam was the root of the English language, he seems prepared to maintain that two monosyllables constitute the essence of the Swedish tongue, and that they alone are required to carry on an effective and agreeable dialogue. "It is not at all difficult," he says, "to keep up a conversation with a Swede, when you are once acquainted with a certain mystical formula, whereby all emotions and sentiments are to be expressed, and by the aid of which you may love and hate, curse and bless, be good-humoured or satirical, and even witty. The mighty and all-sufficing words are, '_Ja so!_' (Yes, indeed!) usually pronounced _Jassoh_. It is wonderful to hear the infinite variety of modulation which a Swede gives to these two insignificant syllables. Does he hear some agreeable intelligence, he exclaims, with sparkling eyes and brisk intonation, 'Ja so!' If bad news are brought to him, he droops his head, and, after a pause, murmurs mournfully, 'Ja so!' The communication of an important affair is received with a thoughtful 'Ja so!' a joke elicits a humorous one; an attempt to banter or deceive him is met by a sarcastic repetition of the same mysterious words.

"A romance might be constructed out of these four letters.
Thus:--Lucy is sitting at her window, when a well-known messenger
brings her a bouquet. She joyfully exclaims, 'Ja so!' and presses
the flowers to her lips. A friend comes in; she shows her the
flowers, and the friend utters an envious 'Ja so!' Soon afterwards
Lucy's lover hears that she is faithless; he gnashes his teeth, and
vociferates a furious 'Ja so!' He writes to tell her that he
despises her, and will never see her again; whereupon she weeps,
and says to herself, between two tears, 'Ja so!' She manages,
however, to see him, and convinces him that she has been
calumniated. He clasps her in his arms, and utters a 'Ja so!'
expressive of entire conviction. Suddenly his brow becomes clouded,
and muttering a meditative 'Ja so!' he remembers that a peremptory
engagement compels him to leave her. He seeks out the man who has
sought to rob him of his mistress, and reproaches him with his
perfidy. This rival replies by a cold, scornful 'Ja so!' and a
meeting is agreed upon. The next day they exchange shots, and I
fully believe that the man who is killed sighs out with his last
breath 'Ja so!' His horror-stricken antagonist exclaims 'Ja so!'
and flies the country; and surgeon, relations, friends, judge, all,
in short, who hear of the affair, will inevitably cry out, 'Ja so!'
Grief and joy, doubt and confidence, jest and anger, are all to be
rendered by those two words."

The province of Dalarna, or Dalecarlia, which lies between Nordland and the Norwegian frontier, and in which Miss Bremer has laid the scene of one of her most recent works, is spoken of at some length by Mr Boas, who considers it to be, in various respects, the most interesting division of Sweden. Its inhabitants, unable to find means of subsistence in their own poor and mountainous land, are in the habit of wandering forth to seek a livelihood in more kindly regions, and Mr Boas likens them in this respect to the Savoyards. They might, perhaps, be more aptly compared to the Galicians, who leave their country, not, as many of the Savoyards do, to become beggars and vagabonds, by the aid of a marmoset and a grinding organ, but to strive, by the hardest labour and most rigid economy, to accumulate a sum that will enable them to return and end their lives in their native village.

"The dress of the Dalecarlians (_dale carls_, or men of the valley)
consists of a sort of doublet and leathern apron, to the latter of
which garments they get so accustomed that they scarcely lay it
aside even on Sundays. Above that they wear a short overcoat of
white flannel. Their round hats are decorated with red tufts, and
their breeches fastened at the knees with red ties and tassels. The
costume of their wives and daughters, who are called Dalecullen,
(women of the valley,) is yet more peculiar and outlandish. It is
composed of a coloured cap, fitting close to the head, of a boddice
with red laces, a gown, usually striped with red and green, and of
scarlet stockings. They wear enormous shoes, large, awkward, and
heavy, made of the very thickest leather, and adorned with the
eternal red frippery. The soles are an inch thick, with huge heels,
stuck full of nails, and placed, not where the heel of the foot is,
but in front, under the toes; and as these remarkable shoes _lift_
at every step, the heels of the stockings are covered with leather.
On Sundays, ample white shirt-sleeves, broad cap-ribands, and large
wreaths of flowers are added to this singular garb, amongst the
wearers of which pretty faces and laughing blue eyes are by no
means uncommon.

"The occupations of these women are of the rudest and most
laborious description. They may be literally said to earn their
bread by the sweat of their brow, and their hands are rendered
callous as horn by the nature of their toil. They act as
bricklayers' labourers, and carry loads of stones upon their
shoulders and up ladders. Besides this, it is a monopoly of theirs
to row a sort of boat, which is impelled by machinery imitating
that of a steamer, but worked by hand. These are tolerably large
vessels, having paddle-wheels fitted to them, which are turned from
within. Each wheel is worked by two young Dalecarlian girls, who
perform this severe labour with the utmost cheerfulness, while an
old woman steers. They pass their lives upon the water, plying from
earliest dawn till late in the night, and conveying passengers, for
a trifling copper coin, across the broad canals which intersect
Stockholm in every direction. Cheerful and pious, the bloom of
health on her cheeks, and the fear of God in her heart, the
Dalecarlian maiden is contented in her humble calling. On Sunday
she would sooner lose a customer than miss her attendance at
church. One sorrowful feeling, and only one, at times saddens her
heart, and that is the _Heimweh_, the yearning after her native
valley, when she longs to return to her wild and beautiful country,
which the high mountains encircle, and the bright stream of the
Dalelf waters. There she has her father and mother, or perhaps a
lover, as poor as herself, and she sees no possibility of ever
earning enough to enable her to return home, and become his wife.

"It was in this province that I now found myself, and its
inhabitants pleased me greatly. Nature has made them hardy and
intelligent, for their life is a perpetual struggle to extract a
scanty subsistence from the niggard and rocky soil. Unenervated by
luxury, uncorrupted by the introduction of foreign vices, they have
been at all periods conspicuous for their love of freedom, for
their penetration in discovering, and promptness in repelling,
attacks upon it. Faithful to their lawful sovereign, they yet
brooked no tyranny; and when invaders entered the land, or bad
governors oppressed them, they were ever ready to defend their just
rights with their lives. From the remotest periods, such has been
the character of this people, which has preserved itself
unsophisticated, true, and free. It is interesting to trace the
history of the Dalecarlians. Isolated in a manner from the rest of
the world amongst their rugged precipices and in their lonely
valleys, it might be supposed they would know nothing of what
passed without; yet whenever the moment for action has come, they
have been found alert and prepared.

"At the commencement of the fifteenth century, Eric XIII., known
also as the Pomeranian, ascended the Swedish throne. His own
disposition was neither bad nor good, but he had too little
knowledge of the country he was called upon to reign over; and his
governors and vice-gerents, for the most part foreigners,
tyrannized unsparingly over the nation. The oppressed people
stretched out their hands imploringly to the king; but he, who was
continually requiring fresh supplies of money for the prosecution
of objectless wars, paid no attention to their complaints. Of all
his Vögte, or governors, not one was so bad and cruel as Jesse
Ericson, who dwelt at Westeraes, and ruled over Dalarna. He laid
enormous imposts on the peasantry, and when they were unable to
pay, he took every thing from them, to their last horse, and
harnessed themselves to the plough. Pregnant matrons were compelled
at his command to draw heavy hay-waggons, women and girls were
shamefully outraged by him, and persons possessing property
unjustly condemned, in order that he might take possession of their
goods. When the peasants came to him to complain, he had them
driven away with stripes, or else cut off their ears, or hung them
up in the smoke till they were suffocated.

"Then the men of Dalarna murmured; they assembled in their valleys,
and held counsel together. An insurrection was decided upon, and
Engelbrecht of Falun was chosen to head it, because, although small
of stature, he had a courageous heart, and knew how to talk or to
fight, as occasion required. He repaired to Copenhagen, laid the
just complaints of his countrymen before the king, and pledged his
head to prove their truth. Eric gave him a letter to the
counsellors of state, some of whom accompanied him back to Dalarna,
and convinced themselves that the distress of the province was
inconceivably great. They exposed this state of things to the king
in a letter, with which Engelbrecht returned to Copenhagen. But, on
seeking audience of Eric, the latter cried out angrily, 'You do
nothing but complain! Go your ways, and appear no more before me.'
So Engelbrecht departed, but he murmured as he went, 'Yet once more
will I return.'

"Although the counsellors themselves urged the king to appoint
another governor over Dalecarlia, he did not think fit to do so.
Then, in the year 1434, so soon as the sun had melted the snow, the
Dalecarlians rose up as one man, marched through the country, and
Jesse Ericson fled before them into Denmark. They destroyed the
dwellings of their oppressors, drove away their hirelings and
retainers, and Engelbrecht advanced, with a thousand picked men, to
Wadstena, where he found an assembly of bishops and counsellors.
From these he demanded assistance, but they refused to accord it,
until Engelbrecht took the bishop of Linköping by the collar, to
deliver him over to his followers. Thereupon they became more
tractable, and renounced in writing their allegiance to Eric, on
the grounds that he had 'made bishops of ignorant ribalds,
entrusted high offices to unworthy persons, and neglected to punish
tyrannical governors.' The Dalecarlians advanced as far as Schonen,
where Engelbrecht concluded a truce, and dismissed them. His army
had consisted of ten thousand peasants, all burning with anger
against their oppressors, and without military discipline; yet, to
his great credit be it said, not a single excess or act of plunder
had been committed.

"On hearing of these disturbances, the king repaired in all haste
to Stockholm, whereupon Engelbrecht again summoned his followers,
and marched upon the capital, in which Eric entrenched himself with
various nobles and governors, who had burned down their castles,
and hastened to join him. Things looked threatening, but
nevertheless ended peaceably, for Eric was afraid of the Swedes. He
obtained peace by promising that in future the provinces, with few
exceptions, should name their own governors, and that Engelbrecht
should be vögt at Oerebro. As usual, however, he broke his word,
and, before sailing for Denmark, he appointed as vögt a man who was
a notorious pirate, a robber of churches, and abuser of women. For
the third time the peasants revolted. In the winter of 1436 they
appeared before Stockholm, which they took, the burghers themselves
helping them to burst open the gates. Engelbrecht seized upon one
fortress after another, meeting no resistance from King Eric, who
fled secretly to Pomerania, leaving the war and his kingdom to take
care of themselves. Several members of the council followed him
thither, and, after some persuasion, brought him back with them.

"In the midst of these changes and commotions, Engelbrecht was
treacherously assassinated by the son of that bishop whom he had
formerly affronted at Wadstena. With tears and lamentations, the
boors fetched the body of their brave and faithful leader from the
little island where his death had occurred, and which to this day
bears his name. The spot on which the murder was committed is said
to be accursed, and no grass ever grows there. Subsequently the
coffin was brought to the church at Oerebro, and so exalted was the
opinion entertained of Engelbrecht's worth and virtue, that the
country people asserted that miracles were wrought at his tomb, as
at the shrine of a saint."

It was nearly a century later that Gustavus Vasa, flying, with a price upon his head, from the assassins of his father and friends, took refuge in Dalecarlia. Disguised in peasant's garb, and with an axe in his hand, he hired himself as a labourer; but was soon recognised, and his employer feared to retain him in his service. He then appealed to the Dalecarlians to espouse his cause; but, although they admired and sympathised with the gallant youth who thus placed his trust in them, they hesitated to take up arms in his behalf; and, hopeless of their assistance, he at last turned his steps towards Norway. But scarcely had he done so, when the incursion of a band of Danish mercenaries sent to seek him, and the full confirmation of what he had told them concerning the massacre at Stockholm, roused the Dalecarlians from their inaction. The tocsin was sounded throughout the provinces, the Danes were driven away, and the two swiftest runners in the country bound on their snow-shoes, and set out with the speed of the wind to bring back the royal fugitive. They overtook him at the foot of the Norwegian mountains, and soon afterwards he found himself at the head of five thousand white-coated Dalecarlians.

The Danes were approaching, and one of their bishops asked--"How many men the province of Dalarna could furnish?"

"At least twenty thousand," was the reply; "for the old men are just as strong and as brave as the young ones."

"But what do they all live upon?"

"Upon bread and water. They take little account of hunger and thirst, and when corn is lacking, they make their bread out of tree-bark."

"Nay," said the bishop, "a people who eat tree-bark and drink water, the devil himself would not vanquish, much less a man."

And neither were they vanquished. Like an avalanche from the mountains, they fell upon their foes, beat them with clubs, and drove them into the river. Their progress was one series of triumphs, till they placed Gustavus Vasa on the throne of Sweden.

The last outbreak of the Dalecarlians was less successful. On the 19th of June 1743, five thousand of these hardy and determined men appeared before Stockholm, bringing with them in fetters the governor of their province, and demanding the punishment of the nobles who had instigated a war with Russia, and a new election of an heir to the crown. They were not to be pacified by words; and even the next morning, when the old King Frederick, surrounded by his general and guards, rode out to harangue them, all he could obtain was the release of their prisoner. On the other hand, they seized three pieces of cannon, and dragged them to the square named after Gustavus Adolphus, where they posted themselves.

"There were eight thousand men of regular troops in Stockholm, but
these were not all to be depended upon, and it was necessary to
bring up some detachments of the guards. A company of Süderländers
who had been ordered to cross the bridge, went right about face, as
soon as they came in sight of the Dalecarlians, and did not halt
till they reached the sluicegate, which had been drawn up, so that
nobody might pass. It was now proclaimed with beat of drum, that
those of the Dalecarlians who should not have left the city by five
o'clock, would be dealt with as rebels and traitors. More than a
thousand did leave, but the others stood firm. Counsellors and
generals went to them, and exhorted them to obedience; but they
cried out that they would make and unmake the king, according to
their own good right and decree, and that if it was attempted to
hinder them, the very child in the cradle should meet no mercy at
their hands. To give greater weight to their words, they fired a
cannon and a volley of musketry, by which a counsellor was killed.

"Orders were now given to the soldiers to fire, but they had pity
on the poor peasants, and only aimed at the houses, shattering the
glass in hundreds of windows. But the artillerymen were obliged to
put match to touch-hole, and a murderous fire of canister did
execution in the masses of the Dalecarlians. Many a white camisole
was stained with the red heart's-blood of its wearer; fifty men
fell dead upon the spot, eighty were wounded, and a crowd of others
sprang into the Norderström, or sought to fly. The regiment of
body-guards pursued them, and drove the discomfited boors into the
artillery court. A severe investigation now took place, and these
thirsters after liberty were punished by imprisonment and running
the gauntlet. Their leader and five others were beheaded.

"The Dalecarlians are a tenacious and obstinate people, and their
character is not likely to change; but God forbid that they should
again deem it necessary to visit Stockholm. They were doubtless
just as brave in the year 1743 as in 1521 and 1434; but though
_they_ had not altered, the times had. Civilization and cartridges
are powerful checks upon undisciplined courage and an unbridled
desire of liberty."