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plicity is everywhere apparent. Her subject is so clearly presented and moulded, that the form involuntarily presents itself, and in the most unambiguous manner.

The charms of her pleasing style, however, are heightened by the richness and chasteness of the contents. They consist of pictures of real life, striking, calculated to excite reflection, well selected, attractive, illuminated with taste, and with a background of strong common sense; — in outline, disposition and colouring, all conceived and finished with the same ability. With all the palpable connection of the subjects, between which a family resemblance is soon detected, the variety of incidents and characters is very great. The conceptions, it is true, exhibit no marks of a fiery or luxuriant imagination; but they are neither barren nor uniform; and in no case are they wanting in the charms of novelty or originality. In every new volume, new characters are brought forward, which, although we may imagine that we have in part heard or seen them before; yet being exhibited in another dress and under other circumstances, or in another point of view, are no specimens of every-day individuality.

In the delineation of character, our authoress evinces uncommon skill. Not only the principal actors, but several of the inferior ones, are sharply and truly-defined portraits, which possess not only the appearance of life, but have, in fact, a substantial life; they stand, move, speak, and act before us; and we are continually taxing our memories for the originals, the counterparts of which the versatile authoress has placed before our eyes; we have a dim remembrance of having, somewhere or other, during our lives, encountered each one of them. But it is far from being the case that every-day forms, those which every one is already acquainted with, are all that are presented before us: even those readers who have lived much in the world, and have associated with many men, will here make new and interesting acquaintances, whose images they will ever fondly retain in memory. the marks of truth and nature are everywhere impressed upon these portraits, so there are some which are conceived and drawn with peculiar force. Seldom has the graver, in the hands of a female, drawn and finished such sharply-defined and forcible characters.

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Born upon a Finland estate, not far from Abo, Frederika Bremer was, in her earliest years, removed to Sweden, where her father was an extensive land-proprietor. The simple life

of the family glided calmly away from spring to autumn in the country, and from autumn to spring in the capital city, with agreeable society in either place; their time being taken up principally in the household duties, in familiar readings, where attention was mostly directed to the German classics, and the practice of the arts. Each daughter of the house availed herself of the means of education here offered, each one, according to her own peculiar taste and disposition, and painted a future glowing with all the enchantment of a lively and excited imagination. It may be mentioned as characteristic, that our poetess, in all her visions, foresaw herself a warrior heroine.

A sad reality, a deep and bitter melancholy, the origin of which, in consideration of her reluctance to explain it, we can only surmise, here drew like a dark gloomy cloud over the life of the young maiden; for many a year did she struggle with it; but at length she came out victorious, free, and strong. "The illusions of youth are dissolved; the springtime of youth is past." But a new youth, light, and freedom, have arisen in the purified soul, and, with renovated strength, she goes to the daily work which she has recognized as her calling. She began early, even when but a girl, to write, yet t is but lately that she has allowed any of her productions to e printed. "I wrote under the impulse of youthful and stless feelings; I wrote that I might write. Latterly, I Live resumed the pen under far different influences; "but upon what these are, she is silent. On the verge of the autumn of life, she still delights in the same cheerful society to which she has been accustomed from her earliest spring days, and in the possession of a beloved mother and sister. For the future, she has no other wish than that she may perfect the labours which she has undertaken, to which her former writings "form the beginning." Thus we may still expect many a ripe and rich offering from her; if her health remains as sound, and her heart as fresh, as the past warrants us in assuming.

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These revelations from the life of the authoress, give a key to the peculiar delineation and colouring of several of the female characters in her romances, a high-souled resignation, a calm and impartial contemplation of the world, a rising above the opposition of circumstances, the joys of the peaceful life of a confiding family circle, together with a lively interest in all the noble and beautiful that lies beyond

its sphere; these charming qualities, which she herself exhibits, she has impressed upon those characters which have been drawn by her with such vigour and success. But that which more firmly strengthens such qualities, that which imparts to her a generous sympathy in the sorrows and joys of mankind, a profound knowledge of the operations of the human heart, as well as the calm and lofty bearing of all her productions, is the deep and warm religious tone which gushes like a spring, refreshing and purifying, from her inner life, and, in all her works, mirrors her soul brightly before us.

Her piety has given her eyes for all the wonders of God in nature, as well as in human life, and has consecrated her a priestess of the religion of the visible creation. She observes and understands the mysterious and yet distinct language of the mountains and valleys, of the springs and floods, of plants and stones; the rustling of the leaves, the rippling of the waters, the chirping of the lonely cricket, and the song of the lark, "tone" sweetly in her breast. Her pictures of nature are so living, descriptive, and faithful, that we feel, as it were, at home in that country which she places before our eyes, as the field of the incidents she relates: they are landscapes, which, by their exquisite finishing, produce their full effect. Even when she takes us to that which is strange, the scenery peculiar to the distant North, the life and distinctness of the representation, give us so true a picture, that we easily and speedily accommodate ourselves to our new position.

Yet she never loses herself, nor does she fall into a deification of nature, but points emphatically to the Unseen Hand, which so wisely orders all, and of whose goodness the universe is so full; and to the one Spirit in which we live, move, and have our being. She acknowledges, and praises, and loves God, in his mighty works: to these she does homage, with devotion and enthusiasm; and she goes to them and converses with them, as if she were in a loved and friendly home; but, as with a clear eye, she sees Him in his visible creation, so, with listening ear, has she also heard his paternal voice in revelation.

EXERCISE CLXXVII.

UNLUCKY DAYS.

Frederika Bremer, translated by Mary Howitt.

IN the history of the world, we see unfortunate periods, when, through whole centuries, every thing seems to go wrong; they murder, they burn, they overthrow thrones and religions; and as the great always mirrors itself in the little, and the little in the great, so does man number, in his life, unlucky days, par excellence.

You begin in the morning, for example, by putting on your dress wrong side outwards; and this is a sort of prelude to the events of the whole day; you cut yourself in shaving; you go out to seek for people, and you do not find them; you are found by people whom you do not seek, and who, perhaps, you wish were elsewhere; you say a stupid thing, when you mean to say something witty; your dinner is bad, every thing goes on so indescribably stupidly; and if, on one of these unlucky days, you should take it into your head to make proposals to a lady, you would certainly come off with a refusal.

What happened as it should not at the President's toilet one unlucky Thursday morning, I will not undertake to conjecture; but it is certain, that an unhappy destiny pursued him the whole day, and that every member of the family was obliged to feel this, more or less.

Early in the morning, it began to go wrong with the happiness and the good-humour of the President. He was to go to the palace; and three little black plasters adorned his chin and under lip; and the friseur, who was to cut his hair, did not make his appearance. On this, he scolded so vehemently, and was beside in such terrible uneasiness, that I, in my distress, offered to exercise the office of friseur. The President said, "Heaven forbid!"-made compliments from politeness, but asked me, however, pleasantly jesting,-whether I had ever cut a man's hair; and when I told him of my uncle, the High-Court Notary, of my brother, the Auscultant, and of my brother-in-law, the Burgomaster, all of whose hair I had cut on festal occasions, he gladly accepted my services.

He went into his study. He sat down to look over his papers, whilst I pinned a napkin over his shoulders, and be

gan operations with my scissors in his rich and abundant growth of hair. The most difficult part of the affair was, that the President did not keep his head still a single instant. He was busily occupied with his papers, and, as it seemed, with something unpleasant in them; for he muttered to himself at intervals, and shook his head, at the same time, in such a manner, that my scissors were fain to make sudden and adventurous evolutions.

I had, as every body had told me, a real talent for cutting and dressing hair; but, after all, how can it be expected that one should dress a head which is in incessant motion, as well as one which is still? It was still worse when I attempted to use the curling tongs, to arrange a few locks which ornamented his temples very becomingly; for now, as the manœuvres of the tongs could not possibly be so rapid as those of the scissors, and the President continued the motions of his head, he was often quite seriously struck and burned. "Ah! ah! dear lady, pray do not take off my head!"—The worst of it was, when the President got up, after the hair-cutting was over, and looked at himself in the glass; for he stood now so astonished, and obviously enraged, that the perspiration from terror actually started out on my forehead. "Good gracious," said he, in an angry tone, "what do I look like? Do you call that cutting hair? I am shaved clean, absolutely shorn! I cannot allow myself to be seen by any one." I assured him, in the midst of my agony, that it suited him uncommonly well; that I had never seen him look better; but when Adelaide came in, and, embracing her father, burst out into a hearty laugh at his and my remarkable appearance, I was infected by her merriment, and laughed till I cried, while I in vain endeavoured to make ex cuses for my hair-cutting, and my laughter. The President, who was in a fair way to keep us company, turned about sud denly, however, was very angry, and, running all his ter fingers into his hair, rushed down the steps, got into the carriage, and drove off to the Court.

At noon the President came back; he was in a quiet mood, but rather ungracious towards me; and I must do him the justice to say, that this was by no means to be won dered at.

"God give us enough!" said he, looking over the table with a disturbed countenance, on which to-day there was one dish less than usual; that is, there were but four dishes, which, in my opinion, are quite enough to satisfy as many

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