Stages there are none in Sweden, and yet they dare speak already of railroads! Travellers find nothing but horses, eight or ten hands high, a two-wheeled cart without top or springs, and a driver of ten or sixty years-rarely between-of either sex, to convey them from station to station. Foreigners who do not suffer of dyspepsia, hire or buy carriages with the safe prospect of selling them again at the end of their journey. Mine, a light but strong vehicle, stood at eight in the morning before my door. A rare sight it was, even for the good people of Stockholm. The horses, perfect grasshoppers, were almost buried in the stout, heavy harness which belongs to the carriage, and is carelessly thrown upon giants and dwarfs, adapting itself with truly wonderful elasticity to all sizes and forms. Their shaggy, uncombed manes concealed head and neck, not however a most cunning, bright eye, full of courage and devilry. The coachman's seat rose high above them, and on it throned Gustaf in the full glory of his light gray Macintosh, a hat from the Abruzzi, and a most formidable whip, the terror of all horses, and cursed by every peasant in Sweden and Norway. At his side the Skjutsbonde, the postillion of the station, in his rough but picturesque costume, looking askant at the "wild American," and evidently regretting to have risked his life in such company for a few copper coins.

Off we started, round one corner and another, over the floating bridge, full of fishermen and their customers. How beautiful this Northern city is! Here another lake opens before us, and always a perfect picture, full of life and action, with clear soft lights and a glorious background. What costumes come crowding round us! not the less pleasing because worn by a

noble race and a happy people. Up the hill we dash in full gallop, and down to another lake, until the long, endless Queenstreet opens before us. The small wooden houses look cheerful in spite of the dark red with which they are covered to the very roof; the bright large window panes show every where white curtains and well kept flowers. Now the houses become smaller and smaller, but what is that stately building there at the corner, with its curious carvings and mysterious signboard? Gustaf knows it well and tells the story not without effect, because he feels what he says. There is the last halt made when criminals are carried out to the gallows; there the youngest maid in the house comes out with a cup full of foaming beer, and hands it to the poor fellow in his cart. How she trembles and blushes! And he, the wretch, laughs and drinks, and will have his vulgar jokes even there and then. But Gustaf knows more-has he not been the late minister's own man? And was not Count T— K—, who poisoned his own sweet child, his master's grand uncle? The proud Count, too, had to pass by there, and the cart stopped and the maid came, the cup in her hand. But a strange maid she was. She trembled not, nor did she blush, but with a firm step did she come up to the pale, shaking prisoner, and with a firm voice did she bid him drink. He drank and his eyes were on her eyes, and when he had said, I thank you! he sank back on the straw and was dead! She was his wife, and the executioner hung a corpse.

Ten minutes more and the gallows appeared. It was a pleasant spot to hang a man: a beautiful forest surrounded the green, luxuriant meadow, on which the three stone pillars rose with their cross

bars and rusty chains. Pleasant, too, looked the hangman's little yellow house, covered with ivy and gay beans, with the urchins playing before it and the mother in the porch, an infant on her bosom, and politely courtesying! How far are life and death asunder? I forgot an important feature in the scene-the man who hung on one of the pillars and could not be taken down before night. The children played all the more joyously, the mother smiled all the more happily on her babe and the father-why, the father never came home before night on such days. So says Gustaf.

Now we are in the country. See, how that glorious lake breaks upon us! What is the secret of these landscapes? They have but three elements, always the same, and yet are never monotonous. There are the barren, stern, gray granite rocks with their crown of noble firs; there is the clear blue sky, not a cloud, not a vapor sailing in its lofty vault; and there is the dark, quiet lake, looking at you, like one of those deep, deep eyes that no thought can fathom and no heart ever forget. Now and then only the rocks recede and shelter a meadow with its thick, short, fragrant grass and its thousand sweet flowers. On the water's edge stands the little red house with its balsamines and honeysuckle under the open window; mother and daughter busily at work strewing the floor with green fir-twigs and twisting them into garlands for lookingglass and sideboard. The road turns round one of those gigantic rocks with which the country is filled, and another lake spreads its still dark waters before our eye. Huge granite masses hem it in on all sides; tall, graceful firs bend over its margin and cool their thirsting branches in its limpid waters; other lakes are seen at a distance, and high over rocks and trees rises the steeple with its bright copper roof and its proud weather-cock.

The country looks wilder and wilder. At intervals a house appears on a smiling plain, half hidden in the forest; ever and anon a church bell is heard far off, but the air is so still and nature so quiet that you fancy you hear every vibration, and the sound lingers among the rocks and under the broad branching trees. Not a singing bird is heard; the chirping of an insect

startles you from your dreams; the falling of a leaf attracts your attention.

An

A gate opens. There stand the little white-haired children, their deep blue eyes eagerly watching for the small coin that the generous traveller is expected to give them. They speak not; not even their hands plead for them, and when the farthing falls, the elder takes it and kisses the three years old, and they laugh full of joy, and hasten through the forest home, to tell of their good luck and to show their treasure. On the right stands a small, hewn stone, and on it the word "Arsta." We are on Miss Bremer's estate. The wood forms a large park-deer is not to be found in Sweden-and nicely cut fences, well carved gates, and here and there a parterre of flowers betray the owner's taste. avenue of beautiful, venerable trees begins at a second gate and through the tops the noble old buildings appear at a distance. It is a plain but lofty pile, white, with a dark, sombre roof; a small, not ungraceful tower rises on one side, and the dark, bold background of rocks and pine-clad hills gives an imposing though stern air to the scene, whilst the breakers of the Baltic, heard but not seen, add to the general effect. The road turns a sharp angle and you enter the vast, paved yard, a row of truly magnificent elms, centuries old, shelters the garden on your left; a grand staircase of white stone leads you, on the right, up to the noble entrance, with its pillars and well-carved coat of arms. An old Dalkulla-peasant woman from Dalecarlia-very picturesque and very ugly, looked rather astonished at us, and ascended the large flight of stone steps. She soon returned, followed by a small, thin lady of more than forty, with a very sweet smile on every one of her features. A loose black silk dress, high up on the neck; a small white cap; no ornament, no jewelry, except the silver in her hair, which, smoothly plaited down on both sides, formed a pleasant and appropriate frame to the fine, good face within. And how the whole lighted up when she stood before me and so kindly bade me welcome! Kind and warm was her reception, but yet she took good care twice to repeat my name and title, and to make herself quite au fait about her unexpected visitor. While we

were yet standing there, her sisters joined her-very much like Fredrika, almost as pleasant and good, but much less handsome. We were requested to follow her up stairs; driver and horses were placed under the special care of another female servant, and certain mysterious signs and words exchanged with a grim old cook in the background.

In the upper story we found a spacious hall, leading into a fine large room without paper or carpet: a couple of books on a centre table, some nodding mandarins on the huge porcelain stove, and a few vases between the windows were the only ornaments. Miss Bremer spoke in excellent English, and with much feeling of our own beloved country, for which she entertains a high respect, founded upon an uncommon familiarity with both the spirit and the working of our institutions.

Such gentle modesty, and such information I have seldom found together. Her recent excursion to Germany, where she had been using the water-cure on the banks of old father Rhine, led her to speak of German politics and German authors. She spoke German, as well as her mothertongue, and French quite fluently. When will our own fair women do as much? My trip to Finland found favor in her eyes, and when I spoke of those wonderfully sweet songs with which that distant, unknown land abounds, she grew warmer and warmer, until at last she sat down to an old, old harpsichord, and played, and sang, her heart in her voice, and tears in her eyes. I looked, and I listened, and Jenny Lind, with all her indescribable charms, could not have enchanted more. But this was not all. A rustling of silk, a mysterious noise made us turn round, and there was the younger sister attempting to make us distinguish the Dalman's Poľska from the English trip! There was so much true heart's kindness, such sweet naivete in the whole scene, that I felt nothing but honest, genuine admiration for the good old sisters. And Fredrika sang another, and still another of those beautiful Swedish songs, with which her young countrywoman charms the world. What sweet melancholy there is in all of them! A melancholy, not wild and despairing, not painful and irritating, but a grief so resigned, so gentle you cannot, for your life, help

thinking ever afterwards of those notes, full of humble sorrow, and low complaint, with a cheerful accord here and there, like the golden ray of the noonday's sun, that breaks through the thick canopy of Norway's dark pine forests, and sheds for a moment a brilliant light on the gloomy night beneath.

The next room, glowing with the golden light of the setting sun, contained a rare work of statuary. It was the Goddess Jauna, modelled by a talented young sculptor of Stockholm, after Miss Bremer's own idea and instructions. In form and dress a simple Swedish peasant girl, she had still such dignity in her carriage, such a clear, lofty expression in her features, that Goddess and woman appeared most happily blended. No classic outlines, no slavish adherence to rules respected only because of their antiquity. But what a beautiful, earnest eye, full of love and compassion, looking far into the future, and yet not unconscious of the present. How thoughtfully, and yet how gracefully, that small, well-rounded hand encloses the chin, whilst the left holds the golden apples, the glorious reward of the brave warrior, giving him the life eternal, and never-tiring joy! I do not wonder at Miss Bremer's predilection for Jauna; there are few sweeter creations of man's fancy in the mythology of nations, modern or ancient. She had the gift of seeing into the future, but when the Gods asked her how and when the world was to come to an end, she raised those deep, loving eyes of hers to heaven, and hot tears pearled down-the only answer she gave. The Gods loved her-all; but some too much, and one of her wicked admirers ravished her from heaven. The other Gods were sad in their hearts, and grew old, and their faces were covered with wrinkles and furrows. Jauna came back, and there was joy in heaven, and the Gods grew young again, and were merry. Yet Jauna never laughed. Did she not know the future!

But

There was a little mystery evidently between our kind hostess and her servants. Gentle tappings at the door; solemn, though short conversations outside, a great bustling from room to room, all were symptoms that we were either most unexpected guests, or to be magnificently entertained. Our appetite told us the hour of the day

with wonderful precision. At last Miss Bremer came boldly out with it. Her mother had gone to Stockholm, and taken the only male servant with her; so, we must have patience, take pot-luck, and, especially, walk an hour or so in the garden, before dinner is ready.

Well, a walk in such a garden, and with such a mind at one's side, is almost as good as a dinner. And what a glorious garden it is! Stiff and regular, to be sure, as the German founder of the house, Count Thum, loved to have it in his old days. But the parterres are filled with gay, fragrant flowers, and the old trees, which enclose the open square, rise high into the air until their branches meet and form gothic arches of surprising boldness and beauty. Here Fredrika wanders, she told us, many an hour, day after day, a book in her hand, or a book in her mind; here her pure, truthful creations take form and shape, and here we now wandered for hours up and down the long, shady avenues, and French, and English, Swedish and German, even Italian, had to furnish their contingent to carry on our little war. So, she stoutly defended the necessity of an aristocracy; it was necessary and natural, she said, for, cream will form on the surface of milk.

ner.

ther, and at last they appealed to the abbot. He knew it. The chapel was opened; the choir was called together, gorgeous robes were put on, and sweet incense was burned. In long, solemn procession the holy brethren entered, and down they knelt in silent prayer. At last a voice was heard, and the organ pealed forth its richest harmonies, and in loud, solemn tones rose the anthem up to heaven, that "Santa Tilbunka," the Patron Saint of the foreign pilgrim, would hear their prayer, and save her pious worshipper.

A sweet voice, that rarest gift of all, Miss Bremer certainly has, and there is harmony in her thoughts, as there is melody in her words. With what beautiful subdued enthusiasm she spoke of her excurtion to Haparanda, high up in the north of Sweden, where she ascended the famous mountain of Haparanda, to see the sun remaining all night above the horizon! How vividly she painted that lovely, still landscape lying at her feet, when towards midnight a silent, solemn struggle began, when drowsy nature was anxious to sleep, and night would not come and cover it with its warm mantle; and when at last light whitish vapors rose to hide the mysteries of night from the curious eye of man. The sun sank, but when he touch

liancy, however, was gone, and no rays gilded the tops of the hazy mountains. There she stood alone in the still night, not a sound to be heard far or near, the gray mist hovering over lake and river : the fearful, mysterious struggle between night and day still going on; a strange, unnatural light, reflected from heaven upon earth, and no shadow visible !

Long years ago, when people were yet pious, and believed in God and the Pope, a good Swede pilgrimed to the Holy Grave. The heat of Italy and its sweet figs, however, threw him on the sick-bed, and kind monks took him into their convent, there better to nurse the poor, suffering stranger, and his fever grew high, and his mind wandered, but one thought remained uppermost, and for hours he would call out and pray for his beloved dish, until the walls of the old monastery rang with the mysterious sound of-Tilbunka! But what was Tilbunka? one monk asked ano

We staid long, and time passed rapidly. Albums were brought out, books consulted and criticised, her own excellent sketches kindly shown, and even a look at some as yet unpublished works most indulgently granted. An incident, as pleasing as characteristic, concluded our visit. We had expressed a wish to take some little keepsake home with us. Before we took leave, Miss Bremer left us for a moment, and soon re-appeared with a rose in her hand, which the good, kind old lady had gone herself to get in her garden! "Tell my friends in your happy country that I shall be with them next Spring," were her parting words.