How unlucky! I had just been contemplating an attack on it, holding, from pretty considerable experience in that vulgar illness ycleped sea-sickness, that a small quantity of brandy is highly calculated to diminish, if not altogether prevent, the usual effects of that malady. And now 'twas gone, and all hopes of obtaining any at an end. Two or three heavy seas had so completely drenched us, that we had all the benefit of a salt-water bath, with the disagreeable accompaniment, however, of our clothes sharing in the ducking. In sober truth, the sea was running fearfully high, and ever and anon the yacht would lie down so much as to bring half her deck under water, her bows at the same time being wreathed with a crest of foam as she cut her way through the billows. One moment she was so completely engulfed between the waves that rose high above her mast, that a watery tomb seenied inevitable, and the next she rose to the crest of the briny mountain, and overlooked, in triumph, the dark watery vale beneath. My friend early paid the usual penalty of landsmen, and a long distended face, with sunken and fixed eyes, told but too plainly what he hiccupped forth in broken but expressive words. "I am going!" was the extent of his speech; and yet, to him, how much did that little sentence comprehend! During the rest of the voyage I saw his face no more, though, from certain portentous sounds and groans that occasionally fell on my ear through the pauses of the gale, I made sure he was alive-if not well.

Though by no means a good sailor, nor enjoying that repose attached to terra firma, I was not ill, nor did I feel any inclination towards it. Perhaps the continual exertion of holding-on, literally to avoid being washed overboard, the frequent duckings from the seas we were shipping, and, above all, the awful grandeur of the scene to me-who had never witnessed the Atlantic in a storm before-conjointly conspired to drive away that horrible malady generally attendant on saltwater adventurers. It was, indeed, a fine sight to see our diminutive bark-a mere cockle-shell-behaving so gallantly, breasting, as if in wanton daring, those waves, any one of which could have whelmed us in a second.

Gallant, however, as was the bearing of the "Black Eagle," it became soon evident that Valentia, which loomed in the murky distance-dark and mysterious-could never be attained before nightfall; and though we had a compass on board, yet the idea of remaining out all night at the mouth of a bay, whose coasts were iron-bound, was far from agreeable, and, from what I could gather from the sailors, they were much of the same opinion.

I asked them what they thought would be the most advisable course, telling them our decided aversion to remain out after night-fall. We had already been upwards of four hours beating about the bay, and I believe were rather farther from Valentia than when we started.

They answered that it was quite hopeless to think of making the island, but that they thought it practicable to run the yacht into a small bay some twelve miles to the east of Valentia, occupied by a small party of the coast-guard. Hence we should have to cross the mountains to Cahirciveen, from which place there was a ferry to the island. We gladly assented to this proposal, and the helm being put down, the yacht quickly obeyed, and was soon rushing through the water with an almost fearful rapidity. On-on she went, holding her way gallantly, until, in about three hours, we could discern the

small white houses, perched on the cliffs, tenanted by the water-guard, and shortly after were within a mile of the coast. We now hoisted a burgee, for the purpose of bringing out the revenue-boat to take us on shore, and, as we approached, I perceived the men gathered in groups, looking at us through their telescopes. Presently a general move took place towards the beach, and we had the pleasure of seeing the boat run out, and launched.

We were by this time in comparatively smooth water, being under the lee of the mountains, which frowned in all their dark majesty, and wore their storm-robes of the deepest gloom. Indeed, we had every reason to be thankful, for just as we entered the small harbour-a squall sprang up which would have been no pleasant customer at sea. The boat was now alongside, manned by eight oars, and I need hardly say we bade adieu to the yacht without any great regret, though we could not but admire her, as we pulled to shore.

On drawing near, we found all the inhabitants of the neighbourhood assembled, eagerly gazing at the strangers. Such an event, probably, had not occurred for years-perhaps not in the history of the placeas gentlemen landing at Kells; and, certainly, as far as the extreme wildness of the peasantry is concerned, there could be no temptation to any one to visit it. To us, however, it proved a paradise; and, black and barren as were its cliffs and mountains, yet they appeared smiling-so true is it that everything in this world must be judged by comparison.

On landing we were surrounded by troops of bare-legged men, women and boys, through whom we had to make our way up the cliff. Nothing could exceed the civility and kindness of the water-guards; and, on our expressing a wish to procure horses, if possible, in order to go to Cahirciveen, they used every effort to hire a couple from amongst those employed in drawing turf. The very mention, however, of hiring horses, appeared at once to strike alarm into their owners, and it almost seemed, from the astonishment they manifested, that they conceived we had a design on their beast.

Finding it impossible to procure anything in the shape of horseflesh, we next endeavoured to find a boy to carry our bag, and offered pretty good recompense for the task. Strange to say, though there were dozens of able lads, having apparently nothing whatever to do, not one could be found disposed to walk with us, even on promising to double the sum. It was but waste of time to attempt arguing with them, and, accordingly, we shouldered our baggage and marched off, followed at a distance by a troop of lads, who dropped off, one by one, when they saw us determined to prosecute our walk. The prospect before us was not very inviting. Evening had set in, and a heavy sleet came sweeping along, driven by the storm which was extremely violent. The road-if road it could be called-was one of the most dreary I had ever seen, and literally lay through a bog, which stretched out on either side, bounded by high mountains extending to Valentia.

VOL. XXX.

SWEDISH NOVELISTS.

Ir is not many years since a novel was presented to the English public, excellently well translated from the Swedish by Mrs. Howitt, which introduced them to a new name in European literature. That name was Frederika Bremer. Since then we have had a succession of works by the same authoress, which have thoroughly established her fame in this country. They are indeed charming performances, containing scenes conceived in the noblest and purest spirit, and wrought with the nicest minuteness and the most admirable finish.

The tales of Miss Bremer are especially agreeable and welcome to a nation like ours, in which the domestic relations, and the pleasures that flow from them, are held in such regard; and it may be that the scenes to which the authoress introduces us, and which frequently portray for us pictures of national customs and manners, are even more interesting to us than to the Swedish public, to whom such pictures are familiar.

We, however, are by no means disposed to go along with some who have helped to draw attention to the genius of Miss Bremer, in their admiration of what they are pleased to call her "exquisite nationality," by which we are not to understand the exhibition of some uncommon public spirit or strange popular prejudice peculiar to the Swedes, but the representation of a piece of costume, the introduction of a phrase, or the description of some wonderful Swedish dish. There may be tact and dexterity shown in the manner in which such things are placed before us; but this sort of matter can hardly be gravely extolled by a critic who wishes his readers to retain their gravity, as exquisite nationality," far less can it be pronounced to be genius. This may be done, with more or less ability, by any man who has eyes in his head, and has learned how to put words and sentences together. The truly national writer seldom consciously does this, which makes us suspect that Miss Bremer has more than once written with a view to foreign readers. The minute description of the ordinary customs of one nation is interesting to another, because what is presented is new and strange, not because the author shows any exquisite nationality in such descriptions, which may be, and indeed commonly are, given by travellers in foreign countries. Had Miss Bremer no higher claims to our consideration and applause than such as are so clamorously urged in her favour, we should not be disposed to place her on a very lofty pedestal; and it is greatly to be regretted that any portion of the public taste should be influenced by enthusiastic lovers of the material and the literal, who, in matters of literature, would all unwittingly place a short-hand reporter before a Fielding, and in matters of art would set a Gerard Dhow and an Ostade before a Raffaelle and a Michael Angelo. No-Frederika Bremer, being a woman of graceful and original genius, is something far better and higher than a pains-taking describer of Swedish costume and crockery.

We are now about to introduce to our readers (although to some of them perhaps it may be a pleasant renewal of acquaintance) another Swedish novelist, also a lady, whose merits justly entitle her to be considered as a literary sister of the authoress of "The Neighbours" and "Strife and Peace." She is yet young, and may write many and

better works than she has produced; for we have reason to believe that she has known adversity, and has been chastened and exalted by that "relentless power," which the poet calls the "tamer" (the tutor too) "of the human breast ;" and that fiery ordeal triumphantly passed through, the moral and mental vision becomes purified, and can gaze with a holy calm, informed by a wise and tranquil spirit, upon every scene of life, and all the phases of human nature that are presented therein.

This authoress then, Emilie Carlén, some few years since published a novel entitled "The Rose of Tistelön," which was very creditably translated into English, and was reviewed with high and just praise.

The "Rose of Tistelön" is a tale chiefly of adventure, and is framed mainly for the display of the stronger, or rather, the more violent passions, although there are some sweet domestic scenes so delightfully drawn, that we anticipated on first reading the work, that when the authoress should again try her hand, her real strength, and what she would by that time have discovered to be her true vocation, would be shown in pictures of in-door life. Haroldson, and his son Birger, the smugglers, who murder the revenue officer and his son, are delineated with great and vigorous effect, and the younger son of Haroldson, who, from being a spectator of the crime, has fits of madness, presents a difficult subject handled with no ordinary skill and success. But there are powerful and wild passions sometimes busy in the boudoir and the drawing-room, and when these can be fully and effectively projected into our bosoms, so that they transport us with indignation, grief, or pity, we see and feel a nobler intelligence, and a more subtle art at work than when the author calls in the aid of thunder and lightning, storm and tempest, and has for accessories the rocky crag and the wild sea-shore.

Accordingly, "The Birthright" of Emilie Carlén is of "a higher mood" than "The Rose of Tistelön." One of the objects of this work is to show to what lengths of dissimulation and fraud a man will resort who makes the possession of wealth his primary object; with what consummate craft and ingenuity he will adopt and adapt his measures towards that end, and, notwithstanding, by what simple means all his wretched iniquities may be detected, frustrated, and overthrown. Another purpose, which can hardly be called subordinate, is to teach by a vivid example that, since few men seek the possession of large wealth for themselves alone, but have the intent and resolution to acquire by any means what they design (for their own glory, it is true) to transmit to their children, they sometimes do not gain gratitude or even thanks from those for whom they have undertaken their perilous speculations, and that the original motive for wickedness is discovered to be vain as to its result, just before the infamy consequent upon that wickedness descends upon the devoted head of the criminal.

Nothing in its way can be more finely executed than the character of the villain, who becomes his own victim-the colonel. Every feature of this man's scheming soul is drawn with a patient, assiduous, and—if we may use the term-tenacious ability which few writers of the present age have equalled. But this is not the only character that will extort the admiration of the reader. Isabel, the colonel's daughter, is a delineation, so true in all its parts to nature, that we can readily believe her like has often been met, although never recognised, in real life; but

she has never hitherto been seen and known in fiction - her purpose throughout, being the concealment of something she deems it important to her own happiness, and that of others, should remain unknown. There may be more like herself in actual life, although we wot not of them. So noble a creature, however, has seldom before appeared in the pages of fiction. The story has an interest about it quite different from what we look for (and, alas! find) in the generality of works. All the characters-and there are many-are well sustained; but the two we have mentioned are first rate, and entitle Emilie Carlén to a front rank among the novelists of the present age.

THE WEATHER.

How you hear people talking for hours of the weather,
Of days dark or fine, wet or dry, hot or cold;

On a point where you 'd fancy all must think together,
How many will different opinions uphold !

The fact is (the truth though they 're loth to confess,
And believe it a feeling they ought to disown),
There is scarcely a person who does not possess

A private barometer all of his own.

If, when for some gay picnic party you're starting,
The state of the weather admits of a doubt;
You may hear every one to each other imparting
Their thoughts on the subject before they set out.
The young ones exclaim, "See, how clear is the sky!
Every object to them tinged with pleasure's bright ray,
While mammas, viewing bonnets and dress with a sigh,
Cry, "I never beheld a less promising day!"

There are some upon one wished-for presence depending,
Which to them at once warmth and radiance supplies,
And who, even when tempests and storms are impending,
Find sunshine and light in a glance that they prize.
But, alas! when to these a long day passes o'er
Without catching a glimpse of the face they would see,
Though its fairest of aspects the summer sky wore,
Oh! how dark and how gloomy the day seems to be!

Then as feelings and motives combining together,
Make objects appear in a different light;
So by the same process you 'll find that the weather
To some appears gloomy, to others seems bright.
How happy are those (I'm afraid they're but few)
Who have sunshine enough in their temper and mind,
To make everything radiant and bright that they view,
And who thus can a pleasure in all weather find!

M. A. B.