into Danish, German, and English.  The latter translation appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine. Although the Danish language is so akin to the Swedish, that translation is the worst of the three.  It is said that this poem procured Tegner the bishoprick of Wexio.  A singular circumstance is connected with it.  A German literary gentleman was so delighted with the version of it in his own language, that he actually studied Swedish for the sole purpose of reading it in the original.

A compliment like this has rarely been paid, as the poem does not contain more than about a thousand lines.  Since then, Tegner has written a poem, entitled Frethioff’s Sage founded on one of the wild and singular traditions of the North.  It has been more popular than even Axel, and the announcement of a third poem from the same hand, said to outdo all former efforts, excites the greatest interest in Stockholm.

* * * * *

Novels have only been introduced within these few years in Denmark.  Ingemann is their most successful manufacturer.  His last production is entitled Valdemar Seier, or Waldemar the victorious.  The Danes have translations of Sir Walter Scott and Cooper.

* * * * *

It is supposed there are not above three persons in Copenhagen who cannot speak German.  Oehlenschlager, the best modern author of Denmark, writes equally well in German and Danish.

ANGLO-SVECUS.

* * * * *

PLEASURES OF SNUFF-TAKING.

  Let some the joys of Bacchus praise,
  The vast delights which he conveys,
    And pride them in their wine;
  Let others choose the nice morceau,
  The piquant joys of feasting know,
    But other gifts are mine.

  Give me, ye gods, my quantum suff. 
  Of Grimstone’s or Gillespie’s snuff—­
    These are the sorts I crave;
  Defend me from the Lundyfoot,
  ’Tis to my nostrils worse than soot,
    And from the Irish save.

  Your Prince’s Mixture I despise,
  It clogs the head and dims the eyes—­
    The nose rejects such burden;
  Sure ’tis the critic’s vast delight,
  So dull and stupidly they write,
    I call for witness ——.

  Oh! where shall I for courage fly? 
  Or what restorative apply? 
    A pinch be my resource;
  Perchance the French are not polite,
  And with my country wish to fight,
    Then I must grieve perforce;

  Or, if with doubt the bosom heaves. 
  The heart for Grecian sorrows grieves,
    And pines to see them fail. 
  Such critics sometimes court the muse,
  And I perchance the rhymes peruse,
    Then heaves the breast with pain.

  To soothe the mind in such an hour,
  A pinch of snuff has ample power—­
    One pinch—­all’s well again. 
  A pinch of snuff delights again,
  And makes me view with great disdain,
    And soothes my patriot grief.