New York Daily Tribune

Frederika Bremer.

The German edition of the writings of this admirable woman is prefaced by an autobiographical letter from the authoress to the publisher—written, doubtless, at his urgent suggestion, and beautifully characteristic. We copy the following translation of it from the Democratic Review:

To Mr. Brockhaus, Leipsic:

Honored Sir: Your letter has awakened in me feelings of gratitude and pleasure, which would gladly find occupation in complying with your wish, that I should communicate to you something of my life and the course of my education. But this has its difficulties, as I can only slightly allude to the events of my inner life, while just in these lies the principal part of my history. Hereafter, when I no more belong to earth, I should love to return to it as a spirit, and impart to men the deepest of that which I have suffered and enjoyed, lived and loved. And no one need fear me; should I come in the midnight hour to a striving and unquiet spirit, it would be only to make it more quiet, its night-lamp burn more brightly, and myself its friend and sister. In the meantime, any benevolent eye may cast a glance through the curtain which conceals the outward circumstances of a life by no means important or extraordinary and see simply that I was born on Anna's street, and had for my godfathers a pretty good number of the academicians of Abo; and from this fact, if the beholder have the gift of the second-sight, he may trace an effect which I will not here dwell upon. At the age of three years, I was taken from my home in Finland, and have retained of this period only one solitary recollection; this is of a word, a mighty name; in the depths of heathenism, the Finnish people pronounced it in fear and love, and they speak it still with the same feelings, though ennobled by Christianity; and I often think I hear his word in the thunder of Thor, as he strides over the trembling earth, or in the lonely wind that refreshes and consoles it: that word is Jumala.* If you will kindly go with me from the soil of Finland to that of Sweden, where my father became a landed proprietor, after he had disposed of his estates in Finland, I will not trouble you to accompany me further into my childhood and youth, amidst the superabundance of inner chaotic elements, or the outward circumstances of a family presenting nothing unusual or especially interesting; who traveled every autumn in a covered carriage from their estate in the country to their dwelling in the capital; and every spring, from their dwelling in the capital to their estate in the country. This family contained young daughters, who drew in crayons, played sonatas, and sung ballads, educating themselves in every way that can be thought of, looking longingly towards the future to see and to perform miracles. In humility, I must confess I always thought of myself as a warlike heroine. And you may glance again at that family circle, and find them collected in the large parlor of their country dwelling, listening to readings; and if it please you, remark the impression which some of the literary stars of Germany produce upon one of those daughters. If that one could die from violent emotion, she would have fallen stone dead from the chair at the reading of Schiller's Don Carlos; or to speak more accurately, had she abandoned herself to her emotion, she had been suddenly dissolved in a flood of tears. But she survived this danger, and lived to learn much of the country which may be justly called the heart of Europe, and from whose rich fountains of culture she yet derives nourishment. Would you look more deeply into the soul? See, then, how a thick earthly reality gradually spread its dark cover of clouds over her splendid youthful dreams; how twilight surprised the wanderer early on her way; how anxiously, yet how in vain she sought to escape from it. The air is darkened as by a thick fall of snow; the darkness increases; it becomes night. And in this deep, endless winter night, she hears complaining voices from the East and from the West; from a dying nature, and from despairing humanity; and she sees life, with all its love and beauty, buried, with its loving, beating heart beneath cold beds of ice. Heaven is dark and empty; there is no eye there, and no heart. All is dead or dying except sorrow. Perhaps you have noticed the significant figures with which all deeper mythologies begin. We see in the beginning a light and warm divine principle losing itself in darkness and fog; and from this empire of light and darkness, fire and tears, a God is conceived. I believe something similar happens to every one who is born to a deeper life: and something similar happened to her who writes these lines. If you see her a few years later, you will find that a great change has taken place. You will see the eye, so long moistened with tears, beam with unspeakable joy. She has arisen, as from the grave, to a new life. What has caused this change? Have her splendid youthful dreams been realized? Has she become a warlike heroine, victorious in beauty, love, or reputation? No, nothing of all this. Her youthful illusions have vanished, her season of youth is passed. Yet she is now young again; for in the depths of her soul freedom has arisen; over the dark chaos, a "Let there be light" has been pronounced, the light has penetrated the darkness, and illuminated her also. Her eyes steadily directed towards that, she has said, amidst tears of joy, "Death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory!" The grave has opened since then, and torn away many whom she tenderly loved. She has felt, and yet feels, the sting of many a grief; but her heart beats freshly yet. The dark night has disappeared, but not its fruit; for as certain flowers open only at night, so, often in the dark hours of a great sorrow, the human soul first opens to the light of the eternal stars. Perhaps you wish to hear something of my authorship. This commenced in the eighth year of my age, when I apostrophized the moon in the French verses: 'O corps celeste de la nature!' And for a long time I continued to write in the same sublime spirit, the reading of which I will spare my enemies, if such I have. I wrote under the influence of unquiet, youthful feelings, without design, as the waves leave their traces on the shore. I wrote to write. Afterwards, I took up the pen from different motives, and wrote what you have read. Now, as I stand on the verge of the autumn of my life, I see the same objects which surrounded me in my first spring days, and am happy in possessing still, amid many loved ones, a beloved mother and sister. The meadows about our dwelling, upon which Gustavus Adolphus reviewed his troops before he went as a deliverer to Germany, appear more beautiful now than they did to the eyes of my childhood; indeed, they have gained in interest, for I am now better acquainted with their grasses and flowers. With respect to the future, I cherish only the solitary wish to complete what I have undertaken. If I succeed in this, I shall consider myself as less unworthy of the great kindness which has been shown me; and the good and honest, whose approbation has inspired me, must thank themselves for the greater part. I thank you, sir, most heartily. Receive this expression of my sentiments towards yourself and your countrymen also, and be assured of the esteem and gratitude of

Frederika Bremer.

*The Finnish word for God.