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62 Hedvig af Pedersens
notable author of the soi-disant classical or French school, now
superseded; but we made the most that we could of these.
I have never forgotten the vivid feelings produced by the first
poems which I perused in the Monthly Magazine, entitled
»Phosphoros». There appeared so much force and freshness of life and
feeling in the productions I found there, that once more a new
literary world seemed to open, and I believed, not without reason,
that its unexplored mines might be worked ad infinitum. My friend
Äkenthal was not sparing of arguments to deepen this impression.
In truth, he himself seemed to cherish a conviction, that in the
departments of the drama, of romance, of biography and history,
not forgetting lyrics and music, the Swedes were entitled to hold
a higher rank than any other nation on earth. As for the language,
he maintained it was, at all events, as powerful as English, and
more euphonious than Italian.
Connected with these studies was a trifling incident, which
would be utterly unworthy of notice were it not that it reminds
me of an extraordinary and truly original character who then resided,
in seeming poverty and utter obscurity, at Frankfort. The two odd
volumes, already mentioned, of Leopold’s works, were duly conned
over for the sake of practice, not omitting any part however insipid.
In this way we came one afternoon to a grand ode, applicable to
the coronation, at Stockholm, of his majesty Gustavus IV.; where,
in a style the most elaborate and ornate, he was addressed as the
fountain of intelligence, light, and beneficence; the »rising sun»,
not only of Sweden, but of Europe, and so forth: in short, with
all the froth and nonsensical exaggeration that usually belong to
the productions of soi-disant poets addressing their flatteries to
crowned heads. An accidental summons called me for a moment
into the next room, where, happening to look out at the window,
I saw (no unusual sight) this identical monarch, the ci-devant »rising
sun» and fountain of intelligence, etc., stationed in the gardens,
and looking up, as he often did, at our house; in other words, there
stood the brave »Colonel Gustafson», his tall meagre figure arrayed
as usual in his peculiar uniform, namely, an entire suit of plain
blue cloth the buttons covered therewith, so that all might
be of the same shade, and in his long pale visage bearing, as
I thought, a singular resemblance to the ordinary portraits of
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