The best poet that Sweden has ever produced is Esaias Tegner, the bishop of Wexio, now living. His first production was _Axel_, a short poem on the adventures of one of those pages of Charles XII. who were sworn to a single life, to be entirely devoted to the fortunes of war. He has struck out great interest by plunging this hero in love, and painting the conflicts between his passion and his reverence for his oath. The words have been translated 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;