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 living by bishops and aldermen. It is the divine right of genius to be well kept and cared for by the world, which too often “entertains the angel unaware,” on thin soups and sour wines, or, at the best, on unsubstantial puff-paste.

I heard yesterday that Fredrika Bremer had really arrived in New York. I hope that it is so. She has hosts of admirers all over our country, and is actually loved as few authors are loved, with a simple, cordial, home affection—for she is especially a writer for the fireside, the family circle, and thus addresses herself to the affections of a people whose purest joys and deepest interests centre in domestic life. America will take to her heart this child of genius and of nature—her home shall be by every hearth in our land, which has been made a dearer and a brighter place by her poetry, her romance, and her genial humour. She will be welcomed joyfully by every nature which has profited by her pure teachings, and received her revelations—by every spirit which has been borne upward by her aspirations, or softened by the spring breath, the soft warmth and light of her love.

To woman has the Swedish novelist spoken, and by woman must she be welcomed and honoured here; but to the men of America comes one whose very name should cause the blood to leap along their veins—he, the heart’s brother of freemen all over the world—the patriot, prophet, and soldier, the hero of the age—Kossuth the Hungarian!

How will he be received here? How will the deep, intense, yet mournful sympathy, the soul-felt admiration, the generous homage of the country, find expression? Not in parades and dinners, and public speeches, for Heaven’s sake!

Would you feast and fête a man on whose single heart is laid the dead, crushing weight of a nation’s sorrow—about whose spirit a nation’s despair makes deep, perpetual night?

I know not how my countrymen will meet this glorious exile; but were I a young man, with all the early love and fresh enthusiasm for liberty and heroism, I would bow reverently, and silently kiss his hand. Were I a pure and tried statesman, an honest patriot, I would fold him to my breast. Were I an old veteran,