The Every-day Book and Table Book. v. 3 (of 3) / Everlasting Calerdar of Popular Amusements, Sports, Pastimes, Ceremonies, Manners, Customs and Events, Incident to Each of the Three Hundred and Sixty-five Days, in past and Present Times; Forming a Complete History of the Year, Month, and Seasons, and a Perpetual Key to the Almanac

Vol. II.—38.

The Diet of Augsburgh Commemoration Medal.

To the Editor.

Sir,—This engraving is from a silver medal, of the same size, which commemorates two events—The first is that of the date of June 1530, which is called the Confession of Augsburgh, to settle the religious disputes, in a Diet, or Assembly of Princes between the Lutherans and the Catholics—The second relates to the celebration of the Centenary of the Diet.

The inscription “Johannes” on the side of the medal dated 1530, is for John Elector of Saxony. The inscription “Joh. Geor.” on the side dated 1630, is for the Elector John George III. The escutcheon with swords saltierwise, accompanying their arms, denotes the dignity of Grand Marshal of the Empire.

The medal is in the possession of John Burrell Vaux, Esq. of Thetford, in Norfolk, who obligingly lent it to me, with permission to have a drawing taken from it for any purpose I pleased, together with a memorandum accompanying it, to the preceding effect. As a friend to the composure of differences, I deemed it suitable to the peaceful columns of the Table Book; and I shall be happy if so striking a memorial, and the events it refers to, receive further illustration from other correspondents.

I am, &c.
H. B.

[By a mistake of the engraver, the present is the only engraving in the present sheet of the Table Book.—Editor.]

HIGHLAND EMIGRATION.

The preceding stanza is the first in the poem entitled “The Last Deer of Beann Doran.” On the last two lines its author Mr. James Hay Allan, appends a note as follows:—

In consequence of the enormous advance of rents, and the system of throwing the small crofts into extensive sheep-farms, the Highlands have been so depopulated in the last seventy-seven years,[351] that the inhabitants do not now amount to above one-third of their number at the commencement of that period. An instance of this melancholy fact is very striking in Glen Urcha: in 1745 the east half only of the straith from Dalmallie to Strone sent out a hundred fighting men: at the present day there are not in the same space above thirty. This proportion of decrease is general. During the last twenty years fifteen hundred persons have gone from Argyleshire; three thousand from Inverness; the same number from Ross and Caithness; and five thousand from Sutherland. The desertions have been equal in the isles. Pennant, speaking of the inhabitants of Skie, says: “Migrations and depression of spirit, the last a common cause of depopulation, have since the year 1750 reduced the number from fifteen thousand to between twelve and thirteen: one thousand having crossed the Atlantic; others, sunk beneath poverty, or in despair, ceased to obey the first great command, Increase and multiply.” These observations were written in 1774; so that the depopulation which is mentioned, took place in twenty-four years.

It is impossible to paint the first departings of a people who held the memory of their ancestors, and the love of their soil, a part of their soul. Unacquainted with any mechanical art, and unable to obtain for their overflowing numbers an agricultural or pastoral employment in their own country, they were obliged to abandon their native land, and seek an asylum in the unpeopled deserts of the western world. The departing inhabitants of each straith and hamlet gathered into bands, and marched out of their glens with the piper playing before them the death lament, “Cha pill! cha pill! cha pill me tulle!”—“Never! never! never shall I return!” Upon the spot where they were to lose sight of their native place, and part from those who were to remain behind, they threw themselves upon the ground in an agony of despair, embracing the earth, moistening the heather with their tears, and clinging with hopeless anguish to the necks and plaids of the friends whom they were to see no more. When the hour of separation was past, they went forth upon the world a lonely, sad, expatriated race, rent from all which bound them to the earth, and lost amid the tide of mankind: none mixed with them in character, none blended with them in sympathy. They were left in their simplicity to struggle with fraud, ignorance, and distress, a divided people set apart to misfortune.

In the third stanza of the poem on “Beann Doran,” its author says,

On these lines Mr. Allan remarks as follows:—

Almost every district of the Highlands bears the trace of the vast forests with which at no very distant period the hills and heaths were covered: some have decayed with age, but large tracts were purposely destroyed in the latter end of the sixteenth and the early part of the seventeenth century. On the south side of Beann Nevis a large pine forest, which extended from the western braes of Lochabar to the black water and the mosses of Ranach, was burned to expel the wolves. In the neighbourhood of Loch Sloi a tract of woods, nearly twenty miles in extent, was consumed for the same purpose; and at a later period a considerable part of the forests adjoining to Lochiel was laid waste by the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell, in their attempts to subdue the Clan Cameron. Nothing of late years has tended more to the destruction of the small woods than the pasturage of sheep. Wherever these animals have access to a copse-wood which has been cut down, they entirely stunt its growth, and sometimes destroy it altogether, by continually eating off the young shoots as soon as they appear. A considerable quantity of the yet remaining woods is also too frequently sacrificed to the avarice of the proprietors. On the west bank of Loch Catrine, near the Trossachs, a ground which ought now to have been as sacred as the vale of Tempe, a beautiful copse-wood has been cut and sold within a recent period; and there appears in its place only the desolate side of a naked heather hill. It is not above sixty years since Glen Urcha has been divested of a superb forest of firs some miles in extent. The timber was bought by a company of Irish adventurers, who paid at the rate of sixpence a tree for such as would now have been valued at five guineas. After having felled the whole of the forest, the purchasers became bankrupt, and dispersed: the overseer of the workmen was hanged at Inverara, for assassinating one of his men. The laird never received the purchase of his timber, and a considerable number of the trees were left upon the spot where they fell, or by the shores of Loch Awe, where they were carried for conveyance, and gradually consumed by the action of the weather. Those mosses where the ancient forests formerly stood, are overspread with the short stocks of trees still standing where they grew. Age has reduced them almost to the core, and the rains and decay of the earth have cleared them of the soil: yet their wasted stumps, and the fangs of their roots, retain their original shape, and stand amid the hollows, the realization of the skeletons of trees in the romance of Leonora. Abundance of these remains of an older world are to be seen in Glen Urcha and its neighbourhood. In Corrai Fhuar, Glen Phinglass, and Glen Eitive, they are met at every step. In the first, a few living firs are yet thriving; but they are surrounded on every side by the shattered stumps, fallen trunks, and blasted limbs of a departed forest.

It is difficult to conceive the sad emotions which are excited by this picture of an aged existence falling without notice, and consuming in the deepest solitude and silence: on every side lie different stages of decay, from the mouldered and barkless stock, half overgrown with grass and moss, to the overturned tree, yet bearing on its crashed limbs the withered leaves of its last summer. In Glen Phinglass there is no longer any living timber; but the remains of that which it once produced are of greater magnitude than those in Corrai Fhuar. In this tract the trees were chiefly oak; firs were, however, intermixed among them, and in the upper part of the glen is the stump of one six feet in diameter. At intervals are stocks of oak from five to seven or eight feet in height; they are all of a great size and age: some are still covered with bark, and yet bear a few stunted shoots; but many are so old, that the mossy earth has grown on one side to their top, and the heath has begun to tuft them over like ivy. In Glen Eitive the remains are less obliterated: many of the scathed and knotted stumps yet bear a thin head of wreathed and dwarfish boughs, and in some places trunks of immense oaks, straight as a mast, yet lie at the foot of the stump from which they were snapped. I know not how to describe the feelings with which I have gazed upon these relics of the ancient forests which once covered the hills, and looked up to the little feathery copse-wood which is all that now remains upon the side of the mountain. What must be the soul of that man who can look upon the change without a thought? who hears the taunts of the stranger revile the nakedness of his land, and who can stand upon his hill and stretch his eye for an hundred miles over the traces of gigantic woods, and say, “This is mine;” and yet ask not the neglected earth for its produce, nor strive to revive the perished glory of his country, and which to be reanimated needs but to be sought?

The success of those who have possessed this patriotism ought to be a source of emulation, and is a monument of reproach to those who do not follow their example. The princely avenues of Inverara, the beautiful woods of Glengarrie, the plantations of Duntroon, and the groves of Athol, must excite in a stranger, admiration; in a native, pride and gratitude—pride in the produce of his country, and gratitude to the noble possessors who have preserved and cherished that which every Scottish proprietor ought to support, the honour and the interest of his fathers’ land.

Mr. Allan’s elegant poem is a “lament” on the desertion of the Highlands by its ancient inhabitants. He says:—

In a note on this stanza, Mr. Allan eloquently depicts the depopulated districts, viz.:—

Upon the narrow banks of lonely streams, amid the solitude of waste moors, in the bosom of desolate glens, and on the eminences of hills given to the foxes and the sheep, are seen the half-mouldered walls of ruined huts, and the mossy furrows of abandoned fields, which tell the existence of a people once numerous and rich. In these melancholy traces of desolation are sometimes seen the remains of eight or twelve houses bereft of their roofs, and mouldering into a promiscuous heap. Upon one farm in the straith of Glen Urcha there were “sixty years since” thirty-seven “smokes;” at this day they are all extinguished, except four. A less extensive but more striking instance of this falling away of the people will still farther illustrate the lines in the poem. I was one evening passing up a solitary glen between Glen Phinglass and Loch Bhoile; the day was fast closing, and wearied with hunting, and at a distance from the inhabited straiths, I wished to discover some house where I might obtain refreshment. As I turned the shoulder of the hill, I came upon a small level plain where four glens met. In the midst stood two cottages, and I hastened forward in the hopes of obtaining a stoup of milk and a barley scone. As I drew near I remarked that no smoke issued from the chimney, no cattle stood in the straith, nor was there any sign of the little green kale yard, which is now found in the precincts of a highland cottage. I was something discouraged by the quiet and desolation which reigned around; but knowing the solitude and poverty of the shepherds of the outward bounds, I was not surprised. At length, however, as I drew near, I saw the heath growing in the walls of the huts, the doors were removed, and the apertures of the windows had fallen into chasms. As I stopped and looked round, I observed a level space which had been once a field: it was yet green and smooth, and the grass-grown ridges of long-neglected furrows were perceivable, retiring beneath the encroaching heather. Familiarity with such objects prevented surprise and almost reflection; but hunger and weariness reminded me not to linger, and I pursued my way towards Loch Bhoile. As I turned into the north-west glen, I again discovered before me a small house by the side of the burn, and the compactitude of its walls and the freshness of its grey roof as the setting sun glinted upon its ridge, assured me that it was not deserted. I hastened onward, but again I was deceived. When I came near, I found that although it had not been so long uninhabited, it was forsaken like the rest: the small wooden windows were half-closed; the door stood open, and moss had crept upon the sill; the roof was grown over with a thick and high crop of long-withered grass: a few half-burnt peats lay in a corner of the hearth, and the smoke of its last fire was yet hanging on the walls. In the narrow sandy path near the door was a worn space, which yet seemed smoothened by the tread of little feet, and showed the half-deranged remains of children’s playhouses built with pebbles and fragments of broken china: the row of stepping-stones yet stood as they had been placed in the brook, but no foot-mark was upon them, and it was doubtless many a day since they had been crossed, save by the foxes of the hill.

Garrick Plays.
No. XXXIII.

[From the “True Trojans, or Fuimus Troes,” an Historical Play, Author unknown, 1633.]

Invocation of the Druids to the Gods of Britain, on the invasion of Cæsar.

Another, to the Moon.

[From the “Twins,” a Comedy, by W. Rider, A. M. 1655.]

Irresolution.

Resolution for Innocence.

[From “Sir Giles Goosecap,” a Comedy, Author Unknown, 1606.]

Friendship in a Lord; modesty in a Gentleman.

[From the “English Monsieur,” a Comedy by the Hon. James Howard, 1674.]

The humour of a conceited Traveller, who is taken with every thing that is French.

The Monsieur comforts himself, when his mistress rejects him, that “’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable:” and, at her final departure, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she walks away with a French step.”

but soon after adds, in a more impassioned tone,

The same distinction will, in general, be found in the speeches of Sigismunda to Tancred.[352]

HARVEST-CATCH IN NORFOLK.

To the Editor.

Sir,—Your Every-Day Book contains several interesting accounts relating to the present joyous season of the year. Amongst others, a correspondent G. H. J. (in vol. ii. col. 1168,) has furnished us with some amusing particulars of the old customs of the harvest supper. It should seem, however, that he is but imperfectly acquainted with the old “catch” of this country. That which he has given is evidently compounded of two different songs in use on these occasions, and I have no doubt when you have read and compared them you will be of my opinion. A few years more, and probably (but for your notice of them) they will be entirely forgotten.

The health-drinking catch, which is always the last thing before parting, is as follows:—

First the mistress:—

During the time the catch is going round the whole party are standing, and, with the exception of the drinker, they join in chorus. The glass circulates, beginning with the “Lord” in regular succession through the “company:” after that it is handed to the visitors,—the harvestmen of gone-by days,—who are not, or ought not to be, forgotten on the occasion. If the drinker be taken off his guard, and should drink off his beer at the pause in the catch, he is liable to a forfeit: if one of the chorus misplaces the words half and off, which not unfrequently happens at the heel of an evening, he incurs a similar penalty.

After the mistress the master:—

Where the beer flows very freely, and there is a family, it is sometimes usual to carry on the catch, through the different branches, with variations composed for the purpose, perhaps at the spur of the moment: some of these I have known very happily conceived. The other glee to which I alluded in the beginning of my letter, and which I conceive G. H. J. to have had in view, is this:—

If the foregoing be acceptable, it will be a satisfaction to have contributed a trifle to a miscellany, which has afforded a fund of instruction and amusement to

Your constant reader and admirer,
T. B. H.

Norfolk, August 20, 1827.

POTTED VENISON.

Sir Kenelm Digby, in a fanciful discourse on “Sympathy,” affirms, that the venison which is in July and August put into earthern pots, to last the whole year, is very difficult to be preserved during the space of those particular months which are called the fence-months; but that, when that period is passed, nothing is so easy as to keep it gustful (as he words it) during the whole year after. This he endeavours to find a cause for from the “sympathy” between the potted meat, and its friends and relations, courting and capering about in its native park.

For the Table Book.

THE DEFEAT OF TIME;
OR A
TALE OF THE FAIRIES.

Titania, and her moonlight Elves, were assembled under the canopy of a huge oak, that served to shelter them from the moon’s radiance, which, being now at her full noon, shot forth intolerable rays—intolerable, I mean, to the subtil texture of their little shadowy bodies—but dispensing an agreeable coolness to us grosser mortals. An air of discomfort sate upon the Queen, and upon her Courtiers. Their tiny friskings and gambols were forgot; and even Robin Goodfellow, for the first time in his little airy life, looked grave. For the Queen had had melancholy forebodings of late, founded upon an ancient Prophecy, laid up in the records of Fairy Land, that the date of Fairy existence should be then extinct, when men should cease to believe in them. And she knew how that the race of the Nymphs, which were her predecessors, and had been the Guardians of the sacred floods, and of the silver fountains, and of the consecrated hills and woods, had utterly disappeared before the chilling touch of man’s incredulity; and she sighed bitterly at the approaching fate of herself and of her subjects, which was dependent upon so fickle a lease, as the capricious and ever mutable faith of man. When, as if to realise her fears, a melancholy shape came gliding in, and that was—Time, who with his intolerable scythe mows down Kings and Kingdoms; at whose dread approach the Fays huddled together, as a flock of timorous sheep, and the most courageous among them crept into acorn cups, not enduring the sight of that ancientest of Monarchs. Titania’s first impulse was to wish the presence of her false Lord, King Oberon, who was far away, in the pursuit of a strange Beauty, a Fay of Indian Land—that with his good lance and sword, like a faithful knight and husband, he might defend her against Time. But she soon checked that thought as vain, for what could the prowess of the mighty Oberon himself, albeit the stoutest Champion in Fairy Land, have availed against so huge a Giant, whose bald top touched the skies. So in the mildest tone she besought the Spectre, that in his mercy he would overlook, and pass by, her small subjects, as too diminutive and powerless to add any worthy trophy to his renown. And she besought him to employ his resistless strength against the ambitious Children of Men, and to lay waste their aspiring works, to tumble down their towers and turrets, and the Babels of their pride, fit objects of his devouring Scythe, but to spare her and her harmless race, who had no existence beyond a dream; frail objects of a creed; that lived but in the faith of the believer. And with her little arms, as well as she could, she grasped the stern knees of Time, and waxing speechless with fear, she beckoned to her chief attendants, and Maids of Honour, to come forth from their hiding places, and to plead the Plea of the Fairies. And one of those small delicate creatures came forth at her bidding, clad all in white like a Chorister, and in a low melodious tone, not louder than the hum of a pretty bee—when it seems to be demurring whether it shall settle upon this sweet flower or that, before it settles—set forth her humble Petition. “We Fairies,” she said, “are the most inoffensive race that live, and least deserving to perish. It is we that have the care of all sweet melodies, that no discords may offend the Sun, who is the great Soul of Music. We rouse the lark at morn; and the pretty Echos, which respond to all the twittering quire, are of our making. Wherefore, great King of Years, as ever you have loved the music which is raining from a morning cloud, sent from the messenger of day, the Lark, as he mounts to Heaven’s gate, beyond the ken of mortals; or if ever you have listened with a charmed ear to the Night Bird, that

spare our tender tribes; and we will muffle up the sheep-bell for thee, that thy pleasure take no interruption, whenever thou shall listen unto Philomel.”

And Time answered, that “he had heard that song too long; and he was even wearied with that ancient strain, that recorded the wrongs of Tereus. But if she would know in what music Time delighted, it was, when sleep and darkness lay upon crowded cities, to hark to the midnight chime, which is tolling from a hundred clocks, like the last knell over the soul of a dead world; or to the crush of the fall of some age-worn edifice, which is as the voice of himself when he disparteth kingdoms.”

A second female Fay took up the Plea, and said, “We be the handmaids of the Spring, and tend upon the birth of all sweet buds; and the pastoral cowslips are our friends, and the pansies; and the violets, like nuns; and the quaking hare-bell is in our wardship; and the Hyacinth, once a fair youth, and dear to Phœbus.”

Then Time made answer, in his wrath striking the harmless ground with his hurtful scythe, that “they must not think that he was one that cared for flowers, except to see them wither, and to take her beauty from the rose.”

And a third Fairy took up the Plea, and said, “We are kindly Things; and it is we that sit at evening, and shake rich odours from sweet bowers upon discoursing lovers, that seem to each other to be their own sighs; and we keep off the bat, and the owl, from their privacy, and the ill-boding whistler; and we flit in sweet dreams across the brains of infancy, and conjure up a smile upon its soft lips to beguile the careful mother, while its little soul is fled for a brief minute or two to sport with our youngest Fairies.”

Then Saturn (which is Time) made answer, that “they should not think that he delighted in tender Babes, that had devoured his own, till foolish Rhea cheated him with a Stone, which he swallowed, thinking it to be the infant Jupiter.” And thereat in token he disclosed to view his enormous tooth, in which appeared monstrous dints, left by that unnatural meal; and his great throat, that seemed capable of devouring up the earth and all its inhabitants at one meal. “And for Lovers,” he continued, “my delight is, with a hurrying hand to snatch them away from their love-meetings by stealth at nights, and to ravish away hours from them like minutes whilst they are together, and in absence to stand like a motionless statue, or their leaden Planet of mishap (whence I had my name), till I make their minutes seem ages.”

Next stood up a male fairy, clad all in green, like a forester, or one of Robin Hood’s mates, and doffing his tiny cap, said, “We are small foresters, that live in woods, training the young boughs in graceful intricacies, with blue snatches of the sky between; we frame all shady roofs and arches rude; and sometimes, when we are plying our tender hatches, men say, that the tapping woodpecker is nigh: and it is we that scoop the hollow cell of the squirrel; and carve quaint letters upon the rinds of trees, which in sylvan solitudes sweetly recall to the mind of the heat-oppressed swain, ere he lies down to slumber, the name of his Fair One, Dainty Aminta, Gentle Rosalind, or Chastest Laura, as it may happen.”

Saturn, nothing moved with this courteous address, bade him be gone, or “if he would be a woodman, to go forth, and fell oak for the Fairies’ coffins, which would forthwith be wanting. For himself, he took no delight in haunting the woods, till their golden plumage (the yellow leaves) were beginning to fall, and leave the brown black limbs bare, like Nature in her skeleton dress.”

Then stood up one of those gentle Fairies, that are good to Man, and blushed red as any rose, while he told a modest story of one of his own good deeds. “It chanced upon a time,” he said, “that while we were looking cowslips in the meads, while yet the dew was hanging on the buds, like beads, we found a babe left in its swathing clothes—a little sorrowful deserted Thing; begot of Love, but begetting no love in others; guiltless of shame, but doomed to shame for its parents’ offence in bringing it by indirect courses into the world. It was pity to see the abandoned little orphan, left to the world’s care by an unnatural mother, how the cold dew kept wetting its childish coats; and its little hair, how it was bedabbled, that was like gossamer. Its pouting mouth, unknowing how to speak, lay half opened like a rose-lipt shell, and its cheek was softer than any peach, upon which the tears, for very roundness, could not long dwell, but fell off, in clearness like pearls, some on the grass, and some on his little hand, and some haply wandered to the little dimpled well under his mouth, which Love himself seemed to have planned out, but less for tears than for smilings. Pity it was, too, to see how the burning sun scorched its helpless limbs, for it lay without shade, or shelter, or mother’s breast, for foul weather or fair. So having compassion on its sad plight, my fellows and I turned ourselves into grasshoppers, and swarmed about the babe, making such shrill cries, as that pretty little chirping creature makes in its mirth, till with our noise we attracted the attention of a passing rustic, a tenderhearted hind, who wondering at our small but loud concert, strayed aside curiously, and found the babe, where it lay on the remote grass, and taking it up, lapt it in his russet coat, and bore it to his cottage, where his wife kindly nurtured it, till it grew up a goodly personage. How this Babe prospered afterwards, let proud London tell. This was that famous Sir Thomas Gresham, who was the chiefest of her Merchants, the richest, the wisest. Witness his many goodly vessels on the Thames, freighted with costly merchandise, jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, and silks of Samarcand. And witness more than all, that stately Bourse (or Exchange) which he caused to be built, a mart for merchants from East and West, whose graceful summit still bears, in token of the Fairies’ favours, his chosen crest, the Grasshopper. And, like the Grasshopper, may it please you, great King, to suffer us also to live, partakers of the green earth!”

The Fairy had scarce ended his Plea, when a shrill cry, not unlike the Grasshopper’s, was heard. Poor Puck—or Robin Goodfellow, as he is sometimes called—had recovered a little from his first fright, and in one of his mad freaks had perched upon the beard of old Time, which was flowing, ample, and majestic, and was amusing himself with plucking at a hair, which was indeed so massy, that it seemed to him that he was removing some huge beam of timber rather than a hair; which Time by some ill chance perceiving, snatched up the Impish Mischief with his great hand, and asked “What it was?”

“Alas!” quoth Puck, “A little random Elf am I, born in one of Nature’s sports, a very weed, created for the simple sweet enjoyment of myself, but for no other purpose, worth, or need, that ever I could learn. ’Tis I, that bob the Angler’s idle cork, till the patient man is ready to breathe a curse. I steal the morsel from the Gossip’s fork, or stop the sneezing Chanter in mid Psalm; and when an infant has been born with hard or homely features, mothers say, that I changed the child at nurse; but to fulfil any graver purpose I have not wit enough, and hardly the will. I am a pinch of lively dust to frisk upon the wind, a tear would make a puddle of me, and so I tickle myself with the lightest straw, and shun all griefs that might make me stagnant. This is my small philosophy.”

Then Time, dropping him on the ground, as a thing too inconsiderable for his vengeance, grasped fast his mighty Scythe; and now not Puck alone, but the whole State of Fairies had gone to inevitable wreck and destruction, had not a timely Apparition interposed, at whose boldness Time was astounded, for he came not with the habit, or the forces, of a Deity, who alone might cope with Time, but as a simple Mortal, clad as you might see a Forester, that hunts after wild coneys by the cold moonshine; or a Stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. But by the golden lustre in his eye, and the passionate wanness in his cheek, and by the fair and ample space of his forehood, which seemed a palace framed for the habitation of all glorious thoughts, he knew that this was his great Rival, who had power given him to rescue whatsoever victims Time should clutch, and to cause them to live for ever in his immortal verse. And muttering the name of Shakspeare, Time spread his Roc-like wings, and fled the controuling presence. And the liberated Court of the Fairies, with Titania at their head, flocked around the gentle Ghost, giving him thanks, nodding to him, and doing him curtesies, who had crowned them henceforth with a permanent existence, to live in the minds of men, while verse shall have power to charm, or Midsummer moons shall brighten.

***

What particular endearments passed between the Fairies and their Poet, passes my pencil to delineate; but if you are curious to be informed, I must refer you, gentle reader, to the “Plea of the Fairies,” a most agreeable Poem, lately put forth by my friend, Thomas Hood: of the first half of which the above is nothing but a meagre, and a harsh, prose-abstract. Farewell.

Elia.

The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.

PARODIES ON HORACE.

Mr. James Petit Andrews, the continuator of Dr. Henry’s History of England, mentions a whimsical instance of literary caprice—a parody of Horace, by a German, David Hoppius, who had interest enough to have his book printed at Brunswick, in 1568, under the particular protection of the elector of Saxony. Hoppius, with infinite labour, transformed the odes and epodes of Horace into pious hymns, preserving the original measure, and, as far as possible, the words of the Roman poet. “The classical reader,” Mr. Andrews says, “will, at one glance, comprehend the amazing difficulties which such a parodist must undergo, and will be surprised to find these productions not wanting in pure Latinity.” A specimen or two are annexed.