in the Peris, who were a powerful race, as were the Ginns of the Arabians, so called from the land of Gimristan, where they were supposed to dwell; but the delightful tales called the Arabian Nights will amply illustrate their ideas of Ginns. Among the ancient Germans this belief was common-they believed in two kinds, one old and wicked, the other kind and amiable. Many of these dwelt in mines— indeed there is still a belief of this kind in many parts of that country. The Druids are said to have worshipped them.

The Saxons believed that every cave and hollow was inhabited by them; and it was supposed that if they saw daylight they were turned into stone. This was the origin of their being supposed to dance by moonlight only. Ireland has been remarkable for the immense number of Fairies who were said to live there.

But it is with England that we have more particularly to do; and the materials are not small for making a history of English Fairies. From the time of the Saxons to the present day, the belief has existed (though now there are few that hold it) that Fairies were very busily employed in the affairs of mortals; they were supposed to thrash corn, mend shoes, milk cows, and many other kind offices they would perform; though now and then it must candidly be allowed that, in the shape of a will-o'-th'wisp, they would lead many an honest farmer into a quagmire, and laugh at him afterwards.

As Puck himself tells us

Sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl,

In very likeness of a rousted crab,

And when she drinks, against her lips I bob,' &c. Some of them were musical, and would play

'On pipes of corn.'

But their great amusement was dancing; and with what vigour may be guessed from the morn paths which they made in their roundels by moonlight.

Others were warriors, fighting with bats, owls, and

other disturbers of their sport. And their swiftness may be guessed by one of them saying he

'Would put a girdle round about the earth

In forty minutes.'

These fairies, however, were diminutive beings, endowed with immortality and supernatural power, according to Shakspeare; while those of Spencer were of the human size, and subject to death.

Fairies,' says Johnson, in Shakspeare's time were common, and Spencer's poem had made them great.'

In Scotland there is a species of fairy known by the name of Brownie: he is supposed to live by the side of rivers; he is harmless, and often useful; he will thrash corn, &c. and the only reward that he seeks is a pail of milk, and liberty to bask among the embers of the fire at night, a liberty which is readily granted, as he is dangerous if offended. He will carry off little children; for this reason, nurses in the Highlands always watch by the child till it is christened. As a proof of his services, it is said by one, that a Brownie In one night ere glimpse of morn,

With shadowy flail had thrashed more corn
Than ten day labourers.'

These are the traditions of ignorance, but the light of knowledge, like the light of the sun, will annihilate these remnants of ancient superstition; and fairies, elves, and witches, must resign their usurped throne, and give reason its rightful seat.

REFLECTIONS.

DELIGHTFUL Poesy, thy lovely look

Can smile away even sorrow's lingering hours, And principle the heart in virtue's book

H.

Can gild with pleasure's ray each cloud that lowers, And strew adversity's rough path with flowers.

No fetid stain the bosom e'er imbibes

From revelling in thy luxuriant bowers;

For there, in witching garb, sweet Wisdom bribes
The soul adown the stream of Fancy's shadowy tribes.

Delightful 'tis 'mongst night's magnificence,
To linger where the cataract astounds
The ear-appealing like omnipotence--

Delightful, too, to traverse trackless grounds,
And glance with poet's eye creation's bounds,
As Luna climbs in cloudless majesty

Yon heaven-delightful all are Nature's sounds;
O Nature, beauteous aye is thine array,
Changeful as April, yet unconscious of decay.
Delightful is life's eve, when wisdom hoary,
Wreathes angel-wings around the soul to flee;
Delightful is life in its noontide glory,

And boyhood's breast, which mirrors lovelily
The tranquil bosom of the summer sea.
Delightful, too, when passion's pleasing sadness
Awakes for grace and beauty sympathy;

When round the heart love pours its spring cf glad

ness,

And youth romantic sheds the tears of mirth and mad

ness.

Delightful memory! thy power sublime

Oblivion's dark control undaunted spurns, To cherish fondest far the lovely time,

When the young heart 'neath smiling passion burns, And beauty's cheek a lovelier smile returns. Immortal memory! magic powers thou hast,

For even when fate our soul's best part inurns,
Thou o'er the grave can'st balmy fragrance cast,
And into pleasure melt the sorrow-shaded past.
But more delightful than they all have been
Is piety's calm mirth, which never cloys,
But makes the heart immortally serene,

Yea, strong as righteous Nehemiah's joys.
Then doth it spurn away the world's vain toys,
Its false and fleeting pleasures; and but sighs
To drink the enlightening knowledge that employs
Faith's golden rod to guide our longing eyes,
To where yon temple stands eternal in the skies.
D. CORKINDALE.

ON AUTUMN.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them; thou hast thy music too-
While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,

And touch the stubble plain with rosy hue.—Keats. EVERY season of the year has its charms, or at least its pleasures and enjoyments; Spring, whose ethereal mildness' is rendered doubly grateful after the frosts and chilling fogs of a long and dreary winter; Summer,

'Arrayed all in green leaves,
As he a player were,'

next comes, and if at times unpleasant, by reason of
its sultry heats, yet it is much more than counter-
balanced by the refreshing coolness of the evening
breezes, wafting round a breath divine'-the verdant
meads, with their rich variety of shades and verdure-
the delightful fragrance of the new-mown hay-the
exquisite melody of the singing birds heard in every
grove, and the delicious fruits which every where sur-
round the eye and gratify the sense.
Even hideous

Winter,' 'sap-checked with frost,' is not without its comforts; and to sit round a blazing fire cracking nuts, listening to 'auld warld stories,' and sipping the warmed, spicy, nut-brown ale, or a glass of Aunt Martha's London_particular,' may not be reckoned among the least. For what says Sir Walter Scott

'Heap on more wood, the wind is chill;

But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our merry Christmas still.'

But for all this enumeration of the comforts and advantages which these seasons severally contain, Autumn (to me at least) has ever been a period when my mind has been most prone to reflection, and lifted up, as it were, from the contemplation of the cares and troubles of this sorrowful pilgrimage. To the man of the world, I may probably make but a vain appeal; but to the lover of Nature, in her variegated garb, this season has charms which it is almost impossible to describe. There is something indescribably melancholy

in listening to the evening breeze sighing through the branches of the trees, which are fast casting their summer livery, and assuming the cheerless and naked mantle of winter; and there appears to be shed over the universal face of Nature, at this period, a calmness and tranquillity, which almost insensibly steals into the breast of man, and disposes him to solitude and meditation. He naturally compares the decline of light and animation with that which attaches to the lot of humanity; and the evening of the day and the autumn of life become closely assimilated in his mind. For now the leaf

Incessant rustles from the mournful grove.

*

*

The forest-walks, at every rising gale

*

Roll wide the withered waste, and whistle bleak.' The four seasons of the year have been beautifully compared to the different stages of human life, and they are an admirable, as well as an expressive, type of mortality. It tells us in the third stage of existence that the day spring from on high' has ceased to shine on us with the lustre and fervency which it did in the 'morning of life;' and it warns us that the evening of life is rapidly approaching, and to still farther prepare ourselves for that awful change which we must all undergo, 'both high and low, rich and poor.' Autumn is, therefore, a season for reflection, not only with regard to the ills which man is heir to,' but also with regard to our concerns hereafter. The autumn of life then, in my estimation, is the most interesting period of our transitory, and ofttimes chequered existence. The voice of Autumn may be compared to the nightingale of Milton, (who is well known to have been partial to this season,) 'most musical, most melancholy;' and when we look around us, and behold the universal decay of the vegetable world, the trees clothed in their sombre tints of brown, which the sharp and wintry wind is fast despoiling them of, we are naturally apt to mourn the decrease of light and heat, without which this beautiful globe would soon become a barren