bleeding trees; of witches and their wicked doings; of frogs that would go a-wooing, and got turned into princes; and amorous princes who became frogs; of primitive rough chests transformed into coaches; young ladies who go to bed young ladies, and get up owls; much despised younger sons crowned kings of boundless realms; and mediæval tabbies getting inducted into flourishing vizierships by the mere loss of their tails: stories, in short, of the metamorphosis of all conceivable things into all conceivable shapes. Lest this catalogue should frighten your readers, I at once disavow any intention of reflecting more than a specimen. Their puerility renders them scarcely suitable to your columns, and there is moreover such a sameness in those best worth preserving—the fairy legends—that a single example would be amply sufficient for our purpose of pointing out the different varieties of oral romance. Whenever the story relates to the dealings of the fairy-folk with mankind, the elf is almost always represented as the dupe; while, in his transactions with rival supernaturals, he invariably comes off victorious. Giants especially, being always of sleepy and obtuse intellect, afford a fine field for the display of his powers; and we find him baffling their clumsy plans, as well also as the more cunning devices of weird-sisters, in a manner which proves him to be a worthy scion of the warlike avenger of the Sagar. The lovers of folk-lore will probably agree with me in regarding the following tale as a choice bit of elfin history, illustrating the not very amicable relations of the witches and the good people. No sneers, therefore, gentle readers, but listen to the simple strain of "Fairy Jip and Witch One-eye."

Once upon a time, just before the monkey tribe gave up the nauseous custom of chewing tobacco, there lived an old hag, who had conceived an inordinate desire to eat an elf: a circumstance, by the way, which indubitably establishes that elves were

of masticable solidity, and not, as some one has it, mere

So the old lady went to the place where the fairies dwelt, and knocked at the hill-top:—"Pretty little Jip!" said she; "come and see the sack of cherries I have brought thee, so large, so red, so sweet." Fairies, be it known, are extremely fond of this fruit, and the elf rushed out in eager haste. "Ha! ha!" said One-eye, as she pounced upon him, and put him in her bag (witches always carry bags), "take care the stones don't stick in thy throttle, my little bird." On the way home, she has to visit a place some distance from the road, and left Jip meanwhile in the charge of a man who was cutting faggots. No sooner was her back turned, than Jip begged the man to let him out; and they filled the bag with thorns. One-eye called for her burden, and set off towards home, making sure she had her dinner safe on her back. "Ay, ay! my lad," said she, as she felt the pricking of the thorns; "I'll trounce thee when I get home for stinging me with thy pins and needles." When she reached her house, she belaboured the bag with a huge stick, till she thought she had broken every bone in the elf's body; and when she found that she had been wasting her strength upon a "kit" of thorns, her rage knew no bounds. Next day, she again got possession of Jip in a similar manner, and this time left him in care of a man who was breaking stones by the road-side. The elf makes his escape as before, and they fill the sack with stones. "Thou little rogue!" said the witch, as she perspired under the burden; "I'll soften thy bones nigh-hand." Her appetite was only whetted, not blunted, by these repeated failures, and despairing of again catching her prey in the same way as before, she assumed the shape of a pedlar with a churn on his shoulder, and contrived to meet Jip in a wood. "Ah! Master Redcap," quoth she; "look alive, my little man, the fox is after thee. See! here he comes: hie thee into my churn, and I will shelter thee. Quick! quick!" In jumped the elf. "Pretty bird!" chuckled the old Crocodile; "dost thee scent the fox?" This time she went straight home, and gave Jip to her daughter, with strict orders that she should cut off his noddle and boil it. When the time came for beginning the cooking, Miss One-eye led her captive to the chopping-block, and bade him lay down his head. "How?" quoth Jip; "I don't know how." "Like this, to be sure," said she; and, suiting the action to the word, she put her poll in the right position. Instantly the fairy seizes the hatchet, and serves her in the manner she intended to serve him. Then picking up a huge pebble, he climbs up the chimney to watch the progress of events. As he expected, the witch came to the fire to look after her delicacy; and no sooner does she lift up the lid of the pot, than "plop" came down Jip's pebble right into the centre of her remaining optic, the light of which is extinguished for ever; or, according to some versions, killed her stone-dead.^[1]

Some of the stories are so extremely like the German ones, that, with very slight alterations, they would serve as translations. These, for obvious reasons, it will not be worth while to trouble you with. Among them, I may particularise the following from the Kinder und Hausmärchen:—Hans im Gluck: Der Frieder und das Catherlieschen; Von der Frau Füchsin; and Van den Nachandel-Boom.

Modern tales of diablerie are not so uncommon as might be expected. In the time of Chaucer, the popular belief ascribed the departure of the elves to the great number of wandering friars who mercilessly pursued them with bell, book, and candle; and at the present day, in the opinion of our uneducated peasantry, the itinerant sectarian preachers are endowed with similar attributes. The stories told of these men, and their encounters with the powers of darkness, would fill a new Golden Legend. There is one tale in particular which comes within our designation of "popular stories," as is well known in almost all parts of England,—How a godly minister falls over the company of wicked scoffing elves, and how he gets out.^[2] The last time I heard it, it was related of a preacher of the Ranting persuasion, well known some dozen years ago in a certain district of Warwickshire; and I prefer to give it in this localised form, as it enables me to present your readers with "Positively the last from Fairyland."

Providence B—— was a well-known man throughout that whole country-side. He had made more converts than all his brethren put together, and, in the matter of spirits and demons, would stand a comparison with Godred or Gutlac, or, by'r Lady, St. Anthony himself. Now it fell out one day, that Providence was sent for to the house of a wealthy yeoman to aid in expelling an evil spirit which had long infested his daughter. I must here remark, en parenthèse, that scenes of this fearfully ludicrous nature are far from unfrequent in our country districts. The besotted state of ignorance in which a great portion of our rural population are still enwrapt, renders them peculiarly open to the fleecing of these fanatics, who, marvellous to relate, are almost everywhere

looked upon with respect, and treated with the greatest consideration, proving incontestably that,