nelskewed?” “Winnelskewed!" reechoed the miller; "I would give my barley millstones for a pair of quairns to think that my een wronged the scene before me. Round dunner the wheels, the dust flies out from the wicket, the lights stream from door and window ;-see ye nae that long gleam of blue will-o'-wisp light quivering as far as our horses' feet? and there's the clap clattering as audible as a woman's tongue when the brandy flows free at the gossipings. Deil mend your een, d'ye no see the diminished dam?" "Nothing of all you have named see I," said the dame of Elfknowe,-and another earnest and considerate look took she.

The miller laid his chin close to the horse's mane, motioned with his forefinger to his companion, and nodded as if he had got something particularly curious to say. "Goodwife," said the hero of the sieve and hopper, "I can read this fairy riddle now. Ye maun ken, lass, that dues are paid to the folk of Elfland just the same as multure is paid to a miller, or kain to the laird of the ground. To them belong all the o'er-ripened grain which is shaken before the sickle cuts it,-all the leamed nuts which drop out of the husks with ripeness and all the wild apples, and all the honeycombs of the wild heath bees, and many more perquisites which ye would laugh to hear named. Now at or about this time of the year, the elves gather in all the shed grain, which they call 'crop of the mools,' and carry it to some noted mill to grind it into elvemeal; and this is the very work they are this night about. They are a conscientious race, and will leave me the mill dues in the lewder,-so let us pass away home in quietness and in peace."

"All this is mere moonshine in the mill-dam, like your golden palace," said Barbara, who mustered up all her superstitious faculties in vain, to make something of the miller's vision. "Behold your outer wheel, it's as dry on its axle as ye're in the saddle; and as for the mill, it's as dark as the grave, and as silent as Glencairn kirk." "Nay, but woman," said the miller, rubbing his elbow, and puckering his face like an ill-tied sack-mouth with sheer vexa

tion, "Will ye no be convinced? D'ye no see that faint stream of light glimmering out at the door?" She shook her head. "And d'ye no see that little brown elf tasting the new meal in the hollow of his hand?-he's nae longer than a new born bairn, and as white with meal as a bootingbag, he's the Elfin Miller doubtless." She looked as if she would look through the mill door, and sighed to think the mysteries of Elfland were hidden from her sight." "Aweel," continued the miller," and there can be no doubt that ye see the new warm meal gushing like snow from the mill-ee, and three elves, no longer than ane's leg, all sifting like distraction. Lord! woman, but they are the queerest wee bodies I ever saw,-see, see, some half a score of them are fluttering like gray moorcocks in the middle of that long stream of elfin light which comes glancing out so gaily. O for drunken Frank Farish here, with his gun loaded with silver sixpences, that he might have a shot at these bastard imps begotten between grace and perdition.'

"Whisht ye, fool man," said Barbara; "speak lowne, ye profane body, speak lowne. If the race be there ye describe, ye may as well shoot at a sunbeam with the hope of putting out day-light, as bend a gun against them." "If there be aught there!" said the miller, incensed at having his accuracy of sight questioned; "Lord! woman, the elves are sporting on my mill floor as thick as motes in the summer sunbeam,— as thrang as shellen seeds in the west wind,-as plentiful as mill dust when I grind by candle light. But bide ye a bit, ye shall speedily be sensible of their presence by the ear, since ye will not by the eye,-there's a fairy film drawn over your eyes, so that they can see nought less gross than mere mortality. Lend your ears now." And Barbara bent forward— with her hand held up, and her lips apart;-the stirring of a grasshopper would not have escaped her. The miller went on. "Now look at yon queer, wee, out-of-the-world elf, that sits nae bigger than a cock partridge on one of the sack-heads; it has got a bog reed in its hand, and meikle mirth it will make wi' it. And then see yon wee elf dancing about like a

leaf in an eddy :-it has got a long paddock-pipe in its hand, and it moves it round and round like an unskilful fifer seeking a hole to blow music out of. But most of all see the miller elf himsel; he has got a flute of hollow hemlock, and he sits on the rim of the mill sieve; Lord! goodwife, we'll have rare music belyve. Hearken now. There they begin-deil split my hopper into brimstone spunks, if that's no the queerest thing I ever saw or heard. I ken the tune; the Miller and his Multure' is but chaff to corn compared with it;-how can ane's heels hold from dancing when we hearken it?-this surpasses all." And having stopt a second or two to give breathing for fresh enthusiasm, he exclaimed, "Hearken ;-there's a sang too, -and such a sang;-hear how the rooftree rings with it;-d'ye hear it distinctly now?-I'll answer for't, ye may hear it on the top of Crogahill. The elf who made it has been a miller himself, for the verses have all the harmony of well hung machinery, well laid-on water, and well geared millstones; the music of mere men's tongues is but an auld wife's cough compared with it ;-I ken the the sang every word."

spiritual presence is denied me, even let me hear ye repeat this same song, which ye heard sung by the elfin miller. I'll warrant it will give ye some new light anent increase of multure. This will be a brave sang to sing when ye tell the tale of the palace of burning gold, ye ken."

Barbara looked east and looked west, and, like the shepherd in the old ballad, she gave an under look, and in a tone between resignation and sorrow said,-" Aweel, ye see what I cannot see, and ye hear what I cannot hear; and since all sense of

With much earnestness, and with no subdued voice, did the miller of Croga chaunt in the marvelling ears of his companion the song of his elfin associate in the labours of the mill. Of this curious and genuine fairy lyric, it was the unhoped-for good fortune of him who seeks to revive for a few brief days the story of the Elves of Croga, to obtain a copy, and that too from a descendant of the miller himself, even Reuben Milroy. That it has escaped the research of our ballad antiquaries, and eluded association with music and ten thousand thousand accompaniments for all manner of instruments, must be imputed to its intense locality, and to Croga being an unrifled nook, into which those gentlemen who describe all the milestones and molehills in the country had failed to penetrate. To such associations I deliver it up now; and as the lyric itself is of an original character, and altogether unlike any of the gentle songs which flutter in the world, I have some hope that the name of the old minstrel will be discovered; so that Galloway may have to boast of another bard whose fame rests upon a single song.

"

no sound was heard in the house. "Now," said the miller, "ye shall know from this that evil spirits are abroad. I never before came home, but that a light streamed from my window, and my bairns' tongues welcomed me at the door. But the elves of Croga have silenced my house, and extinguished its kindly light." "Aye, now indeed," said the dame of Elfknowe, "I can bear witness to what ye say; but call aloud, man; call on all and sundry." Down leaped the miller, and called aloud, "Kate, Jane, and Elspa,---open the door, I say ----are your tongues charmed, and is the door locked by a spell?" "It is the voice of the evil one," muttered a female voice from within; "on your salvation I charge ye open not the door." "As sure as ae wheel's wet and another's dry in Croga mill," responded another voice, "it is our father ;---I ken the neigh of Dustyfoot,---there's no an elf in Galloway can mimic that."

Slowly and cautiously the door opened, and forth came the miller's wife, and said, "Elfs' flesh or man's flesh, ye have the form and voice of ane dear to me, and touch ye I shall;" and laying her hand on the miller, she exclaimed, "It's my ain dear auld man, and all the elves of Croga may gang and seek for the other end of the rainbow. But, oh! Thomas Milroy, I wish ye had heard what we heard; we stood on our doorstone even now, and heard the Elfin Miller sing his elfin song,---and to our bended knees went we.' Loud laughed the dame of Elfknowe, and

said, "The husband's folly is the wife's salvation;" and away she rode silently home.

From that time to the present has the glen of Croga been divided against itself. The people of the eastern side of the vale express their fixed faith in the wondrous elves of the mill, and chaunt the fairy lyric with more of fear and trembling than of joy and gladness. The people of the western side sing the song to ridiculous tunes, and declare that the Elfin Miller, and his wild song, were both evoked from the miller's fancy, heated as it was with superstition and strong drink. At the head of one faction stood the miller; at the head of the other the redoubted dame of Elfknowe. Both long ago went down to the grave,---the former bequeathed his mill and his belief to his only son,---the latter transferred Elfknowe, and all her doubts and scruples, to her only daughter ;---the former caused the fifth verse of the ballad to be engraven on his grave stone,---the latter bound her descendant to leave her riches to none who had faith in the elfin Miller of Croga. The wrath and dissension which burned of old between the east and west is smouldering still; and the stranger who visits the vale would be wise to maintain a judicious silence on that mysterious event. The writer of this imperfect account,-a firm believer in the Elfin Miller and the fairy song,---narrowly escaped stoning to death in the west, and caressing to death in the east:---may his warning be welcome!

NALLA.

THE Volume of Table Talk before us is a strong original work, written directly from the author's own mind, and not filched from the world of books in which thievery is so common. Each essay is the pure gathering of the writer's thoughts upon the subject of which it treats; and if it be not always strictly just in its deductions, and complete in its conclusions, it is sure to strike out some bold and original thinking, and to give some vigorous truths in stern

and earnest language. The style of the book is singularly nervous and direct, and seems to aim at mastering its subject by dint of mere hard hitting. There is no such thing as manoeuvring for a blow. The language strikes out, and, if the intention is not fulfilled, the blow is repeated until the subject falls. Those readers who like the graces of a dancing dazzling style will be disappointed in Mr. Hazlitt's pages; for his sentences have "no limbs

and outward flourishes;" they are determined bodies only! His periods do not chime round like a peal of well-ordered bells; but they go right on, until they run against a full stop His passages are not laid out, like Pope's-Head-Alleys, which "have their brothers;" they are solitary useful paths, leading to wise temples and true prospects. We must say we think that Mr. Hazlitt might at times, without any compromise of his earnestness, use commas and semicolons a little oftener. In reading his papers, we now and then drop upon a page, the passing through which is like the passing through the toll-style of Waterloo Bridge. It catches at every move. You advance, but to be impeded. It is a series of full stops!

The volume contains twenty-seven essays, on subjects of various interest. The first three papers are well known to the public, having already appeared in certain periodical works of the day the rest of the book is, however, composed of entirely new brainwork, and is well worthy the perusal of all those who are desirous of being informed and delighted at the same time. We will now, as well as our limits will permit, touch upon a few of the most interesting papers, and select one or two passages which appear to us eminently striking and beautiful. The task of selection, from a work of this nature, is extremely difficult; but we reviewers are accustomed to hard tasks, and do our duties without a murmur.

The essay on the Coffee House Politicians is a pleasant little cluster of characters at the Southampton,some of them real,—some, perhaps, a little exaggerated,-some, no doubt, brought there by the resistless call of fiction. We are glad to see that Mr. Hazlitt has a relish of your old Button's about him; that he is not above the custom of the early essayist; that he can take "his ease at his inn," and see men sitting in sensible quiet, discussing their fellow men and things. The following cha

racter is drawn with a nice hand:

M— without being the most communicative, is the most conversible man I know. The social principle is inseparable from his person. If he has nothing to say, he drinks your health; and when you cannot from the rapidity and carelessness of

his utterance catch what he says, you assent to it with equal confidence: you know his meaning is good. His favourite phrase is, "We have all of us something of the self. Before I had exchanged half a dozen coxcomb;" and yet he has none of it himsentences with M, I found that he immediate introduction of itself, for the knew several of my old acquaintance (an discussing the characters and foibles of common friends is a great sweetener and cement of friendship)-and had been intimate with most of the wits and men about town for the last twenty years. He knew Tobin, Wordsworth, Porson, Wilson, Paley, Erskine, and many others. He speaks of Paley's pleasantry and unassuming manners, and describes Porson's long potations and long quotations formerly at the Cider-Cellar in a very lively way. He has doubts, however, as to that sort of learning. On my saying that I had never seen the Greek Professor but once, at the Library of the London Institution, when he was dressed in an old rusty black coat, with cobwebs hanging to the skirts of it, and with a large patch of coarse brown paper covering the whole length of his nose, looking for all the world like a drunken carpenter, and talking to one of the Proprietors descension, Mwith an air of suavity, approaching to consing some little uneasiness for the credit of could not help expresclassical literature. "I submit, Sir, whether common sense is not the principal thing? What is the advantage of genius and learning if they are of no use in the conduct of life?"-M- is one who loves the hours that usher in the morn, when a select few are left in twos and threes like stars before the break of day,

and when the discourse and the ale are aye growing better and better."

This is vivid work. Porson is, indeed, "in his habit as he lived," and comes out on the canvas of the Southampton Table Talk, like a rich old picture wetted by the connoisseur.

The essay on the Aristocracy of Letters is equally lively and clever. The following is a delightful tribute to the intellectual wealth of the Burneys.

There are whole families who are born classical, and are entered in the heralds' college of reputation by the right of consanguinity. Literature, like nobility, runs in the blood. There is the B-family. There is no end of it or its pretensions. It produces wits, scholars, novelists, musicians, artists in "numbers numberless." The name is alone a passport to the Temple of Fame. Those who bear it are free of Parnassus by birth-right. The founder