of hypocrisy is too fully emphasized, and the sensitiveness to ugly and revolting objects too much deadened by a rough life, yet nobody could be more heartily convinced of the beauty and value of those solid domestic instincts on which human happiness must chiefly depend. Put Fielding beside the modern would-be satirists who make society-especially French society*—a mere sink of nastiness, or beside the more virtuous persons whose favourite affectation is simplicity, and who labour most spasmodically to be masculine, and his native vigour, his massive common sense, his wholesome views of men and manners, stand out in solid relief. Certainly he was limited in perception, and not so elevated in tone as might be desired; but he is a fitting representative of the stalwart vigour and the intellectual shrewdness evident in the best men of his time. The English domestic life of the period was certainly far from blameless, and anything but refined; but, if we have gained in some ways, we are hardly entitled to look with unqualified disdain upon the rough vigour of our beer-drinking, beef-eating ancestors.

We have felt, indeed, the limitations of Fielding's art more clearly since English fiction found a new starting-point in Scott. Scott made us sensible of many sources of interest to which Fielding was naturally blind. He showed us especially that a human being belonged to a society going through a long course of historical development, and renewed the bonds with the past which had been rudely snapped in Fielding's period. Fielding only deals, it may be roughly said, with men as members of a little family circle, whereas Scott shows them as members of a nation rich in old historical traditions, related to the past and the future, and to the external nature in which it has been developed. A wider set of forces is introduced into our conception of humanity, and the romantic element, which Fielding ignored, comes again to life. Scott, too, was a greater man than Fielding, of wider sympathy, loftier character, and, not the least, with an incomparably keener ear for the voices of the mountains, the sea, and the sky. The more Scott is studied, the higher, I believe, the opinion that we shall form of some of his powers. But in one respect Fielding is his superior. It is a kind of misnomer which classifies Scott's books as novels. They are embodied legends and traditions, descriptions of men, and races, and epochs of history; but they are novels, as it were, by accident, and modern readers are often disappointed because the name suggests misleading associations. They expect to sympathise with Scott's heroes, whereas the heroes are generally dropped in from without, just to give ostensible continuity to the narrative. The apparent accessories are really the main substance. The Jacobites and not Waverley, the Borderers, not Mr. Van Beest Brown, the Covenanters, not Morton or Lord Evandale, are the real subject of Scott's best romances. The Bride of Lammermoor is almost the sole ex

*For Felding's view of the French novels of his day see Tom Jones, book xiii. chap. 9.

cessors.

ception to the general rule. Now Fielding is really a novelist in the more natural sense. We are interested, that is, by the main characters, though they are not always the most attractive in themselves. We are really absorbed by the play of their passions and the conflict of their motives, and not merely taking advantage of the company to see the surrounding scenery or phases of social life. In this sense Fielding's art is admirable, and surpassed that of all his English predecessors as of most of his sucIf the light is concentrated in a narrow focus, it is still healthy daylight. So long as we do not wish to leave his circle of ideas, we see little fault in the vigour with which he fulfils his intention. And therefore, whatever Fielding's other faults, he is beyond comparison the most faithful and profound mouthpiece of the passions and failings of a society which seems at once strangely remote and yet strangely near to us. When seeking to solve that curious problem which is discussed in one of Hazlitt's best essays-what characters one would most like to have met? and running over the various claims of a meeting at the Mermaid with Shakspeare and Jonson, a " neat repast of Attic taste" with Milton, a gossip at Button's with Addison and Steele, a club-dinner with Johnson and Burke, a supper with Lamb, or (certainly the least attractive) an evening at Holland House, I sometimes fancy that, after all, few things would be pleasanter than a pipe and a bowl of punch with Fielding and Hogarth. It is true that for such a purpose I provide myself in imagination with a new set of sturdy nerves and with a digestion such as that which was once equal to the horrors of an undergraduates' "wine party." But, having made that trifling assumption, I fancy that there would be few places where one would hear more good motherwit, shrewder judgments of men and things, or a sounder appreciation of those homely elements of which human life is in fact chiefly composed. Common sense in the highest degree-whether we choose to identify it or contrast it with genius, is at least one of the most enduring and valuable of qualities in literature as everywhere else; and Fielding is one of its best representatives. But perhaps one is unduly biassed by the charm of a complete escape in imagination from the thousand and one affectations which have grown up since Fielding died and we have all become so much wiser and mɔrə learned than all previous generations.

Folk-lore of the County Donegal.

THE FAIRIES.

66

THE belief in the "wee folk," cr gen'ry," is very much more widely spread in our picturesque and mountainous county than cursory inquirers have any idea of. Every old hawthorn tree, standing alone in the midst of a field, is supposed to be under their protection; and the old Danish forts, so common in the country, as well as the waste grounds or wildernesses, where dog-roses, brambles, woodbine, and hazels grow in a tangle together, are accounted their especial territories.

The elfin people of the Donegal legends do not in the least resemble the fairies of poetry and romance; neither Oberon, Titania, nor Ariel is to be discovered among them. Nor are they like the humorous and frolicsome sprites believed in by the Southern Irishman. The North of Ireland fairy is a practical, calculating being, very like the shrewd, semiScotch farmer and cottier, in whose land his wild territory stands.

"Who are the fairies?" we asked an old man who had told several quaint fairy tales, full of strange adventure, gravely vouching for their truth. The curious events described had all, he declared, happened to neighbours and friends of his own, or had been handed down from father to son in his family.

"When

"The gentry is allowed to be the fallen angels," he replied. Satan and his angels were thrown over the battlements of heaven, the greater part of them fell down to hell; but some fell into the sea-those is the mermen an' mermaids; an' others fell on the earth-those is the fairies."

"Why are they now so rarely seen or heard?" we inquired.

"Weel, ma'am, there's them that says the wee folk is all awa' to Scotland; but others thinks there's as many o' them in Ireland as ever, only they canna get making themselves visible, becase there's so much Scripture spread abroad over the country."

"Is that your own opinion?"

"It is not, ma'am. I think they know that the judgment-day is drawing near; an' so they're keeping very quiet, in the hope that, if they do no more mischief, they may be saved."

We thanked our old friend for his explanation, which was quite new to us. Our manifest interest in his conversation led him to tell grotesque stories of circumstances which had, he said, taken place at the beginning of the present century, when the elfin people had still the power of making themselves visible.

It was in the autumn of the year 1808 that Andy Donnel "flitted

from the old farm of Tubber-nagatte to that of Dirnahalle, near Letterkenny, accompanied by his mother, wife, and sister, who were mounted upon carts laden with their household plenishing. "Dear, but it's the decent flitting!" ejaculated the neighbours, watching these well-laden carts set forth. "Dear, send ye may have good luck in the new place!" The wish was a kindly one; but time passed over the heads of the tenants of Dirnahalle, and it did not seem likely to be fulfilled. It was not that any fault could be found with house or land; the former, though small, was in excellent repair, and the latter appeared worthy of the manure that Donnel lavished upon it. But his careful culture was fruitless. Very poor turnips and potatoes, miserable wheat, and oats much mixed with smut, alone rewarded his incessant toil. Year after year he and his wife and sister toiled to pay their rent; and the labour became harder each year, while they grew greyer and more wrinkled; and the old lady in the chimney-corner uttered many a lamentation over the departed ease and comfort of Tubber-nagatte. "We maun flit

again, Peggy, but we'll hae nae roof over us this time; we'll be poor travellers looking for our bit," said Donnel, one gloomy September day.

He had thatched his miserable stacks, and from his seat in the garden could see the snug stackyards of some of his neighbours. Peggy had no comfort to offer; she sighed deeply, and walked into the house, leaving Donnel seated on a stone against the cottage wall, with his head sunk upon his hands.

He had sat in this dejected attitude for some time, when he became conscious of a sound near him, and, looking up, saw a little old man, wearing a three-cornered cocked-hat, coming towards him between the potato ridges.

"You're studying, neighbour," began the tiny man. "May I ax what it is ails you?" Surprise kept Donnel silent. “You needna be telling me," continued his visitor, "for I ken your trouble weel. Naething prospers that you put your hand till; an' you canna make up the rent, good nor bad."

"You're right," cried Donnel, startled; "that was my study, sure enough."

"Didn't I tell you I knowed it?" rejoined the little man, pettishly. "But I'm sorry for you, an' I'll just tell you what you'll do. Go into the house an' bid your women folk never pour anither drop o' water into the sink, for it's just over my head, an' every drop they pour into that sink goes to put out my kitchen fire. If you take my advice you'll get the sink changed frae the front o' the house, where it is now, to the back, an' maybe things 'll go better wi' you."

So saying, he nodded to the farmer, and, turning heels over head down the potato ridges, disappeared from sight.

Scratching his head with one hand, while he rubbed his eyes with the other, Donnel gazed after the active little man. He then got up, and went into the cottage, and threw himself on his knees over the sink.

"Gie me a cloth, an' never do you throw the potato-water in here again,” cried he to his women folk, who looked on in utter astonishment, thinking he must have gone mad. But a few hurried words explained all. His next care was to send for a mason, and have the sink changed from the front to the back of the house, carefully closing up the crevice that lay right above his fairy neighbour's kitchen fire. The mason had the conscience to charge him two shillings for the job; but he was wont to say that it was, after all, a cheap morning's work. For from that hour everything prospered with him. The farm bore splendid crops, the cows yielded fabulous quantities of golden butter, the rent was paid with ease, and money was lodged in the bank against a rainy day, which, however,

never came.

We have said that the old hawthorn trees are still looked upon as fairy property. Woe betide the foolhardy person who ventures to raise an axe against one of these "gentle bushes," as they are called. Indeed the man who, either to earn money, or to win his master's favour, cuts down a "gentle bush," is sure, the people think, to suffer for it. The large farmers, all tolerably well educated in these days, are naturally unwilling to lose good ground; and the gnarled hawthorns are disappearing from the fields where the superstition of former generations left them. But the farmer must often take the hatchet into his own hand, so reluctant are his labourers to help him.

Two curious instances of this superstition came lately under the writer's own observation. A poor man in the village of Carrigans, tempted by the offer of five shillings, cut down one of these trees; the season was very wet, and he soon afterwards had a severe attack of rheumatic fever, which some of his neighbours declared to be a judg ment of the "gentry" upon him! The branches of the dishonoured tree lay long unregarded; but at length the mother of a large family, remembering that coals were very dear, plucked up courage to carry the branches home and burn them. Her husband, however, hurt his hand in a flax-mill next day, and one of her children fell out of bed and broke its arm-a punishment, she said, for her rash deed! But the fairies are not always malevolent and revengeful. Some of the quaintest Donegal legends represent them as being generously and kindly disposed towards their human neighbours.

Very long ago-years before the railroads were made, when tall trees were little saplings-there lived an old woman and her daughter in a tiny mud hovel by the wayside. An ancient hawthorn tree grew very close to the cabin, stretching its gnarled arms over the thatch, and striking its roots deep and far. The factories were not yet built, and spinningwheels hummed in every chimney corner, and the girls sang sweet songs to their drowsy accompaniments.

Kitty spun all day long, but she could not sing. The birds, however, haunted the "gentle bush," whose branches lay upon the roof like a mass of snow in spring, and a crimson curtain in autumn, and there was the