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return to our story. Some twenty years ago, when in retired parts of the country the communication between one place and another was much slower and less frequent than it is now, there was a good deal of horse-stealing carried on in the English counties on the borders of Wales. Those counties were and are very full of pretty little towns and villages, in one or another of which there were fairs for the sale of live stock almost every day of the year, and it was easy to steal a horse from one parish, and carry it away and sell it at some one of these fairs, almost before the rightful owner knew that he had lost it. Well, it so happened that about this time lived a lazy careless rollicking sort of fellow, by name Morgan Jones, who contrived to make a living somehow or other, but how it was nobody well knew, though most people suspected it was not the most honest livelihood a person might gain. In fact, every body was sure that Morgan was deeply implicated in horsestealing, and many a time had he been brought before the justice on suspicion, but do what they could nobody could find sufficient evidence to convict him. People wondered and talked about it for a long time, until at last they came to the only natural conclusion, namely, that Morgan Jones must have dealings with the evil one.

Now it once chanced that Morgan and some of his chosen cronies were making themselves jolly over sundry pots of ale and pipes of tobacco, at a round white deal table, in the clean parlour of a very neat little alehouse, as all village alehouses are in that part of the country. And they began to get very happy and comfortable together, and were telling one another their adventures, till at last one spoke plainly out, and told Morgan Jones that it was commonly reported he had to do with the devil.

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FRIAR RUSH AND THE

Why yes," answered Morgan, "there's some truth in that same, sure enough; I used to meet with him now and then, but we fell out, and I have not seen him these two months."

"Aye!" exclaimed each of the party, "how's that, Morgan?"

"Why, then, be quiet, and I'll tell ye it all." And thereupon Morgan emptied his pot, and had it filled again, and took a puff of his pipe, and began his story.

"Well then," says he, " 'you must know that I had not seen his honour for a long time, and it was about two months ago from this that I went one evening along the brook shooting wild-fowl, and as I was going whistling along, whom should I spy coming up but the devil himself? But you must know he was dressed mighty fine, like any grand gentleman, though I knew the old one well by the bit of his tail which hung out at the bottom of his trousers. Well, he came up, and says he, Morgan, how are ye?' and says I, touching my hat, 'pretty well, your honour, I thank ye.' And then says he, Morgan, what are ye looking a'ter, and what's that long thing ye're carrying with ye?' And says I, 'I'm only walking out by the brook this fine evening, and carrying my backy-pipe with me to smoke.' Well, you all know the old fellow is mighty fond of the backy; so says he, Morgan, let's have a smoke, and I'll thank ye.' And says I, 'You're mighty welcome.' So I gave him the gun, and he put the muzzle in his mouth to smoke, and thinks I, 'I have you now, old boy,' 'cause you see I wanted to quarrel with him; so I pulled the trigger, and off went the gun bang in his mouth. 'Puff!' says he, when he pulled it out of his mouth, and he stopped a minute to think about it, and

--

says he, 'D-d strong backy, Morgan!' Then he gave me the gun, and looked huffed, and walked off, and sure enough I've never seen him since. And that's the way I got shut of the old gentleman, my boys!"

Such is the ludicrous story of Morgan Jones, who had to do with a proper Welsh devil, without doubt.

ESSAY XI.

OBSERVATIONS ON DUNLOP'S HISTORY OF FICTION.

OME years have now passed since Dunlop's History of Fiction was first published, during which great advances have been made in the general knowledge of the

subject on which it treats, and many new facts have been discovered. Yet it is a valuable book of reference for general readers, and contains a large mass of popular information on the romantic writers of ancient and modern times; though it is deficient in arrangement, and it certainly does not give a correct historical view of the origin and progress of fiction and romance.

Nothing can be more erroneous than the attempt to trace the origin of romantic literature to one particular source, be that source either Eastern, or Gothic, or Grecian, for each of these have formed the ground of different hypotheses, which have been supported with equal ingenuity and perseverance. Every country has possessed, in its own primeval literature, the first germ of romance, which has been developed more or less under different circumstances, influenced frequently by accidents, and has been in course of time modified in its form and character, by intercourse with a foreign literature in a different stage of development. The earliest class of romance was of a purely mythic character. Epithets given to the Deity by

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his worshippers, in the infancy of nations, were afterwards mistaken for names of different personages; and the attributes expressed or implied by them were gradually transformed into deeds and actions of the individual, and were, in course of time, combined and confounded with the dim and gigantic traditions of real events which had survived through several generations, when memory was the only means of preserving them. These appear first in a poetical shape, because poetry was the only form of literary composition found in the primeval age. It is to this source that we owe the poetic legends of Troy and Thebes, and the whole range of Grecian (as well as Teutonic) mythology; and it is this nature of the origin of these legends that has left so much room for disputing whether the legends themselves are historical or purely mythic. The Eddas, indigenous to the north of Europe, are of this character. The Anglo-Saxons had as complete a family of gods as that which figures in the Grecian mythology: Woden, and his descendants Bed-wiga, and Hwala, and Hadra, and Heremon, and Heremod, and Beowa, and Tætwa, and Geata, and Godwulf, and Finn, and some thirteen more in succession,* were the demigods or heroes of the fabulous age of our primitive forefathers, and stand at the head of the Saxon mythic genealogy, to which the different branches of the Saxon blood-royal traced its descent; as the great families of Greece claimed descent from Theseus, Hercules, &c. Each of the names on the list was no doubt the subject of a series of romantic

* A curious dissertation on the Anglo-Saxon mythic genealogical list, by Mr. Kemble, will be found in the second volume of his edition of Beowulf.