After such a combination of horrors as this exhibition displays-
Nocturnos lemures portentaque Thessala rides?

In this strain of still-increasing suffering, the dream of Lucius goes on, through episode and episode, leaving the agonies of Orestes and all other victims of Eumenides, goblins, ghosts, or witches, far behind. Of these excruciating torments we have already had enough, and we shall now take leave of them and their historian with tenderest feelings of compassion, (but not sympathy, thank Heaven!) if, as he admits by implication in his preface, he is himself the unfortunate subject from which his vivid pictures are drawn.*

LETTERS FROM TOURS.

MISS MARY BALL TO MISS JANE JINKINS.
THO' I send them from Tours, yet my letters remain
As first they were scribbled at Paris-dear Jane.

I bought my new bonnet on purpose to wear
At th' Italian Boulevards, to which thousands repair
As the twilight approaches. Imagine three rows
Of chairs at each side of an avenue; those

Are quickly engaged in succession, till all
Are cover'd with parties, en habit de bal.

While lamps from the trees their effulgence are throwing,
Between them a dense population is flowing

Of all that is dashing and gay :-Cuirassiers,

Polish Lancers, and Guards, whisker'd up to the ears;
Large parties of English, with spruce-looking face;
Old Ultras-a fatuous, posthumous race;

Inundations of women, no longer in caps,

But extravagant bonnets worth six or eight Naps;
Cits, soldiers, and lovers, wives, husbands, and brats,
Cloaks, spencers, and shawls, turbans, helmets, and hats,
All jumbled together to form, when they meet,
A grand cosmopolitan rout in the street.

Behind roll the carriages-good ones are rareish,
For most have an aspect extremely Rag-fairish;-
Calêches, with horses that pine for the pleasure
Of sharing the dinner of Nebuchadnezzar,
Fiacre, gig, tilbury, cabriolet,

And demi-fortunes, with their wretched display

Of one woe-begone horse, which on our side the water

Are sacred to knights of the pestle and mortar.

Some jump out, and saunter-some gaze at the throng,
Or nod to their friends as they rattle along.

Here parties of bowing Parisians stand,

With badges at button-hole, hats in their hand,
Who stop the whole tide as they congee, and show no
Reserve or compunction, but chatter pro bono.
“Madame, j'ai l'honneur-Je suis charmé, ravi.”
"Je vous salue, Monsieur-Vous êtes toujours poli.”

Que vous avez bonne mine!-Vous me flattez-Pardon!"

Il y a beaucoup de monde.-Mais très-peu du haut ton.”

The Editor could not forbear giving a place to this paper, though he begs not

to be made responsible for his correspondent's enjoyment of Mr. Nodier's "glowing style." The work of this Frenchman is, no doubt, removed from " place," but his taste is morbidly bad.

common

"Je suis désesperé de vous quitter; bon soir."

"Ah, Madame, vous me crèvez le cœur-au revoir."

John Bull, with a shake, or a slap on the back,

Cries" Harry, how goes it, my hearty?" "What, Jack !
Weren't you spilt from your dennet in Bond-street? I say,
Do you like the French wines-have you been to the play?"
"Yes, I went to see Talma; what horrible stuff!
The French are all blackguards: the women take snuff.
Have you dined at Beauvillier's and Very's? Egad,
What would Tattersal say to their horses? D―d bad!
Rue de Rivoli's fine. But the credit is Boney's.
This mobbing's a nuisance, I vote for Tortoni's."

We follow'd such in, and they brought us a carte
Of the ices, ('twould pose you to learn it by heart,)
So I glanced down the column of " Glaces et Sorbets,”
And begg'd them to give me an ice" framboisée,"
While Pa, having ponder'd and changed a good deal,
Cried "Waiter!" and pointed to "à la Vanille."
In an instant I gazed on a conical mass,

Half pallid like Inkle, half dark like his lass:
And as Yarico never yet doated on Inkle
As I upon ice, it was gone in a twinkle.

But Pa with a face that denoted disaster,

Swore his tasted of putty, of paint, sticking-plaster;
And after repeated attempts and frustration,

Made it over to me with an ejaculation.

The walks were now cramm'd, and I wish'd to renew
Our stroll-but he gave me a snappish Pho! pho!
And said he was tired, though I fancy the loss
Of his ice, not fatigue, made him grumpy and cross;
And 'twas doubly provoking, for just at that minute
Lieutenant O'Fagan had “ stipt from his dinnett,"
And joining our party, was quoting Lord Byron,
Admiring my bonnet, and calling me syren!

We went to the Gallery, Jenny, to see
The pictures-and thither our countrymen flee
To determine their bets. It's the fourth of a mile,
Which point causes daily disputes, and you'd sinile
To hear them contesting how soon they could walk it,
Laying wagers, and straightway proceeding to stalk it.
Captain Strut of the Fourth was twelve minutes, and then
Lieutenant O'Fagan perform'd it in ten;

But Sir Phelim O'Stridle accomplish'd the task

In nine without effort. I ventured to ask

What he thought of the pictures-"The pictures? that's prime! "Who'll be staring at signs when he's posting 'gainst Time?"— Here's an answer at once, if a foreigner starts

An idea that we're not getting on in the Arts.

Our countrymen flock, though they seldom have got any

Taste for Museums, or lectures, or botany,

To the Jardin des Plantes-not for rational feasts,
But to flutter the birds and to worry the beasts:
And these ('tis a fact that we all must agree to)
Cut out our's in the Tower, and extinguish Polito.
Yet though on the whole they so greatly surpass us,
They haven't that big-headed brute, the Bonassus.

That's a point where we beat them, but even on this one
They come very near in a beast call'd the Bison.
The old one-eyed Bear I shall never forget,
Who some time ago, being rather sharp set,
Pick'd the bones of a hypochondriacal Gaul,
Who by way of a suicide jump'd in his stall.

Whose taste was the worst-whose the frightfullest wish?
The man's for his death, or the bear's for his dish?

But a truce to the Gardens and bear with the swivel eye,
For Pa has just entered to take me to Tivoli.
Paulline! my new bonnet, Well, nobody knows
How I joy that 'twas "doublé en couleur de rose."
Quick-give me my shawl-where's my best bib and tucker:
Lud!-like my own ruff, I am all in a pucker!

Pa calls me I'm coming"- -so Jenny, you see
I can only subscribe iny initials,

THE SMITH VELANT.*

M. B.

THE author of Kenilworth, whose brilliant and fertile imagination has turned to such good account the popular traditions of his country, has brought into notice that of the invisible Smith, called in Berkshire the Wayland Smith, who is said to have taken up his abode in the valley of the White Horse, in the midst of a number of upright, but rude and misshapen stones. There he is said to shoe all the horses brought thither, provided a piece of money be left upon one of the stones. It is known but to very few, perhaps, that this is far from being a mere local tradition. It is not only of very remote antiquity, but traces of it are found in various other countries besides England. It is not easy to decide which is the country of its origin. It is certain that it has been known in England for several centuries back. In an old romance upon King Horn, published by Ritson, it is thus mentioned:

Than sehe lete forth bring

A swerd hougandbs a sing
To Horn sehe it betaught
Wit is the make of minning
Of all swerdes it is king
And Weland it wrought
Bitterfer the swerd hight.

But a still more ancient notice of the tradition of Velant is found in the Anglo-Saxon translation of Boethius by King Alfred §, who says, "Where now are the bones of the wise and famous goldsmith Velant? Who can now point out his tomb?" This even is not the only proof that the Anglo-Saxons were acquainted with this tradition. In a heroic poem upon the Skyldingues, written in Anglo-Saxon, and published for the first time by Thorkeling, Danish counsellor of state, Biodulph the Goth requires, that if he should happen to fall in fight, he should be buried in his armour-the workmanship of Velant.||

The Wayland Smith in Kenilworth, communicated by M. Depping, of Paris. Besides what is said of it in Camden's Britannia, it is also alluded to in Wise's Letter to Dr. Mead, concerning some Antiquities in Berkshire, particularly the White Horse. Oxford, 1738, 4to.

Ancient English Metrical Romances. London, 1802, vol. 3.

§ Oxford edition, 1693, page 43 and 162.

|| De Danorum rebus gestis, poema Danicum dialecto Anglo-saxonico ex biblioth. Cotton. Havniæ, 1815, Chant 6.

The armour made by Velant was equally renowned in France. In a Chronicle of the Counts of Angouleme, written in the 12th century*, it is said, that Count William received his surname of Taillefer, because he could, with his sword made by Velant, cleave asunder a warrior armed cap-a-pie. The fame of this celebrated armourer was also established amongst the Germans. The author of the Latin poem upon the first expedition of Attila into Gaul, published, and to all appearance written, in Germanyt, clothes Gauthier de Vorkastein in armour manufactured by Velant. In the German poetry of the middle ages, Veland is often met with under the Germanized name of Veilandt, and his praises rung as being a maker of arms of the finest temper. Godfroy of Strasbourg, in his poem of Tristan, calls him Vilint, and states that he was a Duke, who, being driven from his country by two giants, took refuge in the territory of King Elberic, where he followed the profession of a smith, in the mountain of Gloggensachsen. But it is particularly in the north of Europe that the tradition of the Smith Velant has been most firmly established, and where his name is oftenest met with in poetry. There they not only relate many detached anecdotes of him; but there is an entire romance containing the life and adventures of this famous personage. It is this circumstance that has led the modern Danish authors to think that this tradition had its origin in the north. M. Pierre Erasmus Muller has very learnedly discussed this subject in his interesting Bibliothèque des Sagas Islandais §. To his erudite researches I am indebted for the greater number of the details contained in this article.

As an equivalent for the word Smith is to be found in the language of almost every nation, so the Icelanders have rendered it by the word Velant or Voelund; and Mr. Muller finds in this word a convincing proof of the Scandinavian origin of this tradition, for, says he, Vorlund is an Icelandic word, the root of which is Voel, which signifies stratagem or skill. Volundar is even at the present day the term which the Icelanders apply to a skilful artist. The most ancient mention of Velant to be found in the northern literature, is in the Edda, which contains an entire canto, called Volundar quida; but the romance, or Saga of Velant, forms a part of an Icelandic composition somewhat less ancient, called Vilkina Saga. It is in the nature of an episode, and seeins to have been added without much attention to the march of the story. Mr. Muller thinks that the Scalde, or poet, who composed the Vilkina Saga, or added this episode to it, must have been acquainted with the German traditions and poems on the same subject, and that it was from them and from the Edda that he derived the materials of the fable of the famous Smith.

Mr. Ochlenschaeger, one of the first living poets of Denmark, found this story so interesting, that he has twice treated it, first after the simple narrative of the Edda, and the second time according to the more romantic tale of the Vilkina Saga. Indeed, the second poem is nothing more than a faithful translation of the Icelandic ||. I shall here give the outlines of it.

Chez Labbe bibliotheca MS. nov. t. 2.

De prima expeditione Attilæ regis Hunnorum in Gallias, Ed. Fischer. Voyez Grimm, de l'origine de la poesie Allemande, dans le tome 4 des Studie: De Daub. et Creutzer. § Sagabibliotek, tom. 2. Kisebenhavn, 1818.

|| Dans les Scandinaviske Litteratur-Selskabs-Skrifter. Copenhagen, 1209. Cahier 2."

The giant Vade, or Selande, had a son named Velant, whom, at the age of nine years, he placed with a famous and skilful smith, of Hunaland, called Mimit, in order to learn the art of forging iron. After leaving him three winters in Hunaland, Vade took him to a mountain called Kallona, the interior of which was inhabited by two dwarfs, who had the reputation of being more skilful in the working of iron than any other dwarfs*, or ordinary mortals. They manufactured swords, casques, and cuirasses, and were great adepts in the working of gold and silver, of which they made numberless trinkets. Vade agreed with the dwarfs that they should teach his son Velant, in the space of twelve months, all the arts of which they were masters; and for which they were to receive, as a recompense, a golden mark. Velant soon learned all that the dwarfs thought proper to teach him; and when his father returned, at the expiration of the appointed time, to take him away, the dwarfs offered to give him back the golden mark, and teach his son as much again as he had already learned, if he should be allowed to remain another twelve months under their care. Vade consented; but the dwarfs, quickly repenting of the bad bargain they had made, added this condition, that if, upon the appointed day, Vade did not appear to take away his son, they should be at liberty to kill him. To this Vade also gave his assent; but, before his departure, he took his son aside, shewed him a sword, which he concealed in a certain spot at the foot of the mountain, and said to him, "If I should not arrive on the appointed day, sooner than allow yourself to be killed by those dwarfs, take this sword and put an end to your own existence, in order that my friends may say, that I gave to the world a man, and not a girl." Velant promised to do so, and re-entered the mountain, where he soon became so skilful in the art of working metals, that the dwarfs became jealous of his superiority. Towards the close of the twelve months, Vade the giant set out for the mountain, where he arrived three days before the expiration of the time. But, finding the entrance to the interior of the mountain not yet open, and being very much fatigued after his long journey, he fell asleep. During his slumber a violent storm arose, a part of the mountain gave way, and buried poor Vade under its fragments.

The day fixed upon for his appearance being come, the dwarfs issued from the mountain, but could perceive no traces of Vade the giant. His son Velant, after in vain searching for him, ran to where the sword was concealed, took it, and hiding it under his garments, followed the dwarfs into the mountain. He there killed them (instead of himself), took possession of their tools, loaded a horse with as much gold and silver as he could carry, and set out on his return to Denmark. On being stopped in his progress by a river, he cut down a tree, hollowed out its trunk, stowed his treasures into it, made a cover for it, which rendered it impervious to the water, and getting into it himself, closed the lid, and committed himself to the mercy of the

waves.

One day that the King of Jutland and his court were out on a fishing

The Finlanders are continually designated in the Sagas as dwarfs, and even sorcerers. They were of a very diminutive stature, and generally lived in the caverns of the mountains; hence their double appellation of dwarfs and necroman

cers.