sociated with one single spot; all of which appear
externally different, and yet internally are connected closely, "so that
when comprehended in one whole picture, and not till then, they form
what, in a strict and literary sense, we are accustomed to call a
TRADITION or TALE. I, at least," adds Ernst Willkomm, "in such an
upgathering of these disjointed tones of tradition, could only
accomplish something that satisfied me by searching out the profound
hidden meaning of the people's poesy: and I have at last gone no further
than attempting to compose these detached fragments of tradition,
Lusatianwise and popularwise, from the people's own telling, into a
whole. Upon this scheme only could alike the poetical worth of the
tales, and the portraiture of the race, be rescued and rightly secured."

That the traditions have been rescued and maintained in their purity and
truth; coloured, no doubt, in the telling, and that unavoidably, under
the pencil of their educated renderer--we have every reason to believe
from internal evidences. Maintaining their own originality, they
correspond in the main to the traditions which come to us from almost
every known country on the globe, concurring to attest the intimate and
necessary relation of the human soul with what would seem to be the
remnants of an ancient and universal mythology. They bear upon their
front the minute impress of reality, not to be mistaken, and beyond the
mere invention of the poet. They are a valuable addition to the common
stock. The style of Willkomm is clear, and to the point; almost always,
as he says, in characterizing the speech of his own Upper Lusatians,
"hitting the nail upon the head." It breathes of his own mountain air,
and possesses a charm, a vigour, and freshness, which we fear that we
shall endeavour in vain to transfer to the following version:--

THE FAIRIES' SABBATH.

"Children born of a Sunday, and bastards, inherit the gift, denied to
other human beings, of beholding spirits, of talking with them, and, if
opportunity befriend, of right intimately communing with them. This was
a truth experienced by pretty Maud, the stone-mason's only daughter,
who, a hundred years ago or so, led, at the foot of the mountain-ridge
yonder, a quiet home-loving life. Maud was born, of all days in the
year, upon Easter Sunday, which is said to be a truly lucky day for a
mortal not otherwise heavily burdened with earthly blessings. In this
last respect, Maud h