hilosophy. The most accomplished and poetical
minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into these accidental
conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages, and to draw from them
their finest imagery and, machinery. If we look through our most
admired poets, we shall find that their minds have been impregnated by
these popular fancies, and that those have succeeded best who have
adhered closest to the simplicity of their rustic originals. Such is
the case with Shakspeare in his Midsummer-Night's Dream, which so
minutely describes the employments and amusements of fairies, and
embodies all the notions concerning them which were current among the
vulgar. It is thus that poetry in England has echoed back every rustic
note, softened into perfect melody; it is thus that it has spread its
charms over every-day life, displacing nothing, taking things as it
found them, but tinting them up with its own magical hues, until every
green hill and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every humble
flower, is full of song and story.

I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject; yet it
brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy
days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained
had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true
history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of
these recollections, as almost to wish that I had been born in the
days when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look
upon those fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a
lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my
early days tells me, that they were sources of exquisite delight; and
I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect the
flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure from contemplating
them, that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies.
I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man
are promoted by the advancement of truth; yet I cannot but mourn over
the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The
fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel, Oberon,
Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy-land, all vanish before
the light of true philosophy; but who does not sometimes turn with
distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the
sweet visions of the night?

THE CULPRIT.

From