gh the medium of an English translation,
which was published in London about the beginning of the eighteenth
century; of the merits of that translation the present writer can say
nothing, as it has never come to his hand: he cannot however help
observing, that a person who would translate the Visions of Quevedo, and
certain other writings of his, should be something more than a fair
Spanish scholar, and a good master of the language into which he would
render them, as they abound not only with idiomatic phrases, but terms of
cant or Germania, which are as unintelligible as Greek or Arabic to the
greater part of the Spaniards themselves.

The following translation of the Sleeping Bard has long existed in
manuscript. It was made by the writer of these lines in the year 1830,
at the request of a little Welsh bookseller of his acquaintance, who
resided in the rather unfashionable neighbourhood of Smithfield, and who
entertained an opinion that a translation of the work of Elis Wyn, would
enjoy a great sale both in England and Wales. On the eve of committing
it to the press however, the Cambrian Briton felt his small heart give
way within him: "Were I to print it," said he, "I should be ruined; the
terrible descriptions of vice and torment, would frighten the genteel
part of the English public out of its wits, and I should to a certainty
be prosecuted by Sir James Scarlett. I am much obliged to you, for the
trouble you have given yourself on my account--but Myn Diawl! I had no
idea till I had read him in English, that Elis Wyn had been such a
terrible fellow."

Yet there is no harm in the book. It is true that the Author is any
thing but mincing in his expressions and descriptions, but there is
nothing in the Sleeping Bard which can give offence to any but the over
fastidious. There is a great deal of squeamish nonsense in the world;
let us hope however that there is not so much as there was. Indeed can
we doubt that such folly is on the decline, when we find Albemarle Street
in '60, willing to publish a harmless but plain speaking book which
Smithfield shrank from in '30?

The Vision of the Course of the World.

One fine evening of warm sunny summer, I took a stroll to the top of one
of the mountains of Wales, carrying with me a telescope to assist my
feeble sight by bringing distant objects near, and magnifying small ones.
Through the thin, clear air, and the calm and luminous heat, I saw many
delightful