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Les diagrammes sulvants iliustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 Htei' ia..itp.W-^Vr-- .?:./i •l.-r J JBfiSSiB m- ♦1 1 ■'. r*' ^ " •A 4 ^ ^(W«»*f*|' ■'''.'••vr ,'.4 •!: 'S I,- BALLADS AND BALLAD LITERATURE. vr;i' ' • ., /iead before the Hamilton Association, December sand, i8g2. : ,, BY H. U. WITTON, < - ■ With almost all peoples, ballads and rude poetry furnish the oldest fragments of history. Buckle, the historian, says : " All his- tory is at first ballads." Besides their contributions to history, songs have helped to inspire national bravery, and in a variety of ways have made men happy and useful. The Norsemen had their Skalds ; the Latin races their trouveres, troubadours, jongleurs and minstrels ; the Germans had their minnesingers and meistersingers ; and the Britons and Celts their gleemen and bards. Maistre VVace, who lived in the middle of the XII century, has left an imaginary des- cription of the various poets who took part at the coronation of King Arthur. His is an interesting picture of a medieval minstrel company. His " idle singers of an empty day " he classifies into "jongleurs, singers and rhymers," and adds; "many songs might " you heat, rote songs, vocal songs, fiddler's lays and notes, lays for " harps, lays for sytols, lyres and corn pipes, symphonies, psalteries, "monochords, cymbals. Of performers there were plenty, male "and female, and some said tales and fables." At festivals, public and private, the minstrel was an important personage. In the Gothic hall of the noble his harp and voice were ready with stories ofttimes told, but ever new, of knightly bravery in battle, and devotion in love ; while at more public gatherings such as the visitation of a bishop, the installation of an abbot, or above all, at the coronation of a king, national themes became the burden of his song. But the minstrel was as much at home, and was as welcome in the cottage of the peasant as in the hall of the baron. A fragment from " Chevy Chace," some of the exploits of Robin Hood, or a minor ditty of local bravery, love, devotion or suffering, sufficed to make all listeners akin, and assured the minstrel a welcome where- ever he went. Chaucer's picture of the minstrel of his time is real- istic and evidently from the life : ■.■*.*tUl ii- /~l° F^o/R, /ges- k/8 3S " Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness " To make the English sweete upon his tongue ; " And in his Harping when that he had songe, " His Eyen twinkled in his Head aright, " As don the Sterres in a frosty night." In the middle ages minstrels were often well rewarded. Tlie Chroniclers record that some of them built churches and founded religious houses. Their attractions sometimes excited the clergy to jealousy; for in the olden time many liked songs better than sermons, and preferred to be pleased than instructed. Of the pre-Christian, heathen literature of Britain, time has left but little trace. The ordeal of modern criticism has reduced the heathen remains of the Celtic period to a few fragments. " Beowulf," an Anglo-Saxon poem of the VIII century, is, in spirit, more Christian than heathen. The " Traveller's Song," which is assigned to the latter half of the VI century, recites the poet's experiences as a travelling gleeman. Another piece " Deor's Complaint," which is held to be of about the same age, is the lament of a bard whom another had supplanted in his lord's favor. The scholarship of England in Anglo-Saxon times was practically confined to the clergy, and the literature of that period is characteristically religious' Translations and paraphrases of the Gospels and narrative portions of the Scriptures, homilies, pastorals, legends, and annals, and chronicles by monastics, are the chief treasures beciueathed to posterity by writers of the middle ages. An interesting list of the best writings of that time, and a summary of their contents may be found in Ten Brinks History of English Literature. Ballads were originally dancing songs ; but, as now understood, they are lyrical poems, in which some popular story is pointedly told. A ballad may, indeed must, include sentiment or passion, or both ; but it is essential for these to be coupled with succinct graphic narration of outward action. Sentiment and passion, unaccompanied by narrative, when poetically expressed, fall under some of the infinite varieties into which songs of war, sentiment, and love, and religious hymns may be subdivided, rather than to ballad poetry. Many of the older ballads of our collections have been orally handed down, till recent times ; and nobody knows their exact age or authorship. There is indeed a growing belief that the vital por- i tions of some of the great ballads, like the essential forms of many popular marchen, fables, anl nursery rhymes, have been roving about the world for ages, like the wandering Jew, and are the com- mon inheritance of many peoples. The comparative method of investigatiort applied to popular stories shows some tales to be veritable cosmopolites, strangers nowhere ; and the same method applied to the study of popular ballads, may have much to teach concerning them. But it is not strange that folk-poetry even in countries far apart should have lineaments, and strong points in common. Human hearts throb with like passions under different skies. Good and evil, joy and sorrow, love and hate, temptation and self-abnegation, the unspeakable beauty of the earth below, and the heavens above, these — the ultimate elements of all poetry — are common to all lands and ages. Although the exact date of the older ballads cannot be deter- mined, some of them are undoubtedly closely related to the lais, metrical romances and fabliaux, which came into vogue in England, soon after the Norman conquest. These romances, first in verse, and afterwards in prose, dealt with a variety of subjects, legendary and actual, amongst which were the exploits of Alexander the Great ; the fall of Troy; the legends of King Arthur; and those of the Holy Grail. These, and many similar topics, during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, were written in metrical form, and in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries they were reduced to prose, and re-arranged in many shapes. Some of these romances are veritable art treasures ; they were written in monasteries, and years of labor were bestowed on their initial letters, miniatures and decoration. Specimens of these manuscripts are still pre- served. They are jealously guarded in the great libraries of the world, not only for their rarity, but for the influence of such romances on the literature of Europe, and on the system of chivalry which dominated what was best in Europe for some centuries. Several of these romances were printed by the early printers. Caxton both translated and printed the " Historyes ofTroye," and Sir Thomas Malorv prepared for Caxton's press a book of the Arthurian legends, which in our own time have been presented to the world anew with such melodious freshness by Tennyson. /2c¥^'i^1 At its date of issue, in 1765, and for some time after, the book entitled " Reliques of Ancient English poetry," published by Thos. Percy, was the best collection of ballads known. Percy was a man of literary tastes, who enjoyed the friendship of Garrick, Johnson, Shenstone, and other men of note in his day. For a quarter of a century he was rector at Easton Maundit, a village near Nottingham, and afterwards, by favor of the Duke of Northumberland, he became Bishop of Dromore, the see once held by Jeremy Taylor. That Percy had qualifications for making a good collection of ballad poetry, may be seen from his own song, commencing : " Oh, Nancy, wilt thou go with me " Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? " Can silent glens have charms for thee " The lowly cot and russet gown ?" Burns said of that song : " It is perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language." The first edition of Percy's book contained 176 pieces, 45 of which were taken from an old written ballad book. That old manuscript, since become famous, was a long, narrow, folio volume, containing 195 songs, ballads, and metrical romances. Percy found it on the floor at a friend's house. He was just in time to save it from destruction, as the servants had begun to use it for lighting the fire. After Percy's death, it passed into the possession of his son-in-law, and in 1868 was bought for the British Museum, where it remains. The handwriting of the old ballad book is held by experts to be of the time of the restoration. Mr. Furnival, the great authority on such questions of English literature, calls it "The foundation document of English balladry." In conjunction with Mr. Hales, Mr. Furnival in 1867-68 printed th? manuscript in full. Sir Walter Scott acknowledged his obligation to Percy's Reliques, and their influence on his tastes and pursuits. He says : " The first time I could scrape a few shillings together I bought a copy of these beloved volumes ; nor do I believe that I ever read a book half so frequently, or with half the enthusiasm." Shortly after the Reliques were printed for Percy, Joseph Ritson published his " Ancient Songs and Ballads." Ritson's book, though printed in 1787, and dated 1790, was not published until 1792. It is a collection of ballads, chronologically ar- ranged, from the time of Henry the Second to the Revolution ; and is edited with great care. Ritson made no pretension to genius, as that gift is usually explained, but by the special definition, according to Cariyle, that " genius is the capacity to take infinite pains," he was a genius of good standing, for few men ever took more pains to do accurate work than he did. liut like some men of that stamp, he had a perverse temper, and took an almost impish delight in pointing out the petty inaccuracies of other workers in the same field of labor as his own. Scott ap- preciated Ritson's exact knowledge, and careful work, and rarely disagreed with him, though a story is told, that Ritson, whcMi a visitor at Scott's house, on one occasion became so aggressive that Leyden, despite his fondness for literature, could stand the irrita- tion no longer, and threatened to " thraw Ritson's neck," and pitch him out of the window. Despite imperfections of temper, which in his later life became a grave affliction, Joseph Ritson is entitled to the thanks of all who take pleasure in the antiquities of English literature. Since Ritson's day, Scott, Motherwell, Aytoun, Lockhart, Jamieson, Chambers, and others, have edited collections of ballads, and numerous British societies have printed for their members, ballads of particular periods. Scott's collection of border ballads was just in time to save many of them from oblivion, as their oral transmission was then confined to a few old people, and the next gen- eration would have known little or nothing of them. The completest collection of old ballads is that edited by Prof. F. J. Child, of Harvard University. The Ballads, in 4 vols., edited some years since by Prof. Child, for the Boston edition of the British poets, made lovers of ballad literature his debtors, and the limited edition in 10 parts, just completed under his are, is a superb work, quite unrivalled of its kind. If the modern ballads, which have permanently enriched the literature of the nineteenth century, be added to those of earlier date, ballad literature becomes doubled in volume, and not de- preciated in quality. The poets of Germany following in the footsteps of their forbears, have turned the genius of their language and predilections of the Teutonic race to account, in producing ballads of unsurpassed beauty, and most of the English poets of later years have added to the value of the hoard. Many a garland might be strung from the beauties of bal- lad poetry. The limits of this paper permit only a flower or two to be plucked here and there. As with Sinbad in the valley of diamonds, the difficulty is to choose from such abundance. In such a case we may forbear to quote in order of time or subject. The l)ee flits from blossom to blossom, and gathers honey, regardless of the order of his visitations, and our illustrations may be more pleasing from variety than from formal selection. The Cuckoo song is said to be the oldest song in the English language. Ritson places it third in chronological order in his list, and ne'Mier of the two which precede it is in English. 'J'he Latin convivial song of Walter Mapes stands first, and the second is the i'Vench song by Richard the B'irst, written during his cai)tivity in (Jcrniany on his return from the East. The MS. of the Cuckoo Song is in the British Museum, and is referred to the year 1250. Although not within the pale of ballads proper, its beauty and age both claim for it first place in English Lyric poetry. Summer is y-comen in, Loud sing, cuckoo ; Groweth seed, And bloweth mead And spring'th the wood now Sing cuckoo ! Ewe bleatet h after lamb, Low'th after calf cow, Bullock sterteth,* Buck verteth. Merry sing cuckoo ! Cuckoo, cuckoo ! Well sings thou, cuckoo ! Nor swiket thou never now. The best known of the old ballads is that called Chevy Chase. There are several ballads, some English, others Scottish, concerning battles on the border. The only fight in which a Douglas fell when battling with a Percy, was that of August 9th, 1 388, at Otterburn, where the Earl of Douglas was slain on the field. In the ballads, victory is claimed for both sides, according to the nat- ional predilection of the singer. Froissart, the French chronicler, says the Scots were victorious. Chevy Chase is in an ancient and modern version, both of which are more recent than the Otterburn ballads. The minstrel opens with a hunting foray, which is soon merged in the battle given in the older ballads. But, anach- ronisms are no rarities in these old songs, and historical accuracy is gambols t cease not to he expected. The modern version of Chevy Chase, if less accurate than the older songs, is an admirable ballad. Every inci- dent of the day is fixed in the memory, never to be forgotten. The meeting of the armies, the death of Douglas, and the roll call after the battle, are described with much force. How gruesome is the picture of the scene after the fight : " Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail ; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies bathed in purple bloud They bore with them away ; They kissed them— dead— a thousand times, When they were clad in clay." Of modern ballads Lenore by Burger is a masterpiece. Its rei)utation has long been world wide ; and Germany prizes it as the ballad of ballads. The birth of the modern ballad in (iermany dates from its production. Burger wrote this celebrated piece in 1773, eight years after the publication of Percy's Reliques. With a firm hand Burger has pictured the old heathen belief that love is stronger than death, inasmuch as even the rest of the dead may be broken by grief of the living. And with like skill he shows the sin- fulness of murmuring or despairing over the dealings of Providence with men. The sources of Burger's ballad, are '* Sweet VVilliani's Ghost," an ancient ballad given by Percy ; an old German volkslieder^ and a tale told him by a peasant girl — of a phantom trooper, who at midnight bore to his grave his disconsolate sweet- heart. These suggested Lenore to Burger, as Bandello's novel suggested Romeo and Juliet to Shakespeare. In both cases out- lines of the story were to hand, but they were only the motive stimulating the master's higher art, the crude elements to be trans- muted to gold in the alembic of the poet's imagination. Dramatists, musicians and painters, have been attracted by this ballad, and have made their arts minister to illustrating its weird beauty. Sir Walter Scott translated it into English in 1795, and it was published the following year under the name of "William and Helen." Scott's attention was drawn to the ballad by the chorus of the midnight ride, by which the flight of the spectral steed is made so realistic that it can be almost heard. Taylor's translation of that stanza was repeated to Scott, who used nearly the same words in his version, informing his readers that fur doing so he " had obtained forgiveness of the gentleman to whom the chorus properly belongs." The original chorus reads : Und immer weiter, hopp, hopp, hopp t Ciing's fort in saugendum Lialopp, Dag Kogs und Keiter Schnoben Und Kies and funken stoben. The translation Scott heard reads : Tramp ! tramp t across the land they speed, Splash ! splash ! across the sea ; Hurrah ! the dead can ride apace ! Dost fear to ride with me ! Scott's own translation in full is : From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, And eyed the dawning red ; " Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! O, art thou false or dead ?" With gallant Fred 'rick's princely power He sought the bold Crusade ; Hut not a word from Judah's wars Told Helen how he sped. With Paynim and with Saracen At length a truce was made. And ev'ry knight retuin'd to dry The tears his love had shed. Our gallant host was homeward bound With many a song of joy ; Green waved the laurel in each plume. The badge of victory. And old and young, and sire and son To meet them crowd the way. With shouts and mirth and melody, The debt of love to pay. Full many a maid her true love met, And sobb'd in his embrace. And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles Array'd full many a face. Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ; She sought the host in vain ; For none could tell her William's fate, If faithless, or if slain. The martial band is past and gone ; She rends her raven hair. And in distractions bitter mood She weeps with wild despair. " O rise, my child," her mother said, " Nor sorrow thou in vain ; A perjured lover's fleeMng heart No tears recall again." s of the original " O. mother, what is ({one is gune ! What's lost forever lorn ; Death, death alone can comfort nue ; O had I ne'er been born ! " O break, my heart, O break at once ! Drink my life-blootl Despair ! No joy remains on earth for me, F"or me in heaven no share." •• O enter not in judgment. Lord !" The pious mother prays ; " Impute not guilt to thy frail child ! She knows not what she says. *' O say thy pater noster child ! O turn to Gud and grace ! liis will that turned thy bliss to bale, Can change thy bale to bliss." " O mother, mother, what is bliss ? O mother, what is bale ? My William's love was heaven on earth. Without it earth is hell. " Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, Since my love, William, 's slain ? I only pray'd for William's sake. And all my prayers were vain." •' O take the sacrament, my child. And check those tears that flow ; By resignation's humble prayer, O hallow'd be thy woe !" " No sacrament can quench this fire. Or slake this scorching pain. No sacrament can bid the dead Arise and live again. •• O break, my heart, O t)reak at once ! Be thou my god, Despair ! Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me. And vain each fruitless prayer." " O enter not in judgment, Lord, With thy frail child of clay ! She knows not what her tongue has spoke Impute it not, I pray ! " Forbear, my child, this desperate woe. And turn to Clod and grace ; Well can devotion's heavenly glow Convert thy bale to bliss." " O mother, mother, what is bliss ? O mother, what is bale ? Without my William what werp heaven ? Or with him what were hell ?" lO Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, Upbraids each sacred power, Till spent, she sought her silent room All in the lonely tower. She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, Till sun and day were o'er, And through the glimmering lattice shone The twinkling of the star. Then crash ! The heavy drawbridge fell, That o'er the moat was hung ; And clatter ! clatter ! on its boards The hoof of courser rung. The clank of echoing steel was heard, As off the rider bounded ; And slowly on the winding stair A heavy footstep sounded. And hark ! and hark ! a knock — tap • tap ! A rustling, stifled noise ; Door latch and tinkling staples ring ; At length a whispering voice. " Awake, awake, arise, my love ! How, Helen, dost thou fare ? Wakest thou, or sleep'st ? Laugh'st thou or weep'st ? Hast thought on me, my fair ?" " My love ! my love ! so late by night ! 1 waked, I wept for thee : Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; Where, William, could'st thou be? " We saddle late — from Hungary I rode sine* darkness fell ; And to its bourne we both return Before the matin bell. " O rest this night within my arms. And warm thee in their fold ! Chill howls through hawthorn bush the wind, My love is deadly cold." " Let the ,vind howl through hawthorn bush ! This night we must away ; The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; I cannot stay till day." *' Busk, busk and boune ! Thou mount'st behind Upon my black barb steed : O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles. We haste to bridal bed." " To-night ! to-night a hundred miles ? O dearest William, stay ! The bell strik'ol twelve — dark dismal hour ! O wait, my love, till ilay ! 1 1 " Look here, look here, the moon shines clear, Full fast I ween we ride, Mount and away ! for 'ere the day We reach our bridal bed. " The black barb snorts, the bridle rings ; Haste, busk and boune, and seat thee ; The feast is made, the chamber spread. The bridal guests await thee." Strong love prevail'd ; she busks, she bounes. She mounts the barb behind, And round her darling William's waist Her lily arms she twined. And hurry ! hurry ! off they rode. As fast as fast might be, Spurned from the courser's thundering heels The flashing pebbles flee. And on tlje right, and on the left, 'Ere they could snatch a view. Fast, fast each mountain, mead and plain And cot and castle flew. Sit fast, dost fear ? The moon shines clear- Fleet goes my barb, keep hold ! Fearest thou ? " O no," she faintly said ; '• But why so stern and cold ? " What yonder rings ? what yonder sings ? Why shrieks the owlet grey ?" 'Tis death-bell's clang, 'tis funeral song. The body to the clay. " With song and clang, at morrow's dawn, Ye may inter the dead ; To-night I ride with my young bride To deck our bridal bed. " Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd guest, To swell our nuptial song. Come priest to bless our marriage feast, Come all, come all along !" Ceased clang and song, down sunk the bier ; The shrouded corpse arose ; And hurry ! hurry ! all the train. The thundering steed pursues. And forward ! forward ! on they go ; High snorts the sti.uning steed ; Thick pants the rider's labouring breath As headlong on they speed. " O William, why this savage haste ? And where thy bridal bed ? 'Tis distant far, low, damp and chill, And narrow, trustless moid. 12 " Nu room for me ?" '• Enough for both ; Hpeed ! sjieed I my barb, thy course !" O'er thtmdering bridge, through boiling surge, lie drove tti« furious horse. Tramp ! tramp I along the land they rode, Hplaith ! 8pla^ Hum „as he ">'«lc Hfe. ^Vo Jwo >h OS, 3!^ ^'"^'^ "' «->»l>er. Bef e out of touch wid, the aspt ioro, » ' '•■'■"■''' '*"'"' •■'"'' '««" « l»"cr, however, said the Sulr-T:''* •'" '"' ""■ '«-- ' " and true portra.t of \Vords«-or,r u ""' '"""''«'' '° '« ^ full ■'i-dfu,sofsi,vera„dbtro;i:;.?::t '■""d .he great poet's change oJpoliL ■■ " '"^ "<^'" "■""■ " ^"5' fo'' a handful of silver h- j n Lost an tKit'sM/rr '^"^^^ How all oir coppe^^^^^^^^^ ""le allowed ' We that had loved him ?o ?nM ''"J u^'^ ''«" P'oud f Made hi.:.'ourpS eWli^vSS t'l^-'''" -«"»«. Shakespeare was of u« • VNil ^^^ '° ^^'e ! „ Burns. Shelley weSe w.^J, °" V' ^°' »«• He alone breaks^f^or tJ^'tanTnd tJ 7*'^'' ^'"^ '''^ir graves • He alone sinks to the reaTanXe^ll'vlr"' Blot out his name then rec^J 'T ^^^^ «sP''e : ^ One task more declLTo„°"' '°'; '°"^ ™o'e, One more devil's trLmph''a°rso";r?w'r'P^''' ""''°d. One wrone nior*. fr, J^ sorrow for aneels Life's nigh, f egir.'l"fL°"' ■""• i""" >° God , -""--, after much search:.:- rer:id;::::^:- Is to remem- [ 1875, from 'Jgure for the lunt was the >er. Kefore i"cl became M age the to be a full e talked of lever in/lu- ■es 1 bal- l^alter anzas to Percy's version. Sir Patrick is commended to the King as " the best sailor that ever sailed the sea," and is sent by the King : "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faeni, The King's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her h.ime." They reached Norway safely, but when about to return, one of the seamen warned Sir Patrick that he feared a deadly storm, for : " I saw the new moon la'e yestreen Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; And if we gang to sea master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm ; And the waves came o'er the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn." Sir Patrick Spens went up the rigging to spy for land, but : " He hadna gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane. When a boult flew out of our goodly ship And the salt sea it came in." The efforts to save the ship were unavailing. " And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves — For them they'll see na mair." The ballad poetry of Ireland deserves special consideration. Due attention to the ballads of John Banim, Gerald Griffin, and Thomas Davis, would alone exceed the limits of this paper, and to curtail them would reprehensibly mar them. I however, quote a short ballad from Lover and one from Moore. That from Lover is founded on the old superstition that when a beautiful child dies it is stolen by the fairies : "A mother came when the stars were paling. Wailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : ' Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy ; Why destroy a mother's blessing, Wherefore steal my baby boy ? I T^ 23 I « 'O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, Where hi8 childhood loved to play ; Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander day by day. ' There 1 wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy ; On the echoes wildly calling, 'I'o restore my fairy boy. * Hut in vain my |)laintive calling. Tears arc falling all in vain ; lie now sports with fairy pleasure, lie's the treasure of their train ! ' Fare thee well my child forever. In this world I've lost my joy, Hut in the next we ne'er shall sever, There I'll find my angel boy.' " The ballad quoted from Moore is founded on the Mcurchcn that a maiden richly apparelled, and bearing a wand, on which she carried a ring of great value, travelled, without escort, unmolested, from one end of Ireland to the other : " Rich and rare were the gems she wore And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But oh 1 her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand. ' Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, ' So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? ' Are Erin's sons so good or so cold ' As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? ' Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, ' No son of Erin will offer me harm ; ' For though they love women and golden store, ' Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more.' On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the Green Isle, And blest forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride." The Rowley poems, interesting from their intrinsic value, and from the circumstances under which they were written by poor Chatterton, contain ballads of much merit. Chatterton pretended that his poems were written by a Bristol monk, a contemporary and friend of Lydgate, of Bury, and of the time of Master Canynge, Mayor of Bristol, and builder of the Church of St. Mary, Redcliffe, of that town. In the ballad of " The Bristol Tragedy " it is Master Canning who intercedes with King Edward for Sir Charles Bawdin, who was beheaded, and his body, according to the barbarity of the mmmm nm ^ / i I ^^'tJrchen vliich she iiiolcsted, 2, and ' Jjoor ended y and clifife, aster vdin, fthe ■I times, nmtilalc'rt for treason. 'I'he Hristol ballad is one of the l)est of the Rowley poems. I'or two centuries some of the C!hatterton family were sextons at tli ■ Church of St. Mary, Redcliffe, Hristol. During '^"liattertoii's life, his unrle was sexton. The boy poet gave it out that tiic poems he produced had been found by elder members of his family, in 'he muniment rhest of Redcliffe (Ihurch, and were transcribed by him. 'I'o sustain his story illuminated docu- ments were produced, as marvellous in their way as the poems, and these, and the boy's extreme youth, aided to keep up for almost a hundred years controversy as to the authenticity of these poems. It was at Hristol that Joseph Cottle, the bookseller, nearly a hundred years ago, published a little work, called " Lyrical i?allads," of .some interest in relation to our subject. That little book was the joint production of William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor ('ole- ridge, two men who have exercised great influence on ICnglish literature. The ballads of their volume were conjointly written by the two poets, when they were at their best, and during the period of their closest intimacy. Like the *' Hlue Boy " of (lainsborough, the artist, the work of each was done to illustrate a theory. Wordsworth and Coleridge differed in opinion as to the relative poetical value of incidents of common everyday life, and those which border on the supernatural. Each wrote ballads for this volume to prove his own theory. Wordsworth wrote more than a dozen pieces on his side ; while, Coleridge wrote only one, the " Ancient Mariner," in proof of his contention. The essence of the controversy between these distinguished poets existed long before their day, and will divide the opinions of men long after them. Hut, if it did not settle their dispute, their controversy gave to the English language some of its best ballads. Both the " Ancient Mariner " and "Christabel" are too long to quote in their entirety, and to mutilate them would be a wrong : " Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee thou Wedding Guest ! He prayeth well, who loveth well, Both man and bird and beast." The songs of the people command passing reference. Thomas Hood, Ebenezer Elliott, Ernest Jones, and (ierald Massey have written ballads that are bright, humorous and delightful, but some of their songs are veritable voices from the depths, wails of despair that startle the ear, and make the heart ache. Their gloomiest T>1 11 , ■ • .24 ■ dirges have been serviceable. Hood's " Song of the Shirt,'' and Noel's "Pauper's Drive," with its doleful chorus, " Rattle his bones over the stones ; He's only a pauper whom nobody owns," more effectively forced attention to the miseries of the poor than all the reports and figures compiled by commissioners : "I have had no childliood," said one of these men, "ever since I can remember I have had the aching fear of want throbbing in heart and brow." Who ran wonder at the biting irony of his cry : " Smitten stones will talk with fiery tongue, And the worm, when trodden, will turn ; But cowards, ye cringe to the cruellest wrongs, And answer with nevera spurn. Then torture, oh ! tyrants, the spiritless drove, Old England's helots will bear ; There's no hell in their hatred, no God in their love; No shame in their dearth's despair. For our fathers are praying for pauper pay. Our mothers with death's kiss are white ; Our sons are the rich man's serfs by day, And our daughters his slaves by night." Of Burns it is needless to speak. His songs are universally known ; and their merit everywhere appreciated, Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, wrote with a grace beyond the reach of art. His " Kilmeny " and the " Jeanie Morrison," of Motherwell, are faultless. Poor Tannahill piped a reed of sweetest tone. Wliat can surpass his " Braes o' Cileniffer ?" " Keen blaws the wind o'er the Braes o' GlenitTer, The anld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw ; How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw ; The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae l)onnie, The mavic sang sweet frae the green birken tree ; But far to ihe camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me." Lord Teiuiyson in his " Idylls of the King," clad the Arthurian legends witli all the graces of modern poetry. With what resistless charm he depicts Sir Oalahad, the perfect knight, whose purity en- abled him to find the holy graal ; and how he makes live again the le.ss perfect knights of Arthur's court, who, subject to human frailties, were sometimes led into tem[)tation, and sometimes failed to accord to otliers that forgiveness they implored from heaven for themselves. And how beautiful are his ballads. The wine from ■0 and [1 all i no er I )W." illy ick IHis less. ass Ian Lin 25 his own vintage has the sparkle and delicacy of flavour of the wine he drew from the antique jars of the old legends. For example, read his " Lady Clare :" It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn, Lovers long betrothed were they : They two will wed the morrow morn, God's blessing on the day. " He does not love me for my birth. Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice, the nurse, Said, " who was this that went from thee ?" " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me." " O God be thanked," said Alice the nurse. That all comes round so just and fair ; Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ?" " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, I speak the truth : you are my child. " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth as I live by bread ; I buried her like my own sweet child. And put my child in her stead. " Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother, she said, " if this be true. To keep the best man under the sun, So many years from his due." •' Nay, now my child," said Alice the nurse, " l>ut keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." '• If I'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out. for I dare not lie ; Pull off, pull off tho brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.' " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can," She said, " not so ; but I will know. If there be any faith in man." ini ^ .v.. 26 "Nay now, whiil fnlth?" said Alice the nurse, The man will cleave unto his right," " And he lihall have tt," the Indy replied, "Though I should die to-night." " Yet give one UIm to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I »iinne(l for thee," " O mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strantje it »ccm» to me " •' Yet here's a Um for my mother dear, My mother dear. If tliis he so. And lay your hand upon my head And bless me, tnotner, ere I go." She clad herself In « tusset gown, She was no lon({er Lady Clare : She went by dale, and ! Beranger, the prince of song writers ; ballads from Greece, the land where the singer's art sprang at once to perfection ; songs from Italy, where Dante shewed that the vulgar tongue could touch the heart as effectively as the classic speech of the Coesars ; and the ballads of Poe, Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell in the new world ; of which no mention can be made. Regretfully one turns from these : for at hazard stanzas by the score might be taken, that have made life brighter, toil pleasanter, and the world better. The modern ballads by Goethe, Scott, Schiller, Wordsworth, Uhland and Tennyson, need no comment. Gems of song from the treasury of the master singers of the century need no commenda- tion. They are as wine that needs no bush ; and they will delight readers without end in the days to come. The ballads of the olden time, like those by and for whom they were sung, bear a composite character in which good and evil are curiously blended. But their sturdy merit bears scrutiny, and fears no criticism. 'J'here is no cause to exaggerate their merits, or screen their defects. In some will be found coarseness of thought and expression ; while others are common-place and abound in puerilities that are wearisome. But in many, may be found a combination of force, sweetness, and pathos unsurpassed, and but rarely equalled in literature. Sir Phillip Sydney could be moved by Chevy Chase, however rudely recited, as by the blast of a trumpet; and, in this practical age, to thousands the past brings no remembrance of sweeter pleasure than that of the hours of childhood, spent at the knee of some venerated, though perhaps illiterate, member of the early home, who at the cottage hearth, in the evening gloaming, by oft-repeated recital of these old ballads, made the young heart dance with joy never to be forgotten. ice the rse :of