versation most melancholy. He reproached her with having so strenuously urged him to put forth his power of calling up the dead, and deceiving him by the promise of implicitly following his directions. His reliance upon her had induced him, he said, to make use of the most powerful spells, and summon to his aid malignant deamons, which could only be kept in awe by severity that her scream had broken the charm-the demons had obtained the mastery over him, and nothing but his life would expiate his offence. Poor Madame de Bonneuil, excessively distressed at hearing the Comte talk in this strain, endeavored to reason with him, but without the slightest effect; and he parted from her as one who "bids the world good night," assuring her that they should never meet again on this side of the grave, for that he had but a short time to live, ere the fiends whom she had insulted would demand him as their victim. Whether the Comte de Caylus was at the same time suffering from any malady likely to put a speedy period to his existence or whether the mental delusion under which he labored, produced a fatal effect upon his body, certain it is, that very soon, within a few weeks after this interview, Madame de Bonneuil learnt that the Comte de Caylus was dead!!! THE PATH ACROSS THE HILLS. I. In Life's delightful morn, When love and trust were born, To thy dwelling in the wooded hills I came; Thy smile of welcome made A sunbeam in that shade, and the best informed of our readers may not ob ject to have his memory refreshed on this subject. We, who have little leisure for discursive reading, must of course, be indebted to the published col lections of old Puttenham, and Percy, and quer ulous John Ritson and other such worthy trea sure-seekers: but, assuredly, many an excellent old ballad is still chanted in "Merrie Engolande," which has never yet found its way into print, but has descended orally through generations which yet continue to people the secluded valleys where their single-minded forefathers dwelt-many a "pretty tale," as Michael Drayton said, nearly three hundred years ago, "when a boy, his toothless grandmother often told to him." In the wide and wild counties of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, where the little villages lie far apart from the towns, and where modern improvements and modern taste have not yet extended, there must exist many a lay and legend that are purely local. Right pleasant are many of these "stories of And spring and winter bloomed for me the same. old time," as we shall offer proof; and although Tho' the snow hung in the cloud, And the stormy winds blew loud, I recked not-all my sunshine was to come: My heart was blithe and gay, I went singing all the way, In the path across the hills to thy home! II. The spring, with gentle rain, Hath woke the flowers, some of them may have lost a portion of their rich colouring as they have been handed down to us through long centuries, yet they have retained their feeling and simplicity, and it is owing to this that they have so long continued popular. The old minstrels almost always expressed their thoughts in the most homely language; they shaped their ideas to suit the capacities of their audience, and as they sang them themselves, they were at once competent to judge of the style which And summer clothes the leafy woods once more, they must adhere to, to become popular. Thus it But Love's sweet smile is fled, And Hope's bright flowers are dead, And thy dear smile no sunshine can restore! To some less loved abodeBy some more dreary road Fate yet may lead my steps in days to come; But never blithe and gay, To sing along the way, As in the path that led me to thy home! scarcely requires any effort of mind to compre hend their true meaning; like a beautiful figure clothed in plain but becoming attire, instead of being buried under a multiplicity of gay ga ments, you are at once struck by its fair proper tions. Their images, too, are but seldom mi placed; they are simple, expressive, and appropriate, and you marvel at the effects produced by such natural ornaments. Whether they tell▲ tale of love or wild adventure, of heart-aching It is good in a fever, much better in anger, to sorrow or death, or only describe some rural scene, have the tongue kept clean and smooth. or pourtray some high-born beauty, all is doneb the simplest manner. You meet with no confusion of thoughts, no display of senseless and highsounding words; but everything is in its true keeping, and at once both understood and felt. We speak, not of those productions which have no other value than that of being merely ancient, but such as have stood the criticisms of ages, and are yet, and will ever be, read with pleasure. Setting aside the disputes which have arisen respecting the antiquity of the various ballads which pass under the denomination of "ancient," we shall point out the simple beauties of some which are acknowledged by all to have been popular for at least two or three centuries. Disregarding also the order of their dates, which it is almost imposible to ascertain correctly, we shall confine our extracts and remarks to such pieces as come home to our common feelings, and are connected with every day circumstances. Every reader of Shakspeare remembers that · portion of the old ballad which is sung by Desdemona on the eve of her death, with its plaintive burthen of "O willow, willow." The exquisite manner in which the great Bard has himself introduced it, may be looked upon as the masterkey to all that is simple and pathetic in this kind of composition, Desdemona says- My mother had a maid called Barbara, How exquisitely simple is the whole of this passage! who can read it without feeling a deep sympathy for poor Barbara! We have no mention here of her pale facc, her lack-lustre eyes, her low melancholy voice, "sadly sweet;" we are only told that the old song expressed her fortune; we only know that she "hung her head all to one aide," and went about her household work singing it; but who can read the passage without seeing "poor Barbara," All love lorn and care-begone! Take now the opening of the plaintive ballad which Barbara sung, and which was an "old thing" in Shakspeare's time-what a picture would the opening lines make: A poor soul sat sighing under a sycamore tree, With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee,* Sing O the green willow shall be my garland. Shakespeare has adapted it to suit his female character. In a black letter copy in the "Pepys collection," It is intitled "A Lover's Complainte being forsaken of his Love."-Percy. Come all you forsaken, and sit down by me, This beautiful old ballad is in two parts: we have only quoted a few extracts from the first. That the willow, from its drooping over rivers, and growing in damp, shady, and melancholy places, should naturally suggest itself as an emblem of sorrow, may be readily conceived; and our earliest records describe the daughters of Zion as hanging their harps upon the willows of Babylon, and weeping on the river banks. Green, too, is still called a "forsaken colour," and many a rural maiden in the present day would not wear a green ribbon through this simple cause, while on the other hand, blue is the emblem of true love; "true blue" is a common phrase. Again, in an old pastoral dialogue which occurs in a small black-letter collection of ancient poetry, entitled "The Golden Garland of Princely Delight," we find the following on "Willow." Willy. How now, sheperde, what meanest that? Why that willow in thy hat? Why thy scarffes of red and yellowe Turned to branches of green willowe? Cuddy. They are changed and so am I; Sorrowes live, but pleasures die: Philis hath forsaken mee, Which makes me wear the willow tree. After a brief dialogue, in which Willy argues the folly of repining for love, Cuddy comes to the following resolution : Herdsman I'll be ruled by thee, In the old Ballad called "Barbara Allen's Cruelty," which still continues popular in our rural and manufacturing districts, we have a clever specimen of that simple style of composition which appeals at once to the feelings. Barbara Allen was so fair, that her beauty made every youth cry well-a-day." In the "merry month of May," when "the green buds were swelling," You must come to my master deare O lovely Barbara Allen. Barbara, before she goes, says he'll be but little better for her visit. She comes to him slowly-the very lines move sluggishly- and when she does come, poor Jemmy Grove finds but cold comfort. And all she said, when there she came, "I'm on my death-bed lying." He turned his face unto the wall, As she was walking o'er the fields They never heard his whistle blow. The simple effect of the last repetition is excellent; we scarcely know an instance where greater effect is produced by six plain words. The pause between the stanzas is one of life and death. Had the poet described the Rover dying, and entered into every particular of his looks, and his last agony, it would have fallen far short of this brief and expressive announcement. The ballad would occupy more space than we can afford, were we to attempt an analysis of all its beauties, for they are many. "The Fair Maid of Clifton," or "Bateman's Tragedy," although a local ballad, must be known to thousands, through Henry Kirk White having founded his "Clifton Grove," upon the same story. The full title of this ancient ditty is curious, and cannot fail of reminding our readers of the ballads which Autolycus offers for sale at the sheep-shearing feast, in the "Winter's Tale"; it runs thus, A Godly Warning to all Maidens, by the Example of God's Judgment, showed on Jerman's Wife of Clifton, in the County of Nottingham, who, lying in child-bed, was borne away, and never heard of after." Although, unlike Autolycus's ballads, it lacks the "midwife's name "She turned her body round about and spied to it, and five or six honest wives who were prethe corpse a coming." She looked down upon it sent," yet is it still believed in the neighborhood with a scornful eye, while all her friends cried out, where the scene is placed. A tragedy entitled the "Unworthy Barbara Allen." When he was dead "Vow Breaker,' 1636, and in which several of and laid in his grave, "her heart was struck with the stanzas are quoted, is founded upon this story; sorrow,,' and she called on her mother to make and the whole may be found in Ritson's "Collee her bed, "for I shall die to-morrow." She tion." The scene is well worth visiting by those repents, dies, and is buried beside Jemmy Grove, who may chance to wander near "merry Shersorry enough, "that she ever did deny him." wood." The path is still pointed out along which Simple as this old ditty is, we have heard it sung the fiend is supposed to have borne his fair burthen with great effect by a plain country girl, while the and the tree against which he struck is, we believe, tears trickle down the cheeks of her companions, still shown. It is, of course, blasted, and no as they joined in the chorus. There are many green thing was ever remembered to have grown versions of this ballad; a Scotch one, with Sir on the footpath which the Prince of Darkness John Græme for hero, may be found in Ramsay traversed. The grove itself is a strange mixture and in Cunningham. of the pleasing, wild, and melancholy, in scenery. It stands on the brow and side of a steep hill, which in many places is so precipitous, as to be inaccessible, save by clinging to the trees and underwood which shoot out from the sides of the shaggy eminence. Below rolls the river Trent, running dark and deep under the shadows of the over-hanging branches, and offering a fearful rest There are several master-strokes in the ballad of "Sir Andrew Barton." The simple complaint of Henrye Hunt is very graphic, where he describes himself as having been a prisoner to the Scotch rover, who bound him down in the hatches. But the gem of the ballad is a description of the Rover's death, and is as follows: ing-place to the adventurer whose foot slips from the acclivity. Beyond the river opens a goodly prospect, such as is perhaps only to be found embosomed amid the green hills of England. Within the "nodding horror" of the grove, few of the timorous dare to ramble alone when the twilight begins to deepen over it. As to the "Fiend's pathway," rugged, bare, and deep it will ever remain, while the rain-torrent tears down the steep hill-side into the river; for we believe it was at first worn away by such a waterfiend. We have heard that an attempt has been made to stop up this ancient walk; it will be a great pity if this should happen, when after a lapse of nearly three hundred years, it still retains all its poetical associations; and, no doubt, presents the same features as it did when the rude forefathers of the hamlet" stole through its chequered and haunted shades, and heard, in the roaring of the branches, the shrieks of the "Fair Maid of Clifton." The opening of the ballad has a genuine smack of the olden time about it, and thus it runs: You dainty dames, so finely framed Here is a lesson to be learned; * To such as prove false in love, &c. We have then a description of this "comely dame," ending with The fairest face, the falsest heart, And soonest will deceive. The fair maiden has many suitors, who make her offers of marriage, but she rejects them all for young Bateman, a proper handsome youth." The troth is plighted between them; they vow that nothing but death shall sever their love, they break a piece of gold asunder (an old custom of ratifying a love-vow), and the maiden wishes that nothing may thrive with her if she breaks her oath. So pass two months, and they are still unmarried. (One of the copies sends Bateman to sea.) However, she marries one Jerman, a wealthy old widower, "and better in degree," than her poorer lover. She denies her vow to Bateman, defies him, and cares nothing for his threats, although he swears that she shall never enjoy another quiet hour, and that he will have her, either alive or dead, when he is laid in his grave. Then the ballad proceeds as follows:But mark how Bateman died for love, And finished his life, The very day she married was, He hanged himself in a desperate sort, Whereat such sorrow pierced her heart, When she in bed at night did lie. Betwixt her husband's arms, In hope thereby to sleep at rest, Great cries, and grievous groans she heard, "Oh thou art she that I must have, And will not be denied." The unborn babe, "as God appointed so," preserves her body from the fiend; but no sooner is the infant born, than he again torments her. She entreats her friends to stay with her, telling them that the "spirit of her lover" has come with "with pale and ghastly face," and will not depart without her; and that while they keep awake, he has no power to remove her body. They promise to obey her, but in vain, for in the middle of the night a "sad slumber" falls upon them all— So being all full fast asleep, To them unknown which way, The child-bed-woman, that woeful night, From thence was born away; But to what place no creature knew, Nor to this day can tell. The ballad then concludes, by advising all maidens never to forsake him to whom they vow their love, for God that hears all secret oaths, Do slender reckoning make. There appears to have been some truth for the groundwork of this wild ballad, so far as the lover hanging himself, and the maiden marrying the wealthy old widower. As for the rest, there is the blasted tree and the narrow ravine, down which the rain has coursed for centuries. No trace of the building where the fair maiden dwelt has stood within the memory of man. "The Nut-Browne Mayd" is a ballad of great antiquity, and upon it Prior modelled his "Henry and Emma." It was printed amongst Arnold's historical collections about 1521; and as he, in his "Chronicle," only professed to gather what was rare and ancient, we may suppose that it was considered an old poem above three hundred years ago. It contains thirty stanzas, each consisting of twelve lines, and is therefore too lengthy for our columns. We will, however, give a brief analysis of it, and extract a few of its beauties. The poem opens with accusing man of complaining of woman's want of constancy; that to love a woman is labor in vain, for they never will return that love, no matter what a man may do to obtain their favor; for if a new lover presents himself, the old one is immediately a "banished man." That men complain, nay, "that it is both writ and said" that woman's faith is all "utterly decayed." This the poet undertakes to prove false, by recording the love of the Nut-brown Maid, who, when her lover came to prove her, would not let him depart, "for in her heart she loved but him alone." The knight comes secretly, and in the dark, to tell the maiden that he is a banished man, and must escape, for he is doomed to suffer a painful death, and he must bid her adieu, and seek a shelter in the green wood. She exclaims, "O Lord, what is this world's bliss!" that changes like the moon; complains that her "summer's day in lusty May, is dark before the noon." She has heard him say farewell," and replies, we part not so soon," inquires whither he will go, what he has done, and tells him that, if he leaves her, all her happiness will change to sorrow and care, for she "loves but him alone." He replies that he can well believe his absence will grieve her for a day or two, but after then she will find comfort; that it will be useless to mourn for him, and he prays her heartily not to do it, for he is a banished man, and must be gone. She says, that since he has told her the secret of his mind she must be as plain with him, and that if he will go, she will not be left behind; bids him make ready to depart, for it shall 66 never be said the Nut-Brown Mayd was to her love unkind." He then asks what men will think if she goes to the green-wood with him; the young and old will call her wanton; and that rather than suffer her to be called an "ill-woman," he will go alone. She replies, that the charge will stand by those who blame her; that true love is devoid of shame; that no true lover would part with him in such "distress and heaviness; nor will she, for she loves but him alone." He warns her that it is no maiden's pastime to go to the wood with an outlaw: that she will be compelled to carry a bow and arrows constantly in her hands, and like a thief ever live in awe and dread. She replies that she is well aware that it is no maiden's employment; but that, for his sake, she will learn to run a-foot, to hunt, and shoot, and kill deer; that she asks nothing more than his company for a reward; for her heart would soon be cold as a stone were she to part from him. He tells her that if he is caught, he will be hung without pity, and "waver in the wind," asks her what succour she could afford him, and doubts whether both her and her bow would not be far behind in the hour of danger. She replies that s woman is but feeble in the fight; but that if his enemies did assail him, she would withstand them, bow in hand, and do her best to save him from death. The next verses have such a smack of the old forests about them, that we give them entire. HE. Yet take good hede, for ever I drede, The thornie ways. the deep vallies, But a brake bush or twayne; SHE. Since I have here been partynere, I must also part of your wo Yet am I sure of one pleasure; That where ye be, it seemeth me, I could not fare amiss. Without more speech, I you beseech, That we were soon agone; HE. If ye go thither, ye must consider, That's made of thread and twine! SHE. Among the wild deer, such an archere, We may not fail of good victayle, Shall be full swete to me; With which in hele [health] I shall right wels Endure, as ye shall see; And ere I go, a bed or two I can provide anon; HE. Lo yet, before ye must do more, If ye will go with me, |