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Page 23
But after I had searched in vain for somewhat more than an hour
one of the keepers of the place told me that in compliance with
Ritson's earnest desire while living, that antiquary's grave was
immediately after the interment of the body levelled down and
left to the care of nature, with no stone to designate its
location. So at the present time no one knows just where old
Ritson's grave is, only that within that vast enclosure where so
many thousand souls sleep their last sleep the dust of the famous
ballad-lover lies fast asleep in the bosom of mother earth.
I have never been able to awaken in Miss Susan any enthusiasm for
balladry. My worthy sister is of a serious turn of mind, and I
have heard her say a thousand times that convivial songs (which
is her name for balladry) are inspirations, if not actually
compositions, of the devil. In her younger days Miss Susan
performed upon the melodeon with much discretion, and at one time
I indulged the delusive hope that eventually she would not
disdain to join me in the vocal performance of the best ditties
of D'Urfey and his ilk.
If I do say it myself, I had a very pretty voice thirty or forty
years ago, and even at the present time I can deliver the ballad
of King Cophetua and the beggar maid with amazing spirit when I
have my friend Judge Methuen at my side and a bowl of steaming
punch between us. But my education of Miss Susan ended without
being finished. We two learned to perform the ballad of Sir
Patrick Spens very acceptably, but Miss Susan abandoned the
copartnership when I insisted that we proceed to the sprightly
ditty beginning,
Life's short hours too fast are hasting--
Sweet amours cannot be lasting.
My physician, Dr. O'Rell, has often told me that he who has a
well-assorted ballad library should never be lonely, for the
limitations of balladly are so broad that within them are to be
found performances adapted to every mood to which humanity is
liable. And, indeed, my experience confirms the truth of my
physician's theory. It were hard for me to tell what delight I
have had upon a hot and gusty day in a perusal of the history of
Robin Hood, for there is such actuality in those simple rhymes as
to dispel the troublesome environments of the present and
transport me to better times and pleasanter scenes.
Aha! how many times have I walked with brave Robin in Sherwood
forest! How many times have Little John and I couched under the
greenwood tree and shared with Friar Tuck the haunch of juicy
venison and the pottle of brown October brew! And Will Scarlet
and I have been famous friends these many a year, and if
Allen-a-Dale were here he would tell you that I have trolled full
many a ballad with him in praise of Maid Marian's peerless
beauty.
Who says that Sherwood is no more and that Robin and his merry
men are gone forever! Why, only yesternight I walked with them
in that gracious forest and laughed defiance at the doughty
sheriff and his craven menials. The moonlight twinkled and
sifted through the boscage, and the wind was fresh and cool.
Right merrily we sang, and I doubt not we should have sung the
whole night through had not my sister, Miss Susan, come tapping
at my door, saying that I had waked her parrot and would do well
to cease my uproar and go to sleep.
Judge Methuen has a copy of Bishop Percy's ``Reliques of Ancient
English Poetry'' that he prizes highly. It is the first edition
of this noble work, and was originally presented by Percy to Dr.
Birch of the British Museum. The Judge found these three volumes
exposed for sale in a London book stall, and he comprehended them
without delay--a great bargain, you will admit, when I tell you
that they cost the Judge but three shillings! How came these
precious volumes into that book stall I shall not presume to say.
Strange indeed are the vicissitudes which befall books, stranger
even than the happenings in human life. All men are not as
considerate of books as I am; I wish they were. Many times I
have felt the deepest compassion for noble volumes in the
possession of persons wholly incapable of appreciating them. The
helpless books seemed to appeal to me to rescue them, and too
many times I have been tempted to snatch them from their
inhospitable shelves, and march them away to a pleasant refuge
beneath my own comfortable roof tree.
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