very slenderly attended, nobody would have dreamt of calling it anything but a village. The breakfastroom, where I first possessed myself of my beloved ballads, was a lofty and spacious apartment, literally lined with books, which, with its Turkey carpet, its glowing fire, its sofas and its easy chairs, seemed, what indeed it was, a very nest of English comfort. The windows opened on a large, old-fashioned garden, full of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, roses, honeysuckles, and pinks; and that again led into a grassy orchard, abounding with fruit-trees, a picturesque country church with its yews and lindens on one side, and beyond, a down as smooth as velvet, dotted with rich islands of coppice, hazel, woodbine, hawthorn, and holly reaching up into the young oaks, and overhanging flowery patches of primroses, wood-sorrel, wild hyacinths and wild strawberries. On the side opposite the church, in a hollow fringed with alders and bulrushes, gleamed the bright clear lakelet, radiant with swans and water-lilies, which the simple townsfolk were content to call the Great Pond.

What a play-ground was that orchard! and what playfellows were mine! Nancy, with her trim prettiness, my own dear father, handsomest and cheerfullest of men, and the great Newfoundland dog Coe, who used to lie down at my feet, as if to invite me to mount him, and then to prance off with

his burthen, as if he enjoyed the fun as much as we did. Happy, happy days! It is good to have the memory of such a childhood! to be able to call up past delights by the mere sight and sound of Chevy Chase or the Battle of Otterbourne.

And as time wore on the fine ballad of "King Estmere," according to Bishop Percy, one of the most ancient in the collection, got to be amongst our prime favourites. Absorbed by the magic of the story, the old English never troubled us. I hope it will not trouble my readers. We, a little child, and a young country maiden, the daughter of a respectable Hampshire farmer, were no bad representatives in point of cultivation of the noble dames and their attendant damsels who had so often listened with delight to wandering minstrels in bower and hall. In one point, we had probably the advantage of them: we could read and it is most likely that they could not. For the rest every age has its own amusements; and these metrical romances, whether said or sung, may be regarded as equivalent in their day to the novels and operas of ours.

KYNG ESTMERE.

Hearken to me, gentlemen,

Come, and you shall heare;

I'll tell you of two of the boldest brethren,
That ever born y-were.

The tone of them was Adler yonge,

The tother was King Estmere;
They were as bolde men in their deedes,
As any were far and neare.

As they were drinking ale and wine,
Within Kyng Estmere's halle;
"When will ye marry a wyfe, brothér;
A wyfe to gladd us alle ?”

Then bespake him, Kynge Estmere,
And answered him hastilee :

"I knowe not that ladye in any lande,
That is able to marry with me."

"King Adland hath a daughter, brother,
Men call her bright and sheene;
If I were kyng here in your stead,
That ladye sholde be queen."

Sayes, "Reade me, reade me, deare brother,

Throughout merry England;

Where we might find a messenger,

Betweene us two to send ?"

Sayes, "You shal ryde yourself, brother,

I'll bear you companée;

Many through false messengers are deceived,

And I feare lest soe sholde we."

Thus they renisht them to ryde,

Of twoe good renisht steedes

And when they come to Kyng Adland's halle,

Of red golde shone their weedes.

And when they come to Kynge Adland's halls,

Before the goodlye yate

There they found good Kyng Adland,

Rearing himself thereatt.

"Nowe Christe thee save, good Kyng Adland,

Now Christ thee save and see!"

Said, "You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,
Right heartily unto me."

"You have a daughter," said Adler yonge,
"Men call her bright and sheene,
My brother wold marry her to his wyfe,
Of England to be queene."

66

Yesterday was at my deare daughter,

Syr Bremor the Kyng of Spayne:
And then she nicked him of naye,
I feare she'll do you the same."

"The King ef Spayne is a foule paynim,
And 'lieveth on Mahound;

And pitye it were that fayre ladye,
Shold marry a heathen hound."

"But grant to me," sayes Kyng Estmere,
For my love I you praye,
That I may see your daughter deare,
Before I goe hence awaye."

"Although itt is seven yeare and more
Syth my daughter was in halle,

She shall come downe once for your sake,
To glad my guestés all."

Down then came that mayden fayre,
With laydes laced in pall,

And half a hundred of bolde knightes,

To bring her from bowre to halle;
And eke as many gentle squieres,
To waite upon them all.

[Scott has almost literally copied the four last lines of this stanza in the first canto of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." One of the many obligations that we owe to these old unknown poets, is the inspiration that Sir Walter drew from them, an inspiration to be traced almost as frequently in his prose, as in his verse.]

The talents of golde were on her head sette
Hunge lowe down to her knee;

And every rynge on her smalle finger

Shone of the chrystall free.

Sayes, "Christ you save, my deare madáme ;"
Sayes, "Christ you save and see!"

Sayes, "You be welcome, Kyng Estmere,

Right welcome unto me.

"And iff you love me as you saye,

So well and heartilée;

All that ever you are comen about,
Soon sped now itt may bee."

Then bespake her father deare:
"My daughter, I say naye;
Remember well the King of Spayn,
What he sayd yesterdaye.