Perhaps in no instance, during the perusal ol
Mr. Chappell's book, did I feel so keenly that
heart-beating of "joy's recollection," which in
this case was most decidedly "joy," as when I
stumbled on "Barbara Allen."  I am not quite
sure that the tears did not absolutely come once
again into my eyes, as they did when my boyish
head hid itself with false shame against my
pillow, on my once more glancing over the
tragic history of Barbara's cruelty. Nor did I
feel, I fancy, much less acutely than of yore,
when I read the sad contrast, how "In the
merry month of May, When green buds they
were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed
lay, For love of Barbara Allen." Nor
was the thrill of painful excitement much less
real, when cruel Barbara, having been summoned
to the unhappy lover's death-bed, came "slowly,
slowly" up: "And slowly she came nigh him:
And all she said when there she came, Young
man I think you are dying."  Again were before
my eyes the fields of my boyish imagination,
where cruel Barbara was walking when "She
heard the bell a knellin': And every stroke did
seem to say, Unworthy Barbara Allen,"—again
the open space (derived by imagination from a
curious old plain, surrounded by quaint gabled
houses, in my native city) where Barbara
"Turned her body round about, And spied the
corpse a comin';" and where "Lay down, lay
down the corpse, she said, That I may look upon
him,"—again the white curtained low panelled
chamber (there was such a one in my
grandfather's house) where the cruel maid, when
"Her heart was struck with sorrow," cried "O
mother, mother, make my bed, For I shall die
to-morrow," and again the green-brocade
heavily-vallanced bed (I had seen the original
somewhere) where the remorseful girl lay, and
"Begged to be buried by him, And sore repented
of the day, That she did e'er deny him." What
tears did I not shed, as Susan chanted to me this
story (to the very same tune that Mr. Chappell
gives in his book), and never refused to sing it
over again, and again once more, as the tears
fell thicker and thicker, and sobbings became
violent, and were only to be soothed by a low
merry strain, that at last lulled me off to sleep.
But how many other eyes had shed bitter tears
over this sad ditty, I was only destined to learn
long afterwards. Susan never told me, and
doubtless, spite of her archoeological store, was
unable to inform me, that Goldsmith in one of
his essays had confessed a feeling sympathetic
to my own, when he said, "The music of the
finest singer is dissonance to what I felt, when
our old dairy-maid sang me into tears with
'Johnny Armstrong's Last Good Night,' or
'The Cruelty of Barbara Allen.'" Little did I
know, then, that a black-letter copy of this very
old ballad bore the title of "Barbara Allen's
Cruelty, or the Young Man's Tragedy, with
Barbara Allen's Lamentation for the unkindness to
her Lover and herself;" nor was I in a position
to remark that "sensational" titles were as
much in vogue centuries ago as now, although
in a far more diffuse form. Of the great
antiquarian dispute, whether "Scarlet" town, the
locality designated in the supposed authentic
version, as the residence of the cruel Barbara,
ought not to be read "Carlisle" town, and
whether the "Reading" town of the later printed
copies is not altogether an impudent and
pretentious case of mal-appropriation, I was
happily as ignorant: and even to this day, I am
disposed to pass over the whole discussion as
futile, having in my mind's eye my own pet
town, from which my imagination indignantly
refuses to remove itself.

I cannot well reckon the famous ballad-poem
of " Chevy Chase," upon which so many
commentaries have been written by learned
antiquarians, among my archaeological discoveries
in Mr. Chappell's book, inasmuch as, even in
my early boyhood, I seem to have had an inkling
that this wonderful romance was a very very old
story. Perhaps Susan may have had sufficient
lore of her own to have bestowed upon me this
little piece of information. I must confess, at
the same time, that this most celebrated of all
old ballads was not one of my special favourites.
Spite of the gorgeous spectacular and somewhat
distracting visions it never failed to
conjure up before my eyes, it had probably too
much of the "cut and thrust" character about
it to suit a nascent temperament, more inclined
to find congenial food in the simple pathos of
the "domestic drama," than in the wearing
turmoil of more "sensational" tragedies. Moreover,
as I find that Susan's bedside version was
but a truncated and mutilated torso of the
grand old original form, whereas in other
instances her unauthentic variations were simply
confined to mere words in general, I think it
better, out of respect for that genial minstrel's
memory—although, by the way, she may
probably be living still, a sturdy grandmother—and
out of fear lest she should be cruelly mauled by
antiquarian commentators, to drop the subject
of "Chevy Chase" altogether, noting only my
pride in knowing that my own nursery once
upon a time was connected, even although
imperfectly, with a once upon a time of such
glorious and respected antiquity.

Far more cherished by me, as it must be by
all children, was that ballad of ballads so touching
to childhood's ears, "The Children in the
Wood." There too I have found it, in Mr.
Chappell's book, an "old old story," and yet
"ever new." I could have hugged my copy to
my heart. Of most respectable antiquity truly
it is. Does it not appear in the registers of
the Stationers' Company, under the date of 15th
October, 1595, in the words "Thomas Millington
entred for his copie under t' handes of bothe
the wardens, a ballad intitulted, The Norfolk
Gentleman, his will and Testament, and howe he
commytted the keeping of his children to his
owne brother, who delte most wickedly with
them, and howe God plagued him. for it"? A
most "sensational" title, it must be admitted!
It has been surmised by Sharon Turner, that
this most popular of all old stories was written
upon the murder of his nephews by Richard the