Whiggish oracles of the day, and as my delight in the high-seasoned politics of sixty years ago was naturally less than that of my hearers, this display of precocious acquirement was commonly rewarded, not by cakes or sugar-plums, too plentiful in my case to be very greatly cared for, but by a sort of payment in kind. read leading articles to please the company; and my dear mother recited the "Children in the Wood" to please me. This was my reward; and I looked for my favorite ballad after every performance, just as the piping bullfinch that hung in the window looked for his lump of sugar after going through "God save the King." The two cases were exactly parallel.

One day it happened that I was called upon to exhibit, during some temporary absence of the dear mamma, and cried out amain for the ditty that I loved. My father, who spoilt me, did not know a word of it, but he hunted over all the shelves till he had found the volumes, that he might read it to me himself; and then I grew unreasonable in my demand, and coaxed, and kissed, and begged that the book might be given to my maid Nancy, that she might read it to me, whenever I chose. And (have I not said that my father spoilt me?) I carried my point, and the three volumes were actually put in charge of my pretty, neat maid, Nancy (in those days nursery-governesses were not), and she, waxing weary of the "Children in the Wood," gradually took to reading to me some of the other ballads; and as from three years old I grew to four or five, I learned to read them myself, and the book became the delight of my childhood, as it is now the solace of my age. Ah, well-a-day! sixty years have passed, and I am an old woman, whose nut-brown hair has turned to white; but I never see that heavily-bound copy of "Percy's Reliques" without the home of my infancy springing up before my eyes.

A pleasant home, in truth, it was. A large house in a little town of the north of Hampshire,-a town, so small that but for an ancient market, very slenderly attended, nobody would have dreamt of calling it any thing but a village. The breakfast-room, 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 cheerfulest of men, and the great Newfoundland dog Coe, who used to lie down at my feet, as if to in vite me to mount him, and then to prance off with his burden, as if he enjoyed the fun as much as we did. Happy, happy days! It is good to have the mernory 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 among our prime favorites. 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 novel 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, brother;
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."

86 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, rcade me, deare brother, Throughout merrie 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 gold shone their weedes.

And when they come to Kynge Adland's halle, Before the goodlye yate

There they found good Kyng Adland,

Rearing himself thereatt.

"Nowe Christe thee save, good Kyng Adland, Nowe 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."

"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 Kyng of Spayn 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 ladyes 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,

Soone sped now itt may bee."

"Plyghte me your troth nowe, Kyng Estmere, By Heaven and your righte hande,

That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queen of your lande."

Then Kyng Estmere, he plight his troth,
By Heaven and his right hand,
That he would marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queen of his lande.

And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To go to his own contree;

To fetch him dukes, and lordes, and knightes,
That marryed they might be.

They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,

But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,
With kempés many a one.

But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,

With many a grimm baròne

Tone day to marrye Kyng Adland's daughter,

Tother day o carrye her home.

Then she sent after Kyng Estmere,

In all the spede might bee,

That he must either returne and fighte,
Or goe home and lose his ladye.

One whyle then the page he went,
Another whyle he ranne;

Till he had o'ertaken Kyng Estmere,
I wis he never blanne.