VIII
  BALLADS　AND　THEIR　MAKERS
  One　of　the　most　interesting　spots　in　all　London　to　me　is　Bunhill　Fields　cemetery；　for　herein　are　the　graves　of　many　whose　memory　I　revere。　　I　had　heard　that　Joseph　Ritson　was　buried　here；　and　while　my　sister；　Miss　Susan；　lingered　at　the　grave　of　her　favorite　poet；　I　took　occasion　to　spy　around　among　the　tombstones　in　the　hope　of　discovering　the　last　resting…place　of　the　curious　old　antiquary　whose　labors　in　the　field　of　balladry　have　placed　me　under　so　great　a　debt　of　gratitude　to　him。
  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　delaya　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。
  Too　few　people　seem　to　realize　that　books　have　feelings。　　But　if　I　know　one　thing　better　than　another　I　know　this；　that　my　books　　know　me　and　love　me。　　When　of　a　morning　I　awaken　I　cast　my　eyes　about　my　room　to　see　how　fare　my　beloved　treasures；　and　as　I　cry　cheerily　to　them；　‘‘Good…day　to　you；　sweet　friends！''　how　lovingly　they　beam　upon　me；　and　how　glad　they　are　that　my　repose　has　been　unbroken。　　When　I　take　them　from　their　places；　how　tenderly　do　they　respond　to　the　caresses　of　my　hands；　and　with　what　exultation　do　they　respond　unto　my　call　for　sympathy！
  Laughter　for　my　gayer　moods；　distraction　for　my　cares；　solace　for　my　griefs；　gossip　for　my　idler　moments；　tears　for　my　sorrows；　counsel　for　my　doubts；　and　assurance　against　my　fearsthese　things　my　books　give　me　with　a　promptness　and　a　certainty　and　a　cheerfulness　which　are　more　than　human；　so　that　I　were　less　than　human　did　I　not　love　these　comforters　and　bear　eternal　gratitude　to　them。
  Judge　Methuen　read　me　once　a　little　poem　which　I　fancy　mightily；　it　is　entitled　‘‘Winfreda；''　and　you　will　find　it　in　your　Percy；　if　you　have　one。　　The　last　stanza；　as　I　recall　it；　runs　in　this　wise：
  And　when　by　envy　time　transported　　　Shall　seek　to　rob　us　of　our　joys；　　　You'll　in　our　girls　again　be　courted　　　And　I'll　go　wooing　in　our　boys。
  ‘‘Now　who　was　the　author　of　those　lines？''　asked　the　Judge。
  ‘‘Undoubtedly　Oliver　Wendell　Holmes；''　said　I。　　‘‘They　have　the　flavor　peculiar　to　our　Autocrat；　none　but　he　could　have　done　up　so　much　sweetness　in　such　a　quaint　little　bundle。''
  ‘‘You　are　wrong；''　said　the　Judge；　‘‘but　the　mistake　is　a　natural　one。　　The　whole　poem　is　such　a　one　as　Holmes　might　have　written；　but　it　saw　the　light　long　before　our　dear　doctor's　day：　what　a　pity　that　its　authorship　is　not　known！''
  ‘‘Yet　why　a　pity？''　quoth　I。　　‘‘Is　it　not　true　that　words　are　the　only　things　that　live　forever？　　Are　we　not　mortal；　and　are　not　books　immortal？　　Homer's　harp　is　broken　and　Horace's　lyre　is　unstrung；　and　the　voices　of　the　great　singers　are　hushed；　but　their　songs　their　songs　are　imperishable。　　O　friend！　what　moots　it　to　them　or　to　us　who　gave　this　epic　or　that　lyric　to　immortality？　　The　　singer　belongs　to　a　year；　his　song　to　all　time。　　I　know　it　is　the　custom　now　to　credit　the　author　with　his　work；　for　this　is　a　utilitarian　age；　and　all　things　are　by　the　pound　or　the　piece；　and　for　so　much　money。
  ‘‘So　when　a　song　is　printed　it　is　printed　in　small　type；　and　the　name　of　him　who　wrote　it　is　appended　thereunto　in　big　type。　　If　the　song　be　meritorious　it　goes　to　the　corners　of　the　earth　through　the　medium　of　the　art　preservative　of　arts；　but　the　longer　and　the　farther　it　travels　the　bigger　does　the　type　of　the　song　become　and　the　smaller　becomes　the　type　wherein　the　author's　name　is　set。
  ‘‘Then；　finally；　some　inconsiderate　hand；　wielding　the　pen　or　shears；　blots　out　or　snips　off　the　poet's　name；　and　henceforth　the　song　is　anonymous。　　A　great　iconoclasta　royal　old　iconoclastis　Time：　but　he　hath　no　terrors　for　those　precious　things　which　are　embalmed　in　words；　and　the　only　fellow　that　shall　surely　escape　him　till　the　crack　of　doom　is　he　whom　men　know　by　the　name　of　Anonymous！''
  ‘‘Doubtless　you　speak　truly；''　said　the　　Judge；　‘‘yet　it　would　be　different　if　I　but　had　the　ordering　of　things。　　I　would　let　the　poets　live　forever　and　I　would　kill　off　most　of　their　poetry。''
  I　do　not　wonder　that　Ritson　and　Percy　quarrelled。　　It　was　his　misfortune　that　Ritson　quarrelled　with　everybody。　　Yet　Ritson　was　a　scrupulously　honest　man；　he　was　so　vulgarly　sturdy　in　his　honesty　that　he　would　make　all　folk　tell　the　truth　even　though　the　truth　were　of　such　a　character　as　to　bring　the　blush　of　shame　to　the　devil's　hardened　cheek。
  On　the　other　hand；　Percy　believed　that　there　were　certain　true　things　which　should　not　be　opened　out　in　the　broad　light　of　day；　it　was　this　deep…seated　conviction　which　kept　him　from　publishing　the　manuscript　folio；　a　priceless　treasure；　which　Ritson　never　saw　and　which；　had　it　fallen　in　Ritson's　way　instead　of　Percy's；　would　have　been　clapped　at　once　into　the　hands　of　the　printer。
  How　fortunate　it　is　for　us　that　we　have　in　our　time　so　great　a　scholar　as　Francis　James　Child；　so　enamored　of　balladry　and　so　learned　in　it；　to　complete　and　finish　the　work　of　his　predecessors。　　I　count　myself　happy　that　I　　have　heard　from　the　lips　of　this　enthu