They march'd from the city, Comparing themselves to our island ;- Are the bravest, but we Are the doughtiest heroes on dry land." But in marching along, They somehow received an impression,— "The best part of valour's-discretion." So at war's first alarms, They threw down their arms, And manoeuvred their legs with such cunning; They fought-but 'twas shy, Not a battle was lost By th' invincible host, Which, as nobody fought, was no wonder; So eager were all to knock-under. Thus they made pretty dupes By their fierce gasconading and banter; To achieve had eloped, So they march'd into Naples instanter. Neapolitans spoke Of these troops (what a joke!) As doom'd to mince-meat and dissection;- In the end, they devour'd-with affection. They might take a kick, The foot that bestow'd it-I'm puzzled; Why they fawn'd on the hand By which they were chain'd up and muzzled. Should they think fit to rise To exhibit less talk and more fighting; Or still crouch like the slave, And not show their teeth without biting. So God save the King, Who ran from one oath to another; May he long live to reign, For the people, 'tis plain, And the monarch, are worthy each other. TRADITIONAL LITERATURE. No. VII. THE DEATH OF WALTER SELBY. I rede ye, my lady-I rede ye, my lord, BEFORE dame Eleanor Selby had concluded her account of the Spectre Horsemen of Soutra-fell, the sun had set and the twilight, warm, silent, and dewy, had succeeded-that pleasant time between light and dark, in which domestic labour finds a brief remission. The shepherd, returned from hill or moor, spread out his hose-moistened in morass or rivulet -before the hearth fire, which glimmered far and wide, and taking his accustomed seat, sat mute and motionless as a figure of stone. The cows came lowing homewards from the pasture-hills; others feeding out of cribs filled with rich moist clover, yielded their milk into a score of pails; while the ewes, folded on the sheltered side of the remote glen, submitted their udders, not without the frequent butt and bleat, to the pressure of maidens' hands. Pastoral verse has not many finer pictures than what it borrows from the shepherd returning from the hill, and the shepherdess from the fold-the former with his pipe and dogs, and the latter with her pail of reeking milk, each singing with a hearty country freedom of voice, and in their own peculiar way, the loves and the joys of a pastoral life. The home of Randal Rode presented a scene of rough plenty, and abounded in pastoral wealth; the head of the house associated with his domestics, and maintained that authority over their words and conduct which belonged to simpler times; and something of the rustic dignity of the master was observable in his men. His daughter, Maudeline, busied herself among the maidens with a meekness and a diligence which had more of the matron than is commonly found in so young a dame. All this escaped not the notice of her old and capricious kinswoman Eleanor Selby; but scenes of homely and domestic joy seemed alien to her heart. The intrusion too of the churlish name of Old Ballad. Rode among the martial Selbys, never failed to darken the picture which she would have enjoyed had this rustic alloy mixed with the precious metal of any other house. It was her chief delight, since all the males of her name had perished, to chaunt ballads in their praise, and relate their deeds from the time of the Norman invasion down to their final extinction in the last rebellion. Many snatches of these chivalrous ballads are still current on the Border-the debateable land of song as well as of the sword—where minstrels sought their themes, and entered, harp in hand, into rivalry-a kind of contest which the sword, the critic's weapon of those days, was often drawn to decide. Much of this stirring and heroic border-life mingles with the traditionary tales of Eleanor Selby. Her narratives contain, occasionally, a vivid presentment of character and action; and I shall endeavour to preserve something of this, and retain, at the same time, their dramatic cast, while I prune and condense the whole, to render them more acceptable to the impatience of modern readers. She thus pursued her story. "I am now to tell a tale I have related a thousand times to the noble and the low-it is presented to me in my dreams, for the memory of spilt blood clings to a young mind-and the life's-blood of Walter Selby was no common blood to me. The vision of the spectre horsemen, in which human fate was darkly shadowed forth, passed away-and departed too, I am afraid, from the thoughts of those to whom it came as a signal and a warning-as a cloud passes from the face of the summer-moon. Seated on horseback, with Walter Selby at my bridle-rein, and before and behind me upwards of a score of armed cavaliers, I had proceeded along the mountain side about a mile, when a horn was winded at a small distance in our front. We quickened our pace; but the way was rough and difficult; and we were obliged to go a sinuous course, like the meanderings of a brook, round rock and cairn and heathy hill, while the horn, continuing to sound, still seemed as far a-head as when we first heard it. It was about twelve o'clock; and the moon, large and bright and round, gleamed down from the summit of a green pasture mountain, and lightened us on our way through a narrow wooded valley, where a small stream glimmered and sparkled in the light, and ran so crooked a course, as compelled us to cross it every hundred yards. Walter Selby now addressed me in his own singular way: Fair Eleanor, mine own grave and staid cousin, knowest thou whither thou goest? Comest thou to counsel how fifty men may do the deeds of thousands, and how the crown of this land may be shifted like a prentice's cap? 'Truly,' said I, most sage and considerate cousin, I go with thee like an afflicted damosel of yore, in the belief that thy wisdom and valour may reinstate me in my ancient domains or else win for me some new and princely inheritance.' Thou speakest,' said the youth, 'like one humble in hope, and puttest thy trust in one who would willingly work miracles to oblige thee. But ponder, fair damsel-my sword, though the best blade in Cumberland, cannot cut up into relics five or six regiments of dragoons-nor is this body, though devoted to thee, made of that knight-errant stuff that can resist sword and bullet. So I counsel thee, most discreet coz, to content thyself with hearing the sound of battle afar off-for we go on a journey of no small peril.' To these sensible and considerate words, I answered nothing, but rode on, looking, all the while, Walter Selby in the face, and endeavouring to say something witty or wise. He resumed his converse: Nay, nay, mine own sweet and gentle cousin-my sweet Eleanor-I am too proud of that troubled glance of thine, to say one word more about separation, and our horses' heads and our cheeks came closer as he spoke. That ballad of the pedlar, for pedlar shall the knight be still, to oblige thee, his ballad told more truth than I reckoned a minstrel might infuse into verse. All the border cavaliers of England and Scotland are near us, or with us,--and now for the game of coronets and crowns- - a coffin, coz, or an earl's bauble-for we march upon Preston.' Prepared as I was for these tidings, I could not hear them without emotion, and I looked with an eye on Walter Selby that was not calculated to inspire acts of heroism. I could not help connecting our present march on Preston with the shadowy procession I had so recently witnessed; and the resemblance which one of the phantoms bore to the youth beside me, pressed on my heart. Now do not be afraid of our success, my fair coz,' said he, when to all the proud names of the border-names thou hast long since learned by heart, and rendered musical by repeating them— we add the names of two most wise and prudent persons, who shall hereafter be called the setters-up and pluckers-down of kings-even thy cool and chivalrous cousin, and a certain staid and sedate errant damosel.' This conversation obtained for us the attention of several stranger cavaliers who happened to join us as, emerging from the woody glen, we entered upon a green and wide moor or common. One of them, with a short cloak and slouched hat and heron's feather, rode up to my right hand, and glancing his eye on our faces, thus addressed himself to me in a kind-hearted, but antique, style:- Fair lady, there be sights less to a warrior's liking than so sweet a face beside a wild mountain, about the full of the moon. cause that soils one of these bright tresses in dew, must be a cause dear to man's heart-and, fair one, if thou wilt permit me to ride by thy bridlerein, my presence may restrain sundry flouts and jests which young cavaliers, somewhat scant of grace and courtesy-and there be such in our company-may use, on seeing a lady so fair and so young, bowne on such a dangerous and unwonted journey.' I thanked this northern cavalier for his charitable civility, and observed, with a smile, I had the protection of a young person who would feel pleased in sharing the responsibility of such a task.' And, fair lady,' continued The he, if Walter Selby be thy protector, my labour will be the less.' My cousin, who during this conversation had rode silent at my side, seemed to awaken from a reverie, and glancing his eye on the cavalier, and extending his hand, said, 'Sir, in a strange dress, uttering strange words, and busied in a pursuit sordid and vulgar, I knew you not, and repelled your frank courtesy with rude words. I hear you now in no disguised voice, and see you with the sword of honour at your side instead of the pedlar's staff: accept, therefore, my hand, and be assured that a Selby-as hot and as proud as the lordliest of his ancestors, feels honoured in thus touching in friendship the hand of a gallant gentleman.' I felt much pleased with this adventure, and looked on the person of the stalwart borderer, as he received and returned the friendly grasp of Walter Selby; he had a brow serene and high, an eye of sedate resolution, and something of an ironic wit lurking amid the wrinkles which age and thought had engraven on his face. I never saw so complete a transformation; and could hardly credit, that the bold, martial-looking, and courteous cavalier at my side had but an hour or two before sung rustic songs, and chaffered with the peasants of Cumberland, about the price of ends of ribbon and two-penny toys and trinkets. He seemed to understand my thoughts, and thus resolved the riddle in a whisper ;Fair lady, these be not days when a knight of loyal mind may ride with sound of horn, and banner displayed, summoning soldiers to fight for the good cause; of a surety, his journey would be brief. In the disguise of a calling, low, it is true, but honourable in its kind, I have obtained more useful intelligence, and enlisted more good soldiers, than some who ride aneath an earl's pennon.' "Our party, during this nocturnal march, had been insensibly augmented; and when the gray day came, I could count about three hundred horsemen young, wellmounted, and well-armed-some giving vent to their spirit or their feelings in martial songs; others examining and proving the merits of their swords and pistols, and many marching on in grave silence, forecasting the hazards of war and the glory of success. Leaving the brown pastures of the moorlands, we descended into an open and cultivated country, and soon found ourselves upon the great military road which connects all the north country with the capital. It was still the cold and misty twilight of the morning, when I happened to observe an old man close beside me, mounted on a horse seemingly coeval with himself, -wrapped, or rather shrouded, in a gray mantle or plaid, and all the while looking stedfastly at me from under the remains of a broad slouched hat. I had something like a dreamer's re collection of his looks; but he soon added his voice, to assist my recollection, and I shall never forget the verses the old man chaunted with a broken and melancholy, and, I think I may add, prophetic voice: OH! PRESTON, PROUD PRESTON. 1. Oh! Preston, proud Preston, come hearken the cry Thy homes to the flame, to be smote and consumed; 2. What deed have I done-that thou lift'st thus thy cry, Ꭰ My matrons are chaste, and my daughters are fair; 3. What harm hast thou wrought! list and hearken—the hour As the flower to the field, and the leaf to the tree, So sure is the time of destruction to thee. What harm hast thou wrought!-haughty Preston, now hear— And thy steeds through our ranks rush, all foaming and hot, 4. Oh! Selby, brave Selby, no more thy sword's braving "I dropt the bridle from my hand, and all the green expanse of dale and hill grew dim before me. The voice of the old man had for some time ceased, before I had courage to look about; and I immediately recognized in the person of the minstrel an old and faithful soldier of my father's, whose gift at song, rude and untutored as it was, had obtained him some estimation on the border where the strong, lively imagery, and familiar diction, of the old ballads, still maintain their ground against the classic elegance and melody of modern verse. I drew back a little; and shaking the old man by the hand, said, Many years have passed, Harpur Harberson, since I listened to thy minstrel skill at Lanercost; and I thought thou hadst gone, and I should never see thee again. Thy song has lost some of its ancient grace and military glee since thou leftest my father's hall.' Deed, my bonnie lady,' said the borderer, with a voice suppressed and melancholy, while something of his ancient smile brightened his face for a moment, ' sangs of sorrow and dule have been rifer with me than ballads of merriment and mirth. It's long now since I rode, and fought, by my gallant master's side, when the battle waxed fierce and desperate; and my foot is not so firm in the stirrup now, nor my hand sae steeve at the steel, as it was in those blessed and heroic days. It's altered days with Harpur Harberson, since he harped afore the nobles of the north, in the home of the gallant Selbys, and won the cup of gold. I heard that my bonnie lady and her gallant cousin were on horseback; so I e'en put my old frail body on a frail horse, to follow where I cannot lead. It's pleasant to mount at the sound of the trumpet again; and it's better for an auld man to fall with the sound of battle in his ear, and be buried in the trench with the brave, and the young, and the noble,-than beg his bread from door to door, enduring the scoff and scorn of the vulgar and sordid, and be found, some winter morning, streeked stiff and dead, on a hassoc of straw in some churl's barn. So I shall e'en ride on, and see the last of a noble and a hopeless cause.' He drew his hat over his brow; while I endeavoured to cheer him by describing |
