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on equal terms; and they learned many a valuable lesson from his conversation, while they fancied themselves only amused. He had an excellent library, which before his death was nearly exhausted in presents to his youthful friends. Of this I had some years ago a very gratifying proof, on visiting a Spanish gentleman, in the island of Majorca, who unexpectedly to me opened a little cabinet filled with the best English authors, which my father had given him when a student in London.

The fireside, on a winter evening, was a scene highly picturesque, and worthy of the pencil of Wilkic. The veteran sat in his easy chair, surrounded by his children. A few grey hairs peeped from beneath his hat, worn somewhat awry, which gave an arch turn to the head, which it seldom quitted. The anchor button, and scarlet waistcoat trimmed with gold, marked the fashion of former times. Before him lay his book, and at his side a glass prepared by the careful hand of a daughter, who devoted herself to him with a tenderness peculiarly delightful to the infirmities of age. The benevolent features of the old man were slightly obscured by the incense of a "cigárre" (the last remnant of a cock-pit education) which spread its fragrance in long wreaths of smoke around himself and the whole apartment. A footstool supported his wounded leg, beneath which lay the old and faithful Newfoundland dog stretched on the hearth. Portraits of King Charles the First and Van Tromp (indicating the characteristic turn of his mind) appeared above the chimney-piece; and a multitude of prints of British heroes covered the rest of the wainscot. A knot of antique swords and Indian weapons garnished the old-fashioned pediment of the door; a green curtain was extended across the room, to fence off the cold air, to which an old sailor's constitution is particularly sensitive. Such was the picture.

The servants, who reverenced his peculiarities, served him with earnest affection. Even his horse confided in his benevolence as much as the rest of the household; for when he was of opinion that the morning ride was sufficiently extended, he commonly faced about, and as my father generally rode in gambadoes, (not the most convenient armour for a conflict with a self-willed steed,) he generally yielded to the caprice of his horse. The chief personage in his confidence was old Boswell, the self-invested minister of the extraordinaries of the family, who looked upon the footman as a jackanapes, and on the female servants as incapable of "understanding his honour." Boswell had been in his time a smart young seaman, and formerly rowed the stroke-oar in the captain's barge. After many a hard gale and long separation, the association was renewed in old age, and to a bystander had more of the familiarity of ancient friendship, than of the relation of master and servant. "Has your honour any further commands?" said Boswell, as he used to enter the parlour in the evening, while, throwing his body into an angle, he made his reverence, and shut the door with his opposite extremity at the same time. "No, Boswell, I think not, unless indeed you are disposed for a glass of grog before you go.” your honour pleases," was the established reply. A word from my father soon produced the beverage, at the approach of which the old sailor was seen to slide a quid into his cuff, and prepare for action. "Does your honour remember when we were up the Mississippi, in the Nautilus sloop of war?" "Ay, my old friend, I shall never forget it, 'twas a happy trip, the poor Indians won all our hearts." "Ah, but your honour, there was worse company than they in the woods there. Mayhap you recollect the great black snake that clung about the serjeant of marines, and had well nigh throttled him?" "I do, I do, and the poor fellow was obliged to beat its head to pieces against his own thigh. I remember it as though it was but yesterday." "And the rattle-snake too, that your honour killed with your five and forty feet." "Avast, Boswell!" cried my father, "mind your reckoning

cane,

"As

there, 'twas but twelve, you rogue, and that's long enough in all conscience." These scenes were highly amusing to our occasional visitors, and are still remembered with delight by those of his familiar friends who yet survive him.

If benevolence was the striking feature of his disposition, religion was the guide of his conduct, the anchor of his hope, the stay of all his confidence. There was an habitual energy in his private devotions, which proved the firm hold which Christianity had obtained over his mind. Whether in reading or in conversation, at the name of God he instantly uncovered his head, by a spontaneous movement of religious feeling. Nothing but illness ever kept him from church. His example there was a silent reproof to the idle and indifferent. I see him still in imagination, kneeling, unconscious of all around him, absorbed in earnest prayer, and though his features were concealed, the agitation of his venerable head indicated the fervour of his supplications. The recollection has often quickened my own indolence.

Such was the man whose memory was endeared to all who knew his worth, affording us a beautiful example of a true old English officer.

Dec. 26, 1822.

88.-THE NUT-BROWN MAID.

[IN a singular book, first printed about 1502, called 'Arnold's Chronicle,' the strangest medley of the most prosaic things-appears, for the first time, as far as we know, the ballad of The Nut-Brown Maid.' Upon this ballad Prior founded his poem of 'Henry and Emma.' Thomas Warton, in his 'History of English Poetry,' truly says that Prior "paraphrased the poem without improving its native beauties;" and he adds, "there is hardly an obsolete word, or that requires explanation, in the whole piece." Prior spoilt the story, enfeebled the characters, and utterly obliterated the simplicity of his original. The reader will bear in mind that the poem, after the first sixteen lines, is conducted in dialogue. We distinguish the beginning and end of each speech by inverted commas.}

Be it right or wrong, these men among, on women do complain,
Affirming this, how that it is a labour spent in vain

To love them well, for never a deal they love a man again;

For let a man do what he can their favour to attain,

Yet if a new do them pursue, their first true lover than*

Laboureth for nought, for from her thought he is a banished man.

I say not nay, but that all day it is both writ and said,
That woman's faith is, as who saith, all utterly decayed;
But, nevertheless, right good witness in this case might be laid,
That they love true, and continue; record the Nut-Brown Maid;
Which from her love, when her to prove, he came to make his moan,
Would not depart, for in her heart she loved but him alone.
Then between us let us discuss, what was all the maneret
Between them two; we will also tell all the pain and fear
That she was in. Now I begin, so that ye me answere.
Wherefore all ye that present be, I pray you give an ear:
"I am the knight, I come by night, as secret as I can,
Saying-Alas, thus standeth the case, I am a banished man!"
"And I your will for to fulfil, in this will not refuse;
Trusting to shew, in wordes few, that men have an ill use,

To their own shame, women to blame, and causeless them accuse;
Therefore to you I answer now, all women to excuse;

Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? I pray you tell anon,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

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"It standeth so; a deed is do wherefore much harm shall grow, My destiny is for to die a shameful death I trow,

Or else to flee; the one must be; none other way I know
But to withdraw, as an outlaw, and take me to my bow;
Wherefore adieu, my own heart true, none other rede* I can,
For I must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man.”
"O Lord, what is the worlde's bliss, that changeth as the moon,
My summer's day, in lusty May, is darked before the noon :
I hear you say farewell; nay, nay, we depart† not so soon;
Why say ye so? whither will ye go? alas, what have ye done?
All my welfare to sorrow and care should change if ye were gone
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone.”

"I can believe it shall you grieve, and somewhat you distrain;

But afterward, your painēs hard within a day or twain

Shall soon aslake, and ye shall take comfort to you again.

Why should ye nought? for to make thought your labour were in vain, And thus I do, and pray you lot, as heartily as I can,

For I must to the green wood go, alone, a banished man."

"Now sith that ye have shewed to me the secret of your mind,

I shall be plain to you again, like as ye shall me find;

Sith it is so, that ye will go, I will not leave behind,

Shall never be said, the Nut-Brown Maid was to her love unkind;
Make you ready, for so am I, although it were anon,

For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"Yet I you rede to take good heed what men will think and say,
Of young and old, it shall be told, that ye be gone away,
Your wanton will for to fulfil, in green wood yon to play,
And that ye might, from your delight, no longer make delay.
Rather than ye should thus for me be called an ill woman,
Yet would I to the green wood go, alone, a banished man.”
"Though it be sung of old and young that I should be to blame,
Theirs be the charge that speak so large in hurting of my name;
For I will prove that faithful love, it is devoid of shame;
In your distress and heaviness, to part with you the same;
And sure all tho'§ that do not so, true lovers are they none;
But, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"I counsel you, remember how it is no maiden's law,
Nothing to doubt, but to run out to wood with an outlaw:
For ye must there in your hand bear a bow ready to draw,
And as a thief thus must ye live, ever in dread and awe,
By which to you great harm might grow, yet had I liefer then
That I had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man."

"I think not nay, but as ye say, it is no maiden's law,
But love may make me for your sake, as I have said before,
To come on foot, to hunt and shoot to get us meat in store,
For so that I your company may have, I ask no more;
From which to part, it maketh mine heart as cold as any stone,
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

* counsel.

+ part.

mark.

§ those.

"For an outlaw this is the law, that men him take and bind
Without pity, hanged to be, and waver with the wind.

If I had need, as God forbid, what rescues could ye find?
Forsooth I trow, you and your bow for fear would draw behind;
And no marvel, for little avail were in your counsel than*
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banished man.”
"Full well know ye that women be full feeble for to fight,
No womanhedet it is indeed to be bold as a knight;
Yet in such fear if that ye were, with enemies day or night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand, to grieve them as I might,
And you to save, as women have, from death many one;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"Yet take good heed for ever I drede‡ that ye could not sustain
The thorny ways, the deep valleys, the snow, the frost, the rain,
The cold, the heat; for dry or wete§ we must lodge on the plain;
And us above none other rofe|| but a brake bush or twain;
Which soon should grieve you, I believe, and ye would gladly than,
That I had to the green wood go, alone, a banished man."
"Sith I have here been partynere T with you of joy and bliss,
I must also part of your woe endure, as reason is;

Yet am I sure of one pleasure; and, shortly, it is this,
That where ye be me seemeth, perdie, I could not fare amiss;
Without more speech, I you beseech, that we were soon agone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
"If ye go thider**,
', ye must consider, when ye have lust to dine,
There shall no meat be for you get, nor drink, beer, ale, nor wine,
Nor sheetes clean to lie between, maden of thread and twine;

None other house, but leaves and boughs, to cover your head and mine: Lo, mine heart sweet, this ill diet should make you pale and wan,

Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banished man."

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'Among the wild deer, such an archere, as men say that ye be,

Ne may not fail of good victaile, where is so great plenty,

And water clear, of the rivere, shall be full sweet to me,

With which in helett, I shall righte wele endure, as ye shall see;

And, ere we go, a bed or two I can provide anon,

For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"Lo yet before, ye must do more, if ye will go with me,
As cut your hair up by your ear, your kirtle by your knce;
With bow in hand, for to withstand your enemies, if need be;
And this same night, before daylight, to wood ward will I fleç.
If that ye will all this fulfil, do it shortly as ye can,
Else will I to the green wood go, alone, a banished man."
"I shall as now, do more for you than 'longeth to womanhede,
To short my hair, a bow to bear, to shoot in time of need.

O my sweet mother, before all other, for you have I most drede;
But now adieu! I must ensue where fortune doth me lead;
All this make ye; now let us flee, the day comes fast upon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."
then. + womanhood. dread. § wet. || roof. ¶ partner
** thither.

++ health,

"Nay, nay, not so, ye shall not go, and I shall tell you why
Your appetite is to be light of love, I well espy;
For like as ye have said to me, in like wise hardely,
Ye would answere who so ever it were, in way of company.
It is said of old, soon hot soon cold, and so is a woman;
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banished man."
"If ye take heed, it is no need such words to say by me,
For oft ye pray'd, and long essay'd, or I you loved, perdie
And though that I of ancestry a baron's daughter be,
Yet have you proved how I you loved, a squire of low degree
And ever shall, whatso befall, to die therefore anon;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone.”
"A baron's child to be beguiled, it were a cursed deed;
To be fellow with an outlaw, Almighty God forbid :
Yet better were, the poor squier alone to forest yede*,
Than ye shall say, another day, that by my wicked deed
Ye were betrayed; wherefore, good maid, the best rede that I can
Is that I to the greenwood go, alone, a banished man.”
"Whatever befall, I never shall of this thing you upbraid,
But if ye go, and leave me so, then have ye me betrayed;
Remember you well, how that ye deal, for if ye, as ye said,
Be so unkind, to leave behind your love, the Nut-Brown Maid,
Trust me truly that I die soon after ye be gone,

For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"If that ye went ye should repent, for in the forest now
I have purvey'd me of a maid, whom I love more than you.
Another fairer than ever ye were, I dare it well avow;
And of you both, each should be wroth with other, as I trow
It were mine ease to live in peace; so will I if I can;
Wherefore I to the wood will go, alone, a banished man."
"Though in the wood I understood ye had a paramour,

All this may nought remove my thought, but that I will be your
And she shall find me soft and kind, and courteous every hour,
Glad to fulfil all that she will command me to my power,
For had ye loot an hundred mo, yet would I be that one;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone."

"Mine own dear love, I see the proof that ye be kind and true:
Of maid and wife, in all my life, the best that ever I knew.
Be merry and glad, be no more sad, the case is changed new
For it were ruth, that, for your truth, you should have cause to rue
Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said to you when I began

I will not to the green wood go, I am no banished man."

"These tidings be more glad to me than to be made a queen,

If I were sure they should endure: but it is often seen,

When men will break promise, they speak the wordes on the spleen:
Ye shape some wile, me to beguile, and steal from me, I ween;
Then were the case worse than it was, and I more woe-begone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind, I love but you alone.

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