She made me a low curchy, and she sais to me:

"I thanky, Sir," she sais, "I'm only tollibul this eavnin," and then she wuz, goin to say sumthin mo but wuz took with a fit uv coffin behine her fan, and stopt.

S'I, "You got mighty pritty har, Miss Haryit. You remines me a good eel uv my cussin Betsy Flatback, only she's a dark-skinned gearl, and you aint got no bumps on your forrud, nar a one, is fer is I kin see."

I thought I heern a kine uv tittrin and gigglin a goin on all aroun me, which I reckin I did heer it, and which I has no doubt wuz on acount uv po Oans, which jest at that minnit kectcht me and hauled me away, rite throo the crowd, which apeard to be a cunsiderbul disturbd, is well is myself, fer his saik. I nuvver did sea sich a fais as po Oans had. Lookt like it ware goin to bust plum opin, it ware so red and so full uv blood.

He cum is nigh havin uv a apperplecksy and cunvulshins is enny man I uvver see to miss it. He coodin speak a wird, but hauled me along arfter him, way out uv the crowd. I a thinkin he wuz goin hoam, cos he wuz turribly sick at his stummuck. But he carrid me to the eend uv a long passige, whar thar wuz a big glass hous, full uv trees, and the minnit he got thar, he laid down among the tubbs whar the trees wuz plantid in, and rolld over and over like he wuz a gointer die evry secund. I war goin fer a doctur, but he woodin let me. And he made the kuyusist soun, like laffin, and when I sea his fais, it lookt like he ware laffin, but fit to kill hisself with it. S'I "Mr. Oans, you laffin, aint you?" But his jaw ware lockt, and he rolld over and shuffild aroun the tubbs wuss then ever. I knowd he ware in agny, but it sounded so much like laffin I ware bleest to ask him agin:

"But aint you laffin, Mr. Oans?" It ware a long tiem befo he cood wreply, and when he did, he fetcht breth so hard it ware misry to heer him. He sais:

"Oh! Lord. no. I'm not a laffin. I've

got a apperplectic fitt. My famly is subjeck to um, and when they has um, noboddy skeersly kin bleeve they aint laffin."

And he laid thar pantin, like a houn arfter a long chaise. I reckin it wuz nigh onto a nour befo he sufishintly rekuverd to git up and go back whar the cumpny wuz. I bresht his clothes, which they wuz full uv dirt whar he had rolld on the flo uv the glass hous, and we went back. But, po feller! he hickupt and gobbled fer breth and his eyes run water so, that evvrybody kep a lookin at me and him saim like we wuz a cupple uv wild anemils, makin it verry onplesant to be thar. So when we cum acrost Miss Saludy Trungil and sum uther folks frum the Mintzpi Hous, which they seamed to hav heerd how bad off Oans he wuz, and he tole Miss Saludy he ware so week he cood barly stand, she offerd him a seet in her carridge, and we giv our chex and got our hats and coats, put um on, and cum back, most uv the uther Mintzpi folks folrin behine us in thar hax. I warnt sorry to leav the seen uv so mutch splendur, becos the cheef objick uv my vissit, that is, seein uv the Pressydint about my skeam, ware knockt on the hed. Comin back Oans ware took so bad agin with his cunvulshins, he ware foast to leen his hed on Miss Saludy's shoalder, and cried and lafft and gobbled thar like a chile. She ware mighty good to him, and took him rite into the poller uv the Mintzpi; and thar I left him and her and Melloo, and neerly all the rest uv um, bein ankshus myself to git over to my wroom, becos I felt ruther badly.

I hadin hardly got down the steps uv the Mintzpi, befo I heerd the most orful laffin in the wirl in the poller. And thar wuz po Oans, neerly ded with a fitt uv apperplecksy. I doo think sitty folks is the most unfeelin uv humin beans.

Tell um to fix up evrything at hoam, fer I'm a cummin the minnit I pay my dets. I aint goin to stay in this durn plais no longer.

Yose truly,

MOZIS ADDUMS.

No country can boast of a richer collection of ballads than Scotland, and no editor for these ballads could be found more accomplished than Professor Aytoun. He has sent forth two beautiful volumes, which range with Percy's Reliques, which for completeness and accuracy leave little to be desired, which must henceforth be regarded as the standard edition of the Scottish Ballads, and which we commend as a model to any among ourselves who may think of doing like service to the English Ballads. A good editor of poetry is indeed one of the rarest of birds, as those who have paid any attention to certain recent issues must know to their cost. Sometimes the editor is an enthusiastic admirer of his author, and in this case he is generally void of sense as well as of any pretension to industry; he edits in the style of a showman. Sometimes he is wonderfully erudite, and in this case he is generally incapable of getting beyond verbal criticism; he edits on the principle of the miser, that a pin a day is a groat a year, and that if he takes care of the half-pence the pounds will take care of themselves. Sometimes he is but a laborious blockhead, and this is the most insufferable of all; he does not understand the difference between jest and earnest, fact and fiction. Almost all the editors we allude to mean well and do their best to serve their authors, but the appearance of one edition after another of the same poets and the same dramatists proves how unsatisfactory is each previous one, and how exceedingly rare is that assemblage of qualities required in a poetical editorample knowledge combined with depth of thought, imagination restrained by common sense, and the power of being far more than the editor of other men's work united with the will to forget oneself and to remain entirely in the background. Perhaps this last is the rarest of all combinations. Why should a

man who is capable of producing a book of his own, content himself with the more humble labour of furbishing up other men's productions? The result is nearly worthless, unless there is some sort of equality, some appearance of companionship and brotherhood between the poet and his editor; but the chances are that only those will undertake the responsibility of editing poetry who are fit for nothing else, who could not write two passable couplets of their own, who could not assume to be the poet's friend, but who, perchance, might lay claim to the dignity of being the poet's lacquey, the poet's parasite, or the poet's flea.

Here we are reminded of one great merit in Professor Aytoun's labour. He has both in Bon Gaultier and in Firmilian, shown how cleverly he can seize the peculiarities of any style, and imitate them so that the parody shall pass for a genuine work. He has also proved in a more serious vein that he has a special aptitude for ballad writing, and that the style comes to him as naturally as whisky to a Highlander. It might, therefore, have been expected that he would be tempted to exercise his skill upon these ballads-where a verse is wanting to supply one, where it is feeble to strengthen it, where it is coarse to refine it away. On the contrary, these are sins which may be laid to the charge of almost every editor but Professor Aytoun, and if he errs at all it is in the opposite direction. In an introduction which, if somewhat rambling, is full of good sense and interesting matter, he has stated the principle on which alone the restoration of works of art is possible. There are architects who restore cathedrals by replacing the mouldering pillars and arches with new ones, in which they attempt to work out what they imagine must have been the original design of the builder. There are artists who restore pictures by painting over the faded colours in

the vain hope of reproducing the vivid
tones of the original master. There are
editors-and, by the way, old Bishop
Percy was among the number, the most
respectable of the fraternity-who re
store poems by corrupting them, by
adding here and altering there. Against
such restorations an editor ought to set
his face; the only allowable restoration is
the removal of modern additions; and if
Professor Aytoun is chargeable with a
fault, it is in being too much of a purist,
too anxious to get at the original version
in all its rudeness, too intolerant of later
and improved editions. Here, for exam-
ple, in his edition of "Annie Laurie :"-
"Maxwelton banks are bonnie,
Where early fa's the dew,
Where me and Annie Laurie

Made up the promise true;
Made up the promise true,

And ne'er forget will I,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay down my head and die.
"She's backit like a peacock,

She's breastet like a swan,
She's jimp about the middle,

Her waist ye weel may span;
Her waist ye weel may span,
She has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay down my head and die." Now, we do not think that we are affected by modern partialities when we say that the later version, which will be found in every song-book, is superior to the above both in word and thought. There is something surely very prosaic in the expressions of the first of these stanzas, and the images suggested by the second are nothing less than ludicrous. If it was necessary to preserve the original words, the common version might have been appended. One cannot point, however, to many instances of the same kind. In nine cases out of ten, Aytoun's purism is thoroughly justifiable; and a good example of it will be found in the ballad of "Child Morrice," which, as given by Bishop Percy, is full of modern interpolations. If we quote a few verses the reader will very soon perceive the difference between the ring of the old ballad and the modern addition to it:

"Gil Morice was an Erlie's son, His name it waxed wide; It was na for his parentage,

Or for his meikle pride; But it was for a lady gay

That lived on Carron side. "Gil Morice sate in the gay green wood; He whistled, and he sang,

Oh! what means a' thir folk coming?
My mother tarries lang!

"His hair was like the threads of gold
Drawn frae Minerva's loom;

His lips like roses drapping dew,
His breath was a perfume.

"His brow was like the mountain snaw
Gilt by the morning beam;

His cheeks like living roses glow,

His e'en like azure stream. "This boy was clad in robes of green,

Sweet as the infant spring;

And like the mavis on the bush

He gart the valleys ring."

The last three stanzas must be at once felt to have no affinity with the preceding ones. There is nothing of the reality of ballad poetry about them; they remind one more of the fictitious sentiment and false imagery of the poets who belong to the end of the 17th and beginning of 18th centuries. Here the knife is necessary, and Professor Aytoun has used it without mercy.

Here we have a great number of ballads; in the volumes of Professor Aytoun there are about 130. Overlooking fragments, these are all the valuable remains of Scottish ballad poetry that have been saved from oblivion. They are the work of many authors, and yet they are so much alike in style and treatment that to all appearance they might have been the work of one. Just as one Act of Parliament is like another, and ordinary observers cannot detect any individuality in the style of each, so the differences between one ballad and another are apparent only after minute study, and most careful students if asked to describe these differences might not unnaturally give an answer like that of St. Augustin to the question, what is time? If you ask me, I cannot tell you; but if you do not ask me, I know very well what it is. It is not the differences between one

ballad and another that strike a reader now-a-days; it is the similarities. We meet with the same phrases, the same metre, the same refrains the same sentiments, the same art. And this similarity exists not merely between ballad and ballad in the same language, but also between the ballads of one language and those of another. Perhaps English readers are better acquainted through the medium of translation with the ballads of Spain than with those of any other country; and the affinity of the Spanish to to the English and the Scottish ballads must be very evident. A broad survey of this species of composition proves that it was a craft of common origin among almost all the European nations. From such a fact it is that those larger deductions are derived which interest the literary historian; but the student of any particular collection of ballads is more interested in detecting those differences which indicate individual authorship. Unfortunately, there is nothing but internal evidences to go upon, and nothing can be more deceptive. In one instance, at least, Professor Aytoun fancies that in two different ballads he can detect the same authorship, but the similarity is not appreciable by the ordinary reader. We look in vain for the egotism of the composer. In ballads of the most opposite character we meet with the selfsame touches. If the hero receives a letter he laughs a loud laugh when he reads the first line; his eye fills with tears when he reads the second; and he is utterly unable to read the third. If the hero dies his lady-love is certain to kiss his mouth with kisses three, and then to lie dead by his side; the one is buried in the chancel, the other is buried in the choir; out of her grave grows a bonnie red rose, out of his a sweet brier (rhyming with choir,) and the two plants intertwine their branches. When the page boy is sent on an errand he swims as he comes to the broken bridge, he runs when he comes to the grass, and when he comes to the castle he leaps the wall with the greatest ease. When the lover comes to the bower of his lady "he tirls at the pin." When the old

father hears of their love-making, "an angry man was he." When the lady is disappointed in her love, she says in all bitterness,

"There sall nae wash come on my face;

There sall nae kame come in my hair; There sall neither coal nor candle light Be seen within my bower mair."

In this squalid state she always lives for seven years, at the end of which time she beholds the ghost of her lover, who has been very restless in his grave, and who comes to her shivering with the rain upon his hair and the dew upon his face to redeem his pledge. These are conventional phrases, like those of our modern poets, who always begin with a description of the setting sun, which is not exactly setting, but is dying bathed in his blood, or is being drowned like the Duke of Clarence in the blushing wine, or is retiring from view like a king wrapt in purple robes, or is yawning so that we see into his great red mouth; and most readers never got beyond this mannerism, which gives to all the ballads a similarity of tint.

In spite of this similarity, which to some may appear monotonous, if not ludicrous, there is not one ballad which does not rise above its mannerism and does not exhibit the truest feeling and the keenest insight. The strange thing is that, notwithstanding all the tricks which belong to the style, there is scarcely a superfluous line in any one of the ballads. It would be almost impossible to abridge one without robbing it of some important member. The fault of the ballads is in rather the opposite direction; they appear to be too curt, too elliptical, and it is supposed that the chasms which are left in the narrative, and must now be supplied by the imagination of the reader, must in the days of the minstrels have been more or less filled up with interpolations of extemporized prose narrative, and it is in these interpolations, which are now lost, that the egotism of the minstrel must have been chiefly manifested. Recitation must of necessity be redundant. All audiences are more or less stupid, and

require a certain time for the facts which are placed before them to be distinctly apprehended. A statement which might occupy a single line must be expanded into a stanza when the composer has to do not with readers but with hearers. In the Scottish ballads, on the contrary, there is very little of such expansion, although there is a good deal of repetition. This characteristic will best be seen in an example, and we select "Helen of Kirkconnell," partly as showing how perfectly the ballad-maker attaining his object in a single line, refused to expand it into a couplet, but contented himself with a simple repetition which makes it all the more pathetic; and partly as showing with peculiar vividness the difference between the old style and our modern poetry. The story is, that a lady of the name of Helen Irving, daughter of the Laird of Kirkconnell, was beloved by two gentlemen, one of whom was regarded with favour; that the despised lover, seeing his more fortunate rival with the lady near the church-yard of Kirkconnell, levelled his carabine at him; that Helen threw herself before her lover, received the bullet in her bosom, and died on the spot and that a desperate combat ensued between the two men, in which the murderer was cut to pieces. The ballad is as follows:

"I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh, that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

"Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt
And died to succour me!

Oh, think ye na my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spake nae

mair!

There did she swoon wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

"As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide
On fair Kirkconnell lee-

"I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma'

I hacked him in pieces sma'
For her sake that died for me.

"Oh, Helen fair beyond compare! I'll weave a garland of thy hair Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee.

"Oh, that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, 'Haste and come to me!'

"Oh, Helen fair! oh, Helen chaste! Were I with thee I would be blest, Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirkconnell lee.

"I wish my grave were growing green; A winding-sheet drawn o'er my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

"I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries, And I am weary of the skies,

For her sake that died for me."

This is one of the most touching of the Scottish ballads. For genuine pathos it is entitled to take rank after "Oh waly, waly, up the bank," the most affecting of them all. Now, it so happens that it is perhaps of all the ballads the one that has been most often imitated, and Professor Aytoun, in his lectures on poetry, which he delivered in London some five years ago, suggested that, in order fully to appreciate it, we should compare it with the attempts of the more modern poets. The poet who comes nearest to the spirit of the original is Tennyson, in that ballad of "Oriana" which must be familiar to every reader. The attempt of a more ambitious poet-namely, Wordsworth, is less known, and the unapproachable simplicity of the old ballad will, perhaps, be evident if we quote a few verses from the modern rendering:"Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin! Fair Ellen saw it as it came, And starting up to meet the same, Did with her body cover

The youth, her chosen lover.