A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span,
Who struck below the knee, not counted was a man:
All made of Spanish yew, their bows were wondrous strong,
They not an arrow drew, but was a cloth yard long:
Of archery they had the very perfect craft,
With broad arrow, or butt, or prick, or roving shaft.
Their arrows finely paired for timber and for feather,
With birch and brazil pierced to fly in any weather;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked pile,
They loose gave such a twang as might be heard a mile."

Nor was the poet unaware of the way in which Robin maintained all this bravery:

"From wealthy abbots' chests and churls' abundant store

What oftentimes he took he shared amongst the poor;

No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way,

To him, before he went, but for his pass must pay."

In that wild way, and with no better means than his ready wit and his matchless archery, Robin baffled two royal invasions of Sherwood and Barnesdale, repelied with much effusion of blood half a score of incursions made by errant knights and armed sheriffs, and, unmoved by either the prayers or the thunders of the church, he reigned and ruled till age crept upon him, and illness, arising from his exposure to summer's heat and winter's cold, followed, and made him, for the first time, seek the aid of a leech. This was a fatal step: the lancet of his cousin, the Prioress of Kirklees Nunnery, in Yorkshire, to whom he had recourse in his distress, freed both church and state from farther alarm by treacherously bleeding him to death. "Such,” exclaims Ritson, more moved than common, was the end of Robin Hood; a man who, in a barbarous age and under complicated tyranny, displayed a spirit of freedom and independence which has endeared him to the common people whose cause he maintained, and which, in spite of the malicious endeavours of pitiful monks, by whom history was consecrated to the crimes and follies of titled ruffians and sainted idiots, to suppress all record of his patriotic exertions and virtuous acts, will render his name immortal."

The personal character of Robin Hood stands high in the pages of both history and poetry. Fordun, a priest, extols his piety; Major pronounces him the most humane of robbers; and Camden, a more judicious authority, calls him the gentlest of thieves, while in the pages of the early drama he is drawn at heroic length, and with many of the best attributes of human nature. His life and deeds have not only supplied materials for the drama and the ballad, but proverbs have sprung from them he stands the demi-god of English archery; men used to swear both by his bow and his clemency; festivals were once annually held, and games of a sylvan kind celebrated in his honour, in Scotland as well as in England. The grave where he lies has still its pilgrims; the well out of which he drank still retains his name; and his bow and one of his broad arrows were within this century to be seen in Fountains Abbey.

256.-A LITTLE GESTE OF ROBIN HOOD.

THE longest of all the ballads which bear the name of Robin Hood was first printed at the Sun, in Fleet Street, by Wynken de Worde. It is called 'A little Geste of Robin Hood;"' but so ill-informed was the printer in the outlaw's history, that he describes it as a story of King Edward, Robin Hood, and Little John. It is perhaps one of the oldest of these compositions.

The ballad begins somewhat in the minstrel manner:

Come lithe a listen, gertlemen,

That be of free-born blood,

I shall tell you of a good yeoman,

His name was Robin Hood.

So courteous an outlaw as he was
Has never yet been found.

Robin he was a proud outlaw As ever walked on ground; It then proceeds to relate how Robin stood in Barnesdale Wood, with all his companions beside him, and refused to go to dinner till he should find some bold baron or unasked guest, either clerical or lay, with wealth sufficient to furnish forth his table. On this Little John, who seems always to have had a clear notion of the work in hand, inquired anxiously,

There is no force, said bold Robin,

Can well withstand us now;
So look ye, do no husbandman harm
That tilleth with his plough.

Where shall we take, where shall we leave, Where shall we abide behind, Where shall we rob, where shall we reave, Where shall we beat and bind? He gives similar directions about tenderly treating honest yeomen, and even knights and squires disposed to be good fellows; "but beat," said he, "and bind, bishops and archbishops; and be sure never to let the high sheriff of Nottingham out of your mind."-" Your words shall be our law," said Little John; " and you will forgive me for wishing for a wealthy customer soon-I long for dinner. One, a knight, with all the external marks of a golden prize, was first observed by Little John, approaching on horseback through one of the long green glades of Barnesdale Wood: the stranger is well drawn:

All dreary then was his semblaunt,

And little was his pride;

His one foot in the stirrup stood,

The other waved beside.

His hood hung over his two eyne;

He rode in simple array,

A sorrier man than he was one

Rode never in summer's day.

"I greet you well," said Little John, "and welcome you to the greenwood; my master has refused to touch his dinner these three hours, expecting your arrival." "And who is your master," inquired the stranger, "that shows me so much courtesy?" "E'en Robin Hood," said the other, meekly. "Ah, Robin Hood!" replied the stranger, "he is a good yeoman and true, and I accept his invitation." Little John, who never doubted but that the stranger was simulating sorrow and poverty, the better to hide his wealth, conducted him at once to the trysting-tree, where Robin received him with a kindly air and a cheerful countenance.

They washed together, and wiped both,

And set till their dinere

Of bread and wine they had enough,
And numbles of the deere

Swans and pheasants they had full good,

And fowls of the rivere;

There failed never so little a bird

That ever was bred on brere.

"I thank thee for thy dinner, Robin," said the knight, "and if thou ever comest my way I shall repay it." "I make no such exchanges, Sir Knight," said the outlaw, "nor do I ask any one for dinner. I vow to God, as it is against good manners for a yeoman to treat a knight, that you must pay for your entertainment." "I have no more in my coffer," said the other composedly, "save ten shillings," and he sighed as he said it. Robin signed to Little John, and he dived into the stranger's luggage at once: he found but ten shillings, and said, "The knight has spoken truly." "I fear you have been a sorry steward of your inheritance, Sir Knight," said the outlaw, "ten shillings is but a poor sum to travel with." "It was my misfortune, not my fault, Robin," said the knight; "my only son fell into a quarrel,

"And slew a knight of Lancashire,

And a squire full bold,

And all to save him in his right
My goods are sett and sold.

"My lands are sett to wad, Robin,

Until a certain day,

To a rich abbot here beside
Of St. Mary's Abbeye.

"My lands," he continued, "are mortgaged for four hundred pounds the abbot holds them: nor know I any friend who will help me-not one." Little John wept; Will Scarlett's eyes were moist; and Robin Hood, much affected, cried, "Fill us more wine: this story makes me sad too." The wine was poured out and drunk, and Robin continued, "Hast thou no friend, Sir Knight, who would give security for the loan of four hundred pounds?" "None," sighed the other, "not one friend have I save the saints." Robin shook his head. "The saints are but middling securities in matters of money: you must find better before I can help you."

Except that it be our dear Ladye,
Who never fail'd me a day.

I have none other then, said the knight,

The very sooth to say, Robin at length accepted the Virgin's security, and bade Little John tell out four hundred pounds for the knight; and, as he was ill apparelled, he desired him to give him three yards, and no more, of each colour of cloth for his use. John counted out the cash with the accu14cy of a miser; but, as his heart was touched with the knight's misfortunes, he measured out the cloth even more than liberally: he called for his bow and ell wand, and every time he applied it, he skipped, as the ballad avers, "footes three."

Scathlock he stood still and laugh'd,

And swore by Mary's might,

John may give him the better measure,
For by Peter it cost him light.

Give him a grey steed too, Robin he said,
Besides a saddle new,

For he is our Ladye's messenger;
God send that he prove true.

"Now," inquires the knight, "when shall my day of payment be?" "If it so please you, Sir," said Robin, "on this day twelvemonth, and the place shall be this good oak."

it," answered the knight, and rode on his way.

"So be

The day of payment came, and Robin Hood and his chivalry sat below his trysting oak: their conversation turned on the absent knight and on his spiritual security.

Go we to dinner, said Little John;

Robin Hood, he said nay,

Have no doubt, master, quoth Little John,
Yet is not the sun at rest,

For I dread our Ladye be wroth with me, For I dare say and safely swear
She hath sent me not my pay.
The knight is true and trest.

The confidence of little John was not misplaced; for, while he took his bow and with Will Scarlett and Much the Miller's son walked into the glades of Barnesdale Forest to await for the coming of baron or bishop with gold in their purses, the knight was on his way to the trysting-tree with the four hundred pounds in his pocket, and a noble present for the liberal outlaw: the present was in character:

He purveyed him an hundred bows,
The strings they were well dight;
An hundred sheafs of arrows good,
The heads burnish'd full bright.

And every arrow was an ell long,

With peacock plume y-dight,
Y-nocked to all with white silver,
It was a seemly sight.

The knight was, however, detained on the way by a small task of mercy; he came to a place where a horse, saddled and bridled, and a pipe of wine, were set up as the prizes at a public wrestling-match; and as they were won by a strange yeoman, the losers raised a tumult, and, but for the interference of the knight and the men who accompanied him, would have deprived the yeoman of his prizes and done him some personal harm. The Abbot, too, of St. Mary's had raised difficulties in the restoring of his land and the receipt of the redemption money; and the sun was down, and the hour of payment stipulated with Robin expired, when the good knight arrived at the trysting-tree. Events in the meanwhile had happened which require notice.

As Little John with his two companions stood watch in the wood of Barnesdale, the former, who loved his dinner almost as well as he loved a fray, began not only to grow impatient, but to entertain doubts about the hour of payment being kept. He was now to be relieved from his anxiety:

For as they look'd in Barnesdale wood,
And by the wide highway,

Then up bespake he, Little John,
To Much he thus 'gan say,

Then they were aware of two black monks, By Mary, I'll lay my life to wad,
Each on a good palfraye.

These monks have brought our pay.

armed men at their back seemed a daring task

To stop and seize two strong monks with fifty
for three outlaws: it was ventured on without hesitation:-
My brethren twain, said Little John,

We are no more but three ;
But an we bring them not to dinner,
Full wroth will our master be.

Now bend your bows, said Little John,
Make all yon press to stand;
The foremost monk, his life and his death,
Is closed in my hand.

"Stand, churl monks," said the outlaws; "how dared you be so long in coming, when our master is not only angry, but fasting?"-" Who is your master?" inquired the astonished monks. "Robin Hood," answered Little John. "I never heard good of him," exclaimed the monk; "he is a strong thief." He spoke his mind in an ill time for himself: one called him a false monk; another, it was Much, shot him dead with an arrow, and, slaying or dispersing the whole armed retinue of the travellers, the three outlaws seized the surviving monk and the sumpter-horses, and took them all to their master below the trysting-tree. Robin welcomed his dismayed guest, caused him to wash, and sitting down with him to dinner, and passing the wine, inquired who he was and whence he came. "I am a monk, sir, as you see," was the reply, "and the cellarer of St. Mary's Abbey." Robin bethought him on this of the knight and his security:

I have great marvel, then Robin Hood said,
And all this livelong day,

I dread our Ladye is wroth with me,
She hath sent me not my pay.

Have no doubt, master, said Little John,
Ye have no need, I say,

This monk hath got it, I dare well swear,
For he is of her abbaye.

"That is well said, John," answered Robin Hood. "Monk, you must know that our Lady stands security for four hundred pounds; the hour of payment is come; hast thou the money?" The monk swore roundly that he now heard of this for the first time, and that he had only twerty marks about him for travelling expenses. "We shall see that," said the outlaw: "I marvel that our Ladye should send her messenger so ill provided: go thou, Little John, and examine, and report truly "Little John spread his mantle down,

He had done the same before;
And he told out of the good monk's mails
Eight hundred pounds and more.

Little John let it lie full still,

I make mine avow to God, said Robyne;
Monk, what said I to thee?

Our Ladye is the truthfullest dame
That ever yet found I me.

I vow by St. Paule, said Robin Hood then,
I have sought all England thorowe,
Yet found I never for punctual pay
Half so secure a borrowe.

And went to his master in haste; Sir, he said, the monk is true enough, Our Ladye bath doubled your cost. Little John enjoyed this scene of profit and humour, and stood ready to fill the monk's cup when Robin ordered wine. "Monk, you are the best of monks," said the outlaw; "when you return to your abbey, greet our Lady well, and say she shall ever find me a friend; and for thyself, hark, in thine ear: a piece of silver and a dinner worthy of an abbot shall always be thine when you ride this way."-"To invite a man to dinner that you may beat and bind and rob him," replied the monk, "looks little like courtesy."-"It is our usual way, monk," answered Robin dryly; "we leave little behind."

As the monk departed, the knight made his appearance, but Robin refused the four hundred pounds. "You were late in coming," he said, "and our Lady, who was your security, sent and paid it double." The knight looked strangely on the outlaw, and answered, "Had I not stayed to help a poor yeoman, who was suffering wrong, I had kept my time."—" For that good deed, Sir Knight," said Robin Hood, “I hold you fully excused; and more, you will ever find me a friend"—

Come now forth, Little John,

And go to my treasury,

And, by my troth, thou shalt none fail
The whiles I have any good.

And bring me there four hundred pound, And broke well thy four hundred pound

The monk over told it me. Have here four hundred pound, Thou gentle knight and true, And buy horse and harness good, And gilt thy spurs all new: And if thou fail any spending, Come to Robin Hood,

Which I lent to thee,

And make thyself no more so bare,

By the council of me.

Thus then holp him good Robin,

The knight all of his care.
God, that sitteth in heaven high,
Grant us well to fare.

257. THE QUARREL OF SQUIRE BULL AND HIS SON.

PAULDING.

[JAMES KIRKE PAULDING, a living American writer of celebrity, was born in 1779. In 1806 he joined with Washington Irving in the production of a periodical work entitled 'Salmagundi;' and he has written several novels. The History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan,' from which the following is an extract, was published in 1816. Mr. Paulding was a member of the Government of the United States during Van Buren's presidency.]

John Bull was a choleric old fellow, who held a good manor in the midde of a great mill-pond, and which, by reason of its being quite surrounded by water, was generally called Bullock Island. Bull was an ingenious man, an exceedingly good blacksmith, a dexterous cutler, and a notable weaver and pot-baker besides. He also brewed capital porter, ale, and small beer, and was in fact a sort of jack of all trades, and good at each. In addition to these he was a hearty fellow, an excellent bottle-companion, and passably honest as times go.

But what tarnished all these qualities was a quarrelsome over-bearing disposition, which was always getting him into some scrape or other. The truth is, he never heard of a quarrel going on among his neighbours, but his fingers itched to be in the thickest of them; so that he hardly ever was seen without a broken head, a black eye, or a bloody nose. Such was Squire Bull, as he was commonly called by the country people his neighbours-one of those odd, testy, grumbling, boasting old codgers, that never get credit for what they are, because they are always pretending to be what they are not.

The squire was as tight a hand to deal with in-doors as out, sometimes treating his family as if they were not the same flesh and blood, when they happened to differ with him in certain matters. One day he got into a dispute with his youngest son Jonathan, who was familiarly called Brother Jonathan, about whether churches ought to be called churches or meeting-houses; and whether steeples were not an abomination. The squire either having the worst of the argument, or being naturally impatient of contradiction, (I can't tell which,) fell into a great passion, and swore he would physic such notions out of the boy's noddle. So he went to some of his doctors and got them to draw up a prescription, made up of thirty-nine different articles, many of them bitter enough to some palates. This he tried to make Jonathan swallow; and finding he made villainous wry faces, and would not do it, fell upon him and beat him like fury. After this, he made the house so disagreeable to him, that Jonathan, though as hard as a pine knot and as tough as leather, could bear it no longer. Taking his gun and his axe, he put himself in a boat and paddled over the mill-pond to some new land to which the squire pretended some sort of claim, intending to settle there, and build a meeting-house without a steeple as soon as he grew rich enough.

When he got over, Jonathan found that the land was quite in a state of nature, covered with wood, and inhabited by nobody but wild beasts. But, being a lad of mettle, he took his axe on one shoulder, and his gun on the other, marched into the thickest of the wood, and, clearing a place, built a log hut. Pursuing his labours, and handling his axe like a notable woodman, he in a few years cleared the land, which he laid out into thirteen good farms; and building himself a fine farmhouse, about half finished, began to be quite snug and comfortable.

But Squire Bull, who was getting old and stingy, and, besides, was in great want of money on account of his having lately to pay swinging damages for assaulting his neighbours and breaking their heads-the squire, I say, finding Jonathan was getting well to do in the world, began to be very much troubled about his welfare; so he demanded that Jonathan should pay him a good rent for the land which he had