t to, a more infantine simplicity of manners, a
greater strength of affection, hopes longer cherished and longer
deferred, sighs that the heart dare hardly heave, and "thoughts that
often lie too deep for tears." We seem to feel that those who wrote and
sung them (the early minstrels) lived in the open air, wandering on from
place to place with restless feet and thoughts, and lending an ever-open
ear to the fearful accidents of war or love, floating on the breath of
old tradition or common fame, and moving the strings of their harp with
sounds that sank into a nation's heart. How fine an illustration of this
is that passage in Don Quixote, where the knight and Sancho, going in
search of Dulcinea, inquire their way of the countryman, who was driving
his mules to plough before break of day, "singing the ancient ballad of
Roncesvalles." Sir Thomas Overbury describes his country girl as still
accompanied with fragments of old songs. One of the best and most
striking descriptions of the effects of this mixture of national poetry
and music is to be found in one of the letters of Archbishop Herring,
giving an account of a confirmation-tour in the mountains of Wales.

"That pleasure over, our work became very arduous, for we were to
mount a rock, and in many places of the road, over natural stairs of
stone. I submitted to this, which they told me was but a taste of the
country, and to prepare me for worse things to come. However, worse
things did not come that morning, for we dined soon after out of our own
wallets; and though our inn stood in a place of the most frightful
solitude, and the best formed for the habitation of monks (who once
possessed it) in the world, yet we made a cheerful meal. The novelty of
the thing gave me spirits, and the air gave me appetite much keener than
the knife I ate with. We had our music too; for there came in a harper,
who soon drew about us a group of figures that Hogarth would have given
any price for. The harper was in his true place and attitude; a man and
woman stood before him, singing to his instrument wildly, but not
disagreeably; a little dirty child was playing with the bottom of the
harp; a woman in a sick night-cap hanging over the stairs; a boy with
crutches fixed in a staring attention, and a girl carding wool in the
chimney, and rocking a cradle with her naked feet, interrupted in her
business by the charms of the music; all ragged and dirty, and all
silently attentiv