almost hidden behind a copious supper of broken meat
and pastry. But whether the party thus addressed was too much alarmed to
let the current of his spirit run bubbling from the spring of either
mirth or minstrelsy, or he was too deeply buried in his own thoughts, it
were needless to inquire. The request for a while passed by unheeded.

Gaffer Gee was the ballad-monger of the whole district. He kept on a
comfortable and vagabond sort of existence, by visiting the different
mansions where good cheer was to be had, and where he was generally a
welcome guest, both in bower and hall. His legendary lore seemed
inexhaustible; and, indeed, his memory was like an old chest full of
scraps continually rummaged. He knew all the scandal and family secrets
throughout the parish, and had a quick eye at detecting either a love
affair or a feud. He composed a number of the wild ballads that he sang
or recited, or at least put them into that jingling and quaint rhythm,
acquired by habitual intercourse with the phraseology peculiar to these
popular descants. On hearing a story he could readily shape it into
verse, extempore, too, upon occasion; and many were the jokes that
rebounded from his theme, whether in hall or kitchen. It was pleasant to
watch his little grey eye, and the twinkling lashes, as they rose and
fell, varying the expression of his lips. A slight lisp gave an air of
simplicity to his ditties, which never failed to charm his auditors. He
could throw the simplest expression over his features, which made the
keen edge of his rebukes infinitely more cutting and effective. But the
prevailing tone of feeling in him was sad and oppressive. These
wandering minstrels had, from remote ages, been held as seers, and a
peep into futurity was often supposed to accompany their poetical
inspirations--a superstition not confined to any particular locality,
but obtaining a widely disseminated belief in all climes and nations
where imagination assumes her sway, and dares to assert her power.

After a short space, and without any invitation, the ballad-maker, like
some Pythian priestess on her tripod, began to exhibit manifestations of
the _afflatus_. The spirit of song seemed to be stealing upon him, and
in a moment the listening auditory were still. In substance, he half
recited, half sung, the following ballad:--

"'Maiden, braid those tresses bright,
Wreathe thy ringlets from the blast;
Why those locks of curling light