A NEW ENGLISH BALLAD. sometimes of entertainment that could be enjoyed in their unny fish, company, went in quest of the painter, who shad fish; remained in his penitentials in another apartthird kind, ment, and could not be persuaded to re-enter guts, gills, the banqueting-room, until Peregrine undertook to procure his pardon from those whom he had injured. Having assured him of this indulgence, our young gentleman led him in like a criminal, bowing on all hands with an air of humility and contrition; and particularly addressing himself to the count, to whom he swore in English, he had no intent to affront man, woman, or child; but was fain to make the best of his way, that he might not give the honourable company cause of offence, by obeying the dictates of nature in their presence. ld be impractithe banquet, which had been ng to be removed, the dessert to be his incapacity to Murona natantes, &c. about the time of that absurd the dessert appeared, and the to be sold among the ancients When Pickle interpreted this apology to the Italian, Pallet was forgiven in very polite terms, and even received into favour by his friend the doctor, in consequence of our hero's intercession: so that all the guests forgot their chagrin, and paid their respects so piously to the bottle, that in a short time the champagne produced very evident effects in the behaviour of all present. A NEW ENGLISH BALLAD.1 It was merry once in England, Before all this ill-blood was bred There were none too many to plough then, For every person then: English then were cheerful men, Wives were thought the better of For bearing children then: 1 This ballad, which first appeared in the Examiner newspaper in May, 1832, renewed its significance in the year is72 Peter Bloch, the charcoal-burner, was out of sorts. He couldn't work-he couldn't talkhe couldn't even eat (the last an occupation of which he was very fond), when Katrina, his betrothed, came with his noonday meal of strong beer and still stronger cheese and sauerkraut, prepared by her own rosy hands. Peter looked askance at Katrina, at her round, blooming, honest face, her short plump figure, and bare feet, and for the first time in his life thought her-coarse. And for the first time in his life, also, he turned up his nose at the beer, and the cheese, and the sauerkraut, and thought them coarse. So Katrina, with her dinner-basket on her arm, went away sorrowful, leaving Peter sitting idly on a log, apart from the other workmen, smoking a From Scribner's Magazine (New York). short black pipe, and gazing out sullenly upon the gloomy forest, the smoking charcoal-kilns, and the little cottage, with its cabbage-garden and pig-sty, to which he was soon to bring home Katrina. Very poor and despicable it all now appeared to him. And yet only yesterday how proud he had been of that cottage! And how he had cultivated those cabbages, and fed those pigs, until they were as round and fat as-as Katrina, nearly-which was saying a great deal for them. The truth was, Peter Bloch was dying of envy and discontent. Only an hour ago he had seen pass along the forest road the young Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh, with a brilliant train of attendants, on his way to take possession of the castle of the late count, his uncle, and to marry the late count's daughter, the present fair and peerless Lady Hildegarde Adelberga Rosalinden, who with an equally imposing train had ridden forth to meet him, and with the bailiff and the châtelaine on either side, had delivered to him the keys of the castle. And All this had Peter Bloch seen; and from that moment envy and covetousness had poisoned the well-springs of his heart. Why should Nature have made his lot in life so different from that of this young man? he asked himself. Why should he be a charcoal-burner, and the other a nobleman? Why should he live in a hut, and the count in a castle? the Lady Hildegarde Adelberga Rosalinden was so fair-slim and white, like a lily-whilst Katrina much more resembled a red cabbage, thought Peter, with a sneer. And she had brought him beer and sauerkraut, whilst up at the castle there was to be this very day a grand feast, with richest viands and rarest wines the latter stolen from the Baron Stickinseide, in that knight's absence; and also an ox roasted whole. A fine fat ox Peter knew it to be, since it was only to-day that it had been taken from his poor neighbour, Hans Hapner, who had depended upon its sale for winter clothing for his large family of little ones. 'Ach!" sighed Peter Bloch: "I would that I were the Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh. Then might I be happy." "He he! ha ha! ho ho!" tittered a voice close beside him. And a hot breath, as of a charcoal-kiln, passed over Peter Bloch's cheek. He turned round and saw, leaning against a neighbouring fir-trece, an extremely tall and thin individual, clad in a tight-fitting suit of black, with a remarkably high-crowned hat on his head, a red cloak over his shoulders, and oddly-shaped shoes, half hidden by enormous red rosettes. The eyes of this personage were black as coals, and twinkled with merriment, as he laughed with a mouth stretched from ear, to ear. Peter stared, and the stranger, having apparently exhausted himself with laughter, bowed apologetically, and seated himself on the log by his side. 66 Excuse me, mein Herr," he said; "but you-he he!-you were wishing to be the noble Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh?" "What is that to you?" said Peter, sullenly. "Only that it may be in my power to help you to your wish," answered the stranger, suavely. And he put his hand to his mouth, with a slight cough, as if to repress an involuntary delighted "he he!" Peter looked incredulous. "You do not believe me?" said the strange man, his little eyes twinkling maliciously. "Nein," said Peter, doggedly. Try me!" said the man in black. "See here! write your name at the bottom of this parchment, and if you do not immediately become what you wish, then shall you throw me into your charcoal-furnace and burn me to a cinder." "You agree to that?" quoth Peter. "As I am an honourable soul who fears the fire;" was the reply. "He he! ha ha! ho! ho! ho!" So great was his merriment that it was some moments ere he could recover himself sufficiently to unroll the parchment and present to Peter a sharp-pointed iron pen. "There is no ink," said Peter. The man in black seized the pen, and without a word plunged the sharp point, with a sudden quick motion, into Peter Bloch's shin, left exposed by the rolled-up leathern breeches. "Oh, oh!" screeched Peter, hopping around on one foot and rubbing the wounded limb, which burned as if seared by a hot iron. "It is nothing," responded the man in black, with a grin. 'Here, take the pen before the blood dries, and write your name. Peter obeyed; not from any faith in the stranger's promise, but simply from curiosity. He could not write, so was about to make the usual cross-mark when the stranger, with a startled yell, arrested his hand. "Not that," he shrieked, glaring upon the affrighted Peter, and trembling all over. "Not that, but do as you see me do;" and he made a peculiar flourish of his long finger upon the parchment, which Peter imitated as well as he could, with the iron pen dripping with his own blood. "He, he, he! ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho, ho!" resounded in hollow dying echoes through the forest, and the man in black was gone; whilst the charcoal-burner suddenly felt himself flung to the earth with a shock which at once deprived him of his senses. When Peter presently began to recover, he debated whether he were not in a dream. A great many people were pressing around him with exclamations of alarm and concern. He heard their remarks vaguely. "You, Breschoff, ride to the castle like a whirlwind for the doctor! Tell him our noble lord the count has fallen from his horse, and is lying senseless!" It was true, as Peter Bloch now began to comprehend. The young Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh had, just before reaching the castle, been thrown from his high-blooded steed, and Peter found, to his great astonishment, that somehow he, Peter Bloch, was inhabiting the count's body. He was himself the Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh-only that he was still in spirit, in thought, in feeling, in everything but body, Peter Bloch the charcoal-burner. "Hurrah!" feebly shouted the Count Peter, endeavouring to rise. Whercat there was some staring among the retinue, mingled with the expressions of joy at his recovery. "I pray you, my lord count," said the seneschal of the castle, " condescend to accept of my horse for the nonce, since it has pleased your highness's to run away. Teufel is highspirited but gentle." Peter put up his right foot, encased in pointed boot and golden spur, lifted the other awkwardly over the saddle, and found himself seated with his back to the horse's head. "My lord count has not yet recovered himself," said the equerry; but one of the late count's pages tittered behind his plumed cap as he held the stirrup whilst the count reversed his position. "My lord count is a glutton," wheezed the steward. My lord count is a drunkard," gasped the Now Peter had never in his life before been butler. And all the henchmen and pages on horseback. agreed with those two. He clutched the reins with one hand, the horse's mane with the other, and rolled unsteadily from side to side, in mortal terror at every step of the high-pacing steed. "It is only that his honour is still dizzy from his fall," said the mortified equerry, believing what he asserted. But the master-of-the-horse from the castle, looking upon the count with an experienced and criticizing eye, muttered to the master-at-arms his firm conviction that his highness was ignorant of the noble art of horsemanship, an opinion in which the other agreed. Reaching the castle, the count was advised by the medical man to retire to rest for an hour or so, in which time the feast would be spread in the great banqueting-hall. But Peter, who felt perfectly well, and had, it will be remembered, missed his dinner, could not help thinking of the fat ox, and of all that he had heard, but had never seen, and still less tasted, of the delicious wines and luxurious viands of the castle-larder. So he at once declared himself hungry, and ordered that refreshments should be brought to him. The steward, with his white badge and baton of office, marching in front, ushered in some half-dozen henchmen, bearing various dishes: such as a highly spiced game-pastry, eels done in wine, pickled porpoise, stewed truffles, olives, and a pie composed of minced venison, mixed with apples, raisins, wine, sugar, beef, spice, and woodcock. The butler followed with wines of various kinds. Peter ate long and drank deeply-until he could eat and drink no more. Not that he liked either the dishes or the wines, for the first were utterly distasteful to his palate, and the latter he considered insipid and mawkish, and, if the truth were told, not to compare with good beer. But he was hungry, and, besides, were not these the luxuries of the great and rich, for which he had often in secret sighed? Wherefore, as we have said, he ate and drank his fill, until with the last mouthful of the mince-pie a deadly sickness came over him, and he was compelled, with the assistance of the servants, to effect a hasty retreat from the table. And then he fell heavily on his bcd and slept the sleep of him who has drunken too freely. The steward and the butler looked at each other, and elevated the whites of their little eyes and the pinks of their fat hands. As for the lord count's own followers, they did not know what to think. Never before had they known his temperate highness to eat and drink like this. In about two hours Peter Bloch-that is, the Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh-awoke, feeling dull and heavy. "I don't like this," muttered the count. "I never felt like this when I was Peter Bloch." And he sighed. "What would my noble lord count have?" queried the page-of-the-chamber, bowing low before him. The count scratched his head and reflected. He had had enough to eat and drink-also, sleep sufficient; and he was at a loss what more to desire. "Will it please my lord to take a bath?" The Count Peter submitted. He wasn't in the habit of taking baths; and he now thought it very unnecessary and disagreeable, and when it was over made up his mind to take no more. Then he yawned, and wondered what else he could do. He felt very much inclined to step out and take a look at his pigs and cabbages a thing which had always afforded him a certain pleasure and satisfaction. But he remembered, with a half sigh, that there were no pigs and cabbages here. "Will it please my lord's highness to have music?" suggested the attentive page, observing his lord's air of ennui. Peter Bloch did not care a straw for music, nor, in fact, know anything about it beyond Katrina's hand-organ, inherited from her father, on which, in the quiet evenings when their work was done, she was accustomed to grind extraordinary sounds to marvellous tunes. Peter rather liked this organ; it soothed him and gave him a pleasant, drowsy home-feeling; and now, when he heard a harp skilfully played upon by the castle minstrel in an adjoining apartment, he thought it greatly lacked the charm of Katrina's hand-organ. "I don't care for music," quoth the count, indifferently, "unless"-a bright idea occurred to him-"unless the Lady Hildegarde Adelberga Rosalinden will play”— 66 'But, my lord count, at this hour-and in private! My lady is not accustomed to show herself at all times-neither to entertain suitors, save on suitable occasions. I pray you, my lord count, reflect." But the lord count wouldn't reflect. All that he knew was, that he was Count von Schwaltzschoffensburgh, and that he was in his own castle, where every one was bound to obey him; wherefore he sent his page with a message demanding the presence of the Lady Hildegarde. In fact, he remembered her beauty, and that she was his betrothed; and his heart began to warm toward her, insomuch that he refused to listen to any excuse of the lady, so earnestly did he desire her presence and to gaze upon the loveliness of which he had hitherto been favoured with but a distant glimpse. "The count is a fool," said the butler to the chief henchman, who nodded assent. "Cheese!" continued his highness, "and sauerkraut!" And the steward turned pale. "There is no question of it," he communicated in confidence to the chief cook. "The lord count is undoubtedly mad." "Mad as a March hair," assented the chief cook, licking the boar's-head fat from his fingers. And all the turn-spits and scullions looked at each other and shook their heads. The banquet was but half over when suddenly the loud blast of a trumpet sounded without, and the whole company sprang from their seats and rushed upon the battlements. So the Lady Hildegarde Adelberga Rosalinden came, flushed and haughty, followed by There, in front of the portcullis, appeared a her maidens bearing a harpsichord. Count gigantic horseman, clad in complete armour, Peter Bloch felt a little in awe of her magnifi- | with a large armed retinue behind, and in front cence, until, reflecting that he was a rich and a herald, who trumpeted forth, in the name handsome count, and the future lord of the of the valiant Baron Breckisnech, a haughty haughty beauty, he gradually gathered courage defiance to the Count von Schwaltzschoffensto commence love-making. This he did in burgh to immediate and mortal combat; by his own way, as he had been accustomed with reason of the still unsettled feud that had Katrina. He stole to a seat by the lady's side, existed between the said Baron Breckisnech put his arm around her waist, pinched her and the late Count von Schwaltzschoffens cheek, and bestowed upon her rosy lips a burgh. And unless this challenge were imresounding smack, designed to express admira- mediately and promptly responded to, he, the tion and respectful homage. said valiant Baron Breckisnech, would straightway assault the castle, hang the count from the highest tower, cut off the heads of the seneschal and the warder thereof, and with those bloody trophies adorn the bastions of the main gateway. "So mought it be!" concluded the herald, solemnly. The Lady Hildegarde Adelberga sprang to her feet with a shriek, whereat everybody within hearing rushed into the apartment. Her relative, the old Baron Bluffenburg, on being informed of what had occurred, half drew his sword, but put it up again. For was not the count in his own castle? And was not the fair lady his betrothed? And most of all, was not the count more powerful than he? Wherefore, though highly indignant, the burly baron prudently restrained himself. "The count is a brute!" said the baron to the other guests who had been invited to the feast. And they all agreed with him. As to the count himself, he concluded that the Lady Hildegarde was excessively silly and absurd; and that he would prefer Katrina's simple good sense and honest affection any day. The whole castle was now in dismay and confusion. All looked to the valour of the count for salvation, and no time was lost in bringing his armour and buckling it upon his trembling limbs. "I-I am not well enough to fight," gasped the count, feebly. Whereupon his highness medical advisers were summoned. The lord count is perfectly well," said the chief physician, feeling his pulse. "Perfectly well," echoed the assistant physician, examining his tongue. "But I-I can't fight," said the count, grasping the huge sword as though it were a charcoal-rake. "My lord must try," said the master-atarms, sternly. "The lord count is a coward," said all the men-at-arms and retainers, in disgust, whilst the seneschal and the warder, rubbing their throats, earnestly urged upon the count expedition. But the count wouldn't hurry. |