Chapter 17 Ballads and their authors (1)

For me, the most interesting place in all of London is Bunker Cemetery [Bon Hill Cemetery, a famous public cemetery in London. ], because this is the last home of many people I respect.I have heard of Joseph Ritson [Joseph Ritson (1752-1803), a British scholar and collector, is especially famous for collecting, sorting out and publishing British poetry and ballads. ] is buried here, and while my sister Miss Susan lingered about the graves of her favorite poets, I took the opportunity to scan the inscriptions here and there, hoping to discover that the man who had toiled in the fields of ballads The last resting place for eccentric collectors.To him, I am deeply grateful.

After searching in vain for more than an hour, a cemetery keeper told me that in accordance with Ritsen's sincere wishes, the collector's grave was quickly leveled after his body was buried, and that's it. He returned to nature, without any stele marking its location.Therefore, no one knows where the old Ritsen's bones are buried now. They only know that within the vast area where thousands of souls are buried forever, the remains of this famous ballad lover have been deeply buried forever. Rest in the bosom of the earth. I have never been able to arouse Miss Susan's love of ballads.My venerable sister is a prim woman, and I have heard her prattle a thousand times: that merry singing (that's what she calls the ballads) is, if not reality, then the inspiration of the devil.In her younger days Miss Susan had played the harmonium with great pomp.At the time, I was still intoxicated by my false hope that she would not refuse to sing Defei with me in the end. ] Waiting for the most beautiful ballad.

As for myself, to be honest, thirty or forty years ago I really had a very good voice.Even now, with my friend Judge Methuen by my side and a steaming bowl of Wuweijiu between us, I can still sing "The King of Kefidoa and the Pauper" in full spirit. Female".But my cultivation of Miss Susan was fruitless.The two of us practiced the ballad "Sir Patrick Spence" to good effect, but she stopped working with me when I insisted on entering this bright ditty: Life is too short and too hasty, The sweet love is not long. My personal physician, Dr. Aurel, used to say to me that he never felt lonely because he had an extensive collection of folk songs, because the range of folk songs is so vast that every emotion that a human being can have can be found. suitable expressions can be found therein.Believe me, my own experience can also support the doctor's theory.I once carefully read Robin Hood on a hot, windy day [Robin Hood, the hero of the green forest who is famous for his bravery, chivalry and robbing the rich and helping the poor in the 12th century British folklore.Some of the people mentioned in the following paragraphs are characters from the Robin Hood stories. ], it is difficult to articulate the joy I felt while reading it, because there is so much truth in those simple rhymes that it is enough to dispel the annoying circumstances in front of me and transport me to better times and better times. Pleasant scene.

oh!How many times have I wandered through Sherwood Forest with the brave Robin Hood!How many times has Little John and I reclined under the thick, verdant trees, sharing with Father Took a good haunch of venison and the intoxicating aroma of a half-gallon of brown October wine!Will Scarlett and I were friends for so many years.If Alan Adair were here, he'd tell you that I've sung with him so many ballads in praise of the marvelous splendor of the Virgin Mary. Who said Sherwood Forest is dead, that Robin Hood and his merry pals are gone forever!Why just last night, I was still wandering with them in the elegant and friendly jungle, laughing and challenging the brave and strong sheriff and his cowardly servants.The moonlight was dappled and filtered through the thick bushes, and the evening wind was fresh and cold.We sang merrily, and I have no doubt that we should have sung like this all night long, if my sister had not knocked at the door, and said that I had woken her parrot, and that I had better quit my noise and go to bed.

Judge Methuen had a set of Father Percy in his collection. ]'s "Relics of Ancient English Poetry", which he spoke highly of.His set is the earliest edition of this noble work, originally given to Dr Birch at the British Museum by Percy himself.Methuen found the set of three volumes up for sale at a bookstall in London and bought them without hesitation—if I told you that Methuen only cost three shillings, you'd be sure Will also agree: so cheap.As for how these precious volumes flowed into the bookstall, I can't talk nonsense. What is truly amazing is the vicissitudes and vicissitudes that befall books, which are even more inconceivable than those that happen to human life.No one is as thoughtful (and I wish they were) when it comes to books.Many times I have felt a deep sympathy when I have seen those noble volumes in the possession of those who were wholly incapable of appreciating them.The helpless books seem to call me to rescue them.Too many times have I tried to snatch them from my shabby, bleak bookshelves, and lead them stalking into the cheery, cozy sanctuaries I've built with great talent.

There are very few people who know that books also have feelings.If there's one thing I know a little more than other people, it's that I know this.I know, and my books know me and love me.Waking up in the morning, I cast my eyes around the room to see what my treasures were worth.How kindly they looked at me and smiled when I cheered to them, "Good morning, dear fellows," and how glad they were to see that my sleep last night was uninterrupted.How tenderly they responded to the caress of my hands when I took them off, and how joyfully they responded when I called for sympathy.