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 Heedless to the rude winds cast? "'Maiden, why that darkened brow? From those eyes, once dimmed with weeping, Lurid gleams are gathering now, O'er their pale wan shadows creeping.' "Silent still the maid passed by, Near nor voice nor footstep came. Sudden cleaving earth and sky, Flashed a brand of arrowy flame! "'Maiden, turn that gaze on me, Onwards why so madly bent?' Still no stay, no pause made she Through that kindling element. * * * * * "Now, the midnight chant is stealing, Mass and requiem breathing near; Hushed the blast, as if revealing Sounds to earth that Heaven might hear. "From yon pile, soft voices swelling Dirge and anthem for the dead;-- Demon shrieks, their lost doom yelling, Tend Lord Rudolph's dying bed.