Tales of Robin Hood and his merry foresters were the delight of my
boyhood.
Many an hour which my school-fellows spent in games of cricket or
leap-frog, I passed happily away in the rustic arbour that we had built
in the corner of our play-ground, deeply intent upon a volume of old
ballads that chance had thrown before me. Sometimes a companion or two,
weary of the sport in which they had been engaged, would join me in my
retreat, and ask me to read aloud; and seldom would they leave me till
the school-bell warned us that it was time to return to our duties.
After the tasks of the day were done we had two hours at our disposal
before we were again called to study our lessons for the following
morning. In these short intervals it was that, forgetting for awhile
Cæsar, Cicero, and Virgil, freed from restraint, and exulting in health
and spirits, we passed the happiest moments of our early days.
Though many years have since glided away, I can recall these pleasures
most vividly. Well do I recollect the youth who shared my bed, and who in
school hours sat next me on the first form; and well do I remember, as
we sauntered together one bright summer’s evening through the shrubbery
that encircled our play-ground, his asking me to tell him some tale of
Robin Hood. Willingly I complied. There was an old sycamore tree close
by, standing alone upon a little lawn. Its weather-beaten trunk was girt
round by a low seat, whence, through an opening in the trees, a wide
extent of country presented itself to the view. The shrubbery was upon
the side of a steep hill, at whose base lay broad and verdant meadows:
through these a navigable river winded peacefully along, bearing upon
its surface the white lateen sail of the gay pleasure-boat, or the more
dingy brown canvas of the heavily laden barge, that constantly lent a
fresh charm to the delightful landscape. Beyond the meadows was a little
village, almost concealed by the venerable trees that surrounded it,
while, to the left, the white front of some noble mansion glistened afar
off, amid the dark tint of the distant foliage. Many a time had I chosen
this favourite bench, and now, with my young friend at my side, I again
reclined against the broad old trunk. Scarce had we seated ourselves
when another of our school-fellows happened to pass by, and at the
intercession of my companion stayed to listen to my promised tale.
I endeavoured to recall the earliest mention of my brave hero in the
ballads that told of his exploits, and thus began:—