f immense value. The ballads may not
be required again to revoke English literature from flights into
artificiality and subjectivity; but they form a leaf in the life of the
English people, they uphold the dignity of human nature, they carry us
away to the legends, the romances, the beliefs, the traditions of our
ancestors, and take us out of ourselves to 'fleet the time carelessly,
as they did in the golden world.'

[Footnote 13: Professor Gummere (_The Beginnings of Poetry_) is
perhaps the strongest champion of this theory, and takes an extreme
view.]

BALLADS IN THE FIRST SERIES

The only possible method of classifying ballads is by their
subject-matter; and even thus the lines of demarcation are frequently
blurred. It is, however, possible to divide them roughly into several
main classes, such as ballads of romance and chivalry; ballads of
superstition and of the supernatural; Arthurian, historical, sacred,
domestic ballads; ballads of Robin Hood and other outlaws; and so forth.

The present volume is concerned with ballads of romance and chivalry;
but it is useless to press too far the appropriateness of this title.
_The Nutbrown Maid_, for instance, is not a true ballad at all, but an
amoebaean idyll, or dramatic lyric. But, on the whole, these ballads
chiefly tell of life, love, death, and human passions, of revenge and
murder and heroic deed.

'These things are life:
And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.'

They are left unexpurgated, as they came down to us: to apologise for
things now left unsaid would be to apologise not only for the heroic
epoch in which they were born, but also for human nature.

And how full of life that heroic epoch was! Of what stature must Lord
William's steed have been, if Lady Maisry could hear him sneeze a mile
away! How chivalrous of Gawaine to wed an ugly bride to save his king's
promise, and how romantic and delightful to discover her on the morrow
to have changed into a well-fared may!

The popular Muse regards not probability. Old Robin, who hails from
Portugal, marries the daughter of the mayor of Linne, that unknown town
so dear to ballads. In _Young Bekie_, Burd Isbel's heart is wondrous
sair to find, on liberating her lover, that the bold rats and mice have
eaten his yellow hair. We must not think of objecting that the boldest
rat would never eat a live prisoner's hair, but only applaud the
picturesque indication of durance