THE SEVEN FORESTERS OF CHATSWORTH, AN ANCIENT DERBYSHIRE BALLAD. [IN presenting this somewhat rude but curious ballad to the reader, it may be proper to observe, that those who profess to be charmed with truth only, and would wish one to swear to the certainty of a song, will learn with pleasure, perhaps, that tradition has recited, or sung, I know not which, this singular legend for centuries, in the beautiful vale of Derwent, in Derbyshire. It is a tale current in the county. The projecting rock in Chatsworth wood, still bearing the name of the Shouter's Stone, is pointed out by the peasantry as the place on which this famous and successful Outlaw stood and shouted. It overhangs a wild and winding footpath in the Preserve, and in former times, before the wood became so luxuriant, commanded a fine view of the valley, in the midst of which stands Chatsworth-house, the favourite mansion of the ancient and noble family of Cavendish. In the house itself, this tale has sought sanctuary. There is a painting from no less a hand than that of Prince Nicolas, in which a portion of the tradition is sought to be embodied; but the illustrious artist has, with poetical licence, put a gilded horn in the outlaw's hand; and, with a departure from the story, which all lovers of oral literature will deplore, has given to the cavern below a couple of outlaws, who rouse and bestir themselves to the sound of their leader's horn. The ancient oaks of Chatsworth are to be found every where in the valley; and, perhaps, no oaks in England, except those in Sherwood forest, can claim to be their coevals,—they are upwards of a thousand years old. Chatsworth has many other attractions. The Flower Garden of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Scotland, a plat of earth elevated on a squat tower, and guarded with a foss, stands on the banks of the Derwent, within a stone's throw of the house. All around, the hills ascend and recede in woody or naked magnificence; and, indeed, the grandeur of nature is such, that the beautiful mansion is diminished in the contemplation. Some sculpture, from no common hands, adorns the hall. A statue of Buonaparte's mother, by Canova, has a matron-like simplicity and stateliness; an Endymion, which Chantrey says is one of the most exquisite works of the Roman sculptor, will presently become its companion. A figure from the hand of Chantrey himself may soon be expected to join them. Moderate rents, a wealthy tenantry, and a happy peasantry, will endear the name of the present generous Duke of Devonshire to many who may not feel the charms of his paintings, his statues, his books, and the rare curiosities of his museum. ̧ An attempt was made to abate the occasional provincialism of the ballad, but the experiment threatened to ravel the entire web, and it was not persisted in.] 1. The sun had risen above the mist, 2. Alas! sung one, for Chatsworth oaks, They droop in fullness of honour and fame, 3. No stately tree in old merry England 4. How fair they stand amid their green land, Not a bough or leaf have been shred from their strength, Cleeding, a word still used in the north of England; cloathing, apparel. South of Germany, kleidung; Islandic, klaede; Teutonic, kleed. 37. And now I feast on the ptarmigan, But my supper is of the Chatsworth fawn 38. But to-morrow I feast on yon bonny roebuck; He twang'd his string-like the swallow it sung, 39. By my grandsire's bow, said a forester then, And by all the skill of my strong right hand, 40. Seest thou yon tree, yon lonely tree, 41. So short as the time this sharp shaft flies, 42. The Outlaw langh'd; good fellow, he said, To suffer that tree to bear such fruit, 43. She would scorn my might, my own true love, 44. I have made my way with this little brown sword, 45. It guarded me well in bonny Scotland, When the Scotts and Graemes fought fervent; 46. Fair fall thee, Outlaw, for that word; When a bairn, I flew along thy banks, As an arrow from the quiver. 47. The roebucks run upon thy braes And the tongue that calls thee a gentle stream |