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:—
ROBIN HOOD’S YOUTH.
“More than six hundred years ago, in the reigns of King Henry the Second and Richard Cœur de Lion, there lived in the northern part of England a most famous outlaw, named Robin Hood. The daring exploits and curious adventures of this renowned hero have been celebrated in songs throughout almost every country in Europe; and so great a favourite has he always been in England, that, as the old poet says,
“‘In this our spacious isle I think there is not one
But he of Robin Hood hath heard, and Little John;
And, to the end of time, the tales shall ne’er be done
Of Scarlet, George-a-Green, and Much, the miller’s son;