Folk - Songs of the South. Collected and edited by John If.

- Cox. (Harvard University Press. 7:5 net.) THERE was once a theory that ballads grew like snowballs or avalanches : somehow they started, and merely by cir- culating from mouth to mouth they became gradually bigger

and better. It was a famous theory, very widely applied.

Homer was somehow brought under -it, and any author who could not show birth and death certificates and an account of royalties was in danger of being dispersed into a nation. Nor was it a refutation of the theory to point out that where we can trace the descent of a ballad, its changes from gener- ation to generation, we find that with the passage of time it becomes shorter and worse, and that the earliest version is always the best. The process of ballad-composition was taken to have been completed long before the ballad

emerged into history ; by the time it was on record the naive and impulsive group-life which sang itself into poetry was ended and no formative principle was at work. The snow-

ball, reaching the lowlands, had begun to thaw.

Few scholars now will have anything to do with such a theory. It lingers still in educational institutions, where

old and incurable doctrines are tended for the remainder of their days, but elsewhere it is without authority. Its

chief disadvantage is that we cannot conceive its being true. We 'still feel that someone must have spoken first. We still feel that authorship, even in the most primitive society, was a special activity, in the exercise of which some men would be better than others: And certainly, however much

we allow for the difference between our time and the time of ballads, it is impossible for us to think of poetry " writing itself " without an individual of fine sensitiveness to help it along. The only persuasive theory of ballad com- position must rest upon the artistic sensibility of individual men: And so it is now generally received that the store of fable in a nation's mythology was brought to birth by a series of creative artists ; and ballad poetry itself has been composed, has been changed, has been perfected by a succession of poets. It is sufficiently obvious that there is nothing to be gained by searching for particular poets, or by attempting

to prove that ballads are the work of Single authors. " Though a man and not a people has composed them," says Professor Childs, " still the author counts for nothing, and it is not by

mere accident, but with the best reason, that they have come down to us anonymous."

It is revealing to observe that even in the process of degen-

eration a single man can work more harm than a nation. The chief interest of Folk-Songs of the South lies in the kinds of degeneration which it illustrates. Ballads four hundred years old are still sung or recited in West Virginia ; the very phrases are often kept unaltered. But how these

ballads have fallen ! Often the words have been repeated when they were no longer understood. The psychology of the nation has altered. And a multitude of small, disastrous mistakes has crept in. Two incongrUous ballads have been amalgamated, perhaps. Perhaps the very point of a story has bsenne unintelligible and the Very pith of_ the ballad omitted. Times 'and plabes have been altered. Morals have been foisted in. But it is seldoM that such a ruinous blow is struck as when Peter Buchan decides to improve an " Ancient Ballad." Here is the traditional opening to " The Unquiet Grave " :—

" The wind cloth blow to-day, my love, And a few small drops of rain ; I never had but one true love, In cold grave she was lain."

Buelian printed the ballad ; the first line is improved into " Proud 13Jrztas makes a hideous noise," Even Wordsworth can stand as an object lesson. He is not engaged in ruining a ballad ; but he is retelling the story as it seems best to himself. " Fair Helen of Kirconnell " includes •the following stanzas :—

"As I went down the water side, ; None but my foe to be my guide, 1 None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnoll Lee.

I lighted down, my sword did draw,

I hacked him in pieces sma',

I hacked him in pieces ama', For her sake that died for me."

Wordsworth, dealing with the same incident, expresses it less admirably :— " Proud Cordon cannot bear the thoughts

That through his brain are travelling,— And, starting up, to Bruce's heart Ho launched a deadly javelin."

How gentle, in comparison, is the work of Time ! The ballad of " Little 'Musgrave and Lady Barnard " has persisted :

little. Musgrave himself has been modernized into little Mat

Groves. Musgrave and Lady Barnard have confessed their love and have plotted to deceive the absent lord. They have ()nutted to notice something, the West Virginians tell us :—

" A little foot-spade was standing there

A-hearing all they say ' • He made a vow Lord Barnard should know Before the break of day."

But mediaeval retinues were obviously a difficulty to Virginian railwaymen. If they could be made more homely, they were changed without scruple. It was surely, though, the reading of novels that has altered :-

" He sent his men down through the town,

To the place where she was dwelling ;

0 haste and come to my master dear,

Gin ye be Barbara Allen,' "

into the more formal and impressive :-

" He sent his butler to the place

Where his true love was dwelling. My master dear has sent me here For the Lady Barbary Ellen.' "

Sometimes the corruptions are unmanageable ; how did

" For I love more your little finger Than I love her whole body "

come to be misunderstood ? Why should singers turn into pure nonsense and find it more satisfactory to say :-

" For I'd much better love the brown girl's home

Than to love your hope by day "

It is easier to follow the change by which the dish that poisoned Lord Randal, " eels boil'd in broo' " becomes " seals fried in butter."

Folk-songs are still composed in America, and the process seems much the same as it must have been before. Some local poet sets a poem off upon a journey. On its way it is taken in hand by others ; and at the end there are the most discrepant versions. But how different in spirit the new folk-songs are. Morality descends like a blight upon them. Sometimes, if it is extreme enough, it can make them livelier, as in " Wicked Polly." Polly was horribly reprobate :-

"She'd -go to frolics, dance and play, In spite of all her friends could say."

Sickness laid its hand upon her, and she spoke in remorse from her death-bed :-

" My friends, I bid you all farewell ; 1 die and now I sink to hell ;

There I must lie and scream and roar, 1 am lost and damned forevermore.'

Her only sister, standing by, Said, ' Sister, you're about to die ; Your race is run, your time is past ; You must come to the grave at last.'

Oh what an awful thing to see ! She's now dropped into eternity, Wringing her hands, and gnashing her teeth ; There's no redemption to relief."

But for the most part the moral teaching is insipid ; and it is only in pure narrative or in farce that poems of spirit and energy are produced. There is one excellent broadside upon a negro murderer, John Hardy ; so vigorous that it would be shameful to leave it unquoted. There are a dozen different sources, and here is an eclectic version :—

" John Hardy was a bad, bad man,

He came from a bad, bad land, He killed two men in a Shawnee Camp, Cause he's too damn nervy for to run, poor boy,

Too damn nervy for to run.' •

John Hardy went to the rock quarry, Ho went there for to drive, Lord ! Lord !

The rock -was so hard and the steel was so soft, That he laid down his hammer and he cried, " 0 my God ! '

He laid down his hammer and he cried.

John Hardy was standing at the dice-room door, So drunk ho could not see, Lordy, Lord !

Long come his woman, five dollars in her hand, Said ' You deal John Hardy in the game, poor boy, You deal John Hardy in the game.'

John Hardy threw down the five dollar bill Saying ' Now we'll begin to play, Lordy, Lord ! And the man that wins my yellow girl's money, I'll-blow his brains away, poor boy, I'll blow his brains away.

John Hardy went staggering by the jail-house door As drunk as he could be, Lordy, Lord ! A policeman patted him on the back,

John Hardy, come along with me, poor boy, John Hardie, come along with me.'

rye been to the East, I've been to the West,

I've been this wide world round, Lordy, Lord ! I've been to the river and l've been baptized

And now I'm on my hanging ground, poor boy, - Now I'm on my hanging ground.'

John Hardy had a pretty little wife, He kept her dressed in blue ; Lordy, Lord ! She threw her arms around his neck, Saying ' Haven't I been true, poor boy ? Saying ' Haven't 1 been true ? ' "

Professor J. H. Cox has edited the volume with exemplary care, and it contains material of value in many fields. Mr. Sidgwick's volume is a good short selection of old ballads in their best versions, and includes an admirable introduction.