Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗

>and did his host reason in a similar brimmer.

“Holy Clerk,” said the stranger, after the first cup was thus

swallowed, “I cannot but marvel that a man possessed of such

thews and sinews as thine, and who therewithal shows the talent

of so goodly a trencher-man, should think of abiding by himself

in this wilderness. In my judgment, you are fitter to keep a

castle or a fort, eating of the fat and drinking of the strong,

than to live here upon pulse and water, or even upon the charity

of the keeper. At least, were I as thou, I should find myself

both disport and plenty out of the king’s deer. There is many a

goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will never be missed

that goes to the use of Saint Dunstan’s chaplain.”

“Sir Sluggish Knight,” replied the Clerk, “these are dangerous

words, and I pray you to forbear them. I am true hermit to the

king and law, and were I to spoil my liege’s game, I should be

sure of the prison, and, an my gown saved me not, were in some

peril of hanging.”

“Nevertheless, were I as thou,” said the knight, “I would take my

walk by moonlight, when foresters and keepers were warm in bed,

and ever and anon,---as I pattered my prayers,---I would let fly

a shaft among the herds of dun deer that feed in the glades

—Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast thou never practised such a

pastime?”

“Friend Sluggard,” answered the hermit, “thou hast seen all that

can concern thee of my housekeeping, and something more than he

deserves who takes up his quarters by violence. Credit me, it is

better to enjoy the good which God sends thee, than to be

impertinently curious how it comes. Fill thy cup, and welcome;

and do not, I pray thee, by further impertinent enquiries, put me

to show that thou couldst hardly have made good thy lodging had I

been earnest to oppose thee.”

“By my faith,” said the knight, “thou makest me more curious than

ever! Thou art the most mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will

know more of thee ere we part. As for thy threats, know, holy

man, thou speakest to one whose trade it is to find out danger

wherever it is to be met with.”

“Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee,” said the hermit;

“respecting thy valour much, but deeming wondrous slightly of thy

discretion. If thou wilt take equal arms with me, I will give

thee, in all friendship and brotherly love, such sufficing

penance and complete absolution, that thou shalt not for the next

twelve months sin the sin of excess of curiosity.”

The knight pledged him, and desired him to name his weapons.

“There is none,” replied the hermit, “from the scissors of

Delilah, and the tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of

Goliath, at which I am not a match for thee---But, if I am to

make the election, what sayst thou, good friend, to these

trinkets?”

Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took out from it a

couple of broadswords and bucklers, such as were used by the

yeomanry of the period. The knight, who watched his motions,

observed that this second place of concealment was furnished with

two or three good long-bows, a cross-bow, a bundle of bolts for

the latter, and half-a-dozen sheaves of arrows for the former. A

harp, and other matters of a very uncanonical appearance, were

also visible when this dark recess was opened.

“I promise thee, brother Clerk,” said he, “I will ask thee no

more offensive questions. The contents of that cupboard are an

answer to all my enquiries; and I see a weapon there” (here be

stooped and took out the harp) “on which I would more gladly

prove my skill with thee, than at the sword and buckler.”

“I hope, Sir Knight,” said the hermit, “thou hast given no good

reason for thy surname of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I

suspect thee grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I

will not put thy manhood to the proof without thine own free

will. Sit thee down, then, and fill thy cup; let us drink, sing,

and be merry. If thou knowest ever a good lay, thou shalt be

welcome to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so long as I serve the

chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall be till I change

my grey covering for one of green turf. But come, fill a flagon,

for it will crave some time to tune the harp; and nought pitches

the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine. For my part,

I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make

the harp-strings tinkle.”*

The Jolly Hermit.---All readers, however slightly acquainted with black letter, must recognise in the Clerk of Copmanhurst, Friar Tuck, the buxom Confessor of Robin Hood’s gang, the Curtal Friar of Fountain’s Abbey.

CHAPTER XVII

At eve, within yon studious nook,

I ope my brass-embossed book,

Portray’d with many a holy deed

Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed;

Then, as my taper waxes dim,

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.

*

Who but would cast his pomp away,

To take my staff and amice grey,

And to the world’s tumultuous stage,

Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?

Warton

Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial hermit, with which

his guest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring

the harp to harmony.

“Methinks, holy father,” said he, “the instrument wants one

string, and the rest have been somewhat misused.”

“Ay, mark’st thou that?” replied the hermit; “that shows thee a

master of the craft. Wine and wassail,” he added, gravely

casting up his eyes---“all the fault of wine and wassail!---I

told Allan-a-Dale, the northern minstrel, that he would damage

the harp if he touched it after the seventh cup, but he would not

be controlled---Friend, I drink to thy successful performance.”

So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, at the same

time shaking his head at the intemperance of the Scottish harper.

The knight in the meantime, had brought the strings into some

order, and after a short prelude, asked his host whether he would

choose a “sirvente” in the language of “oc”, or a “lai” in the

language of “oui”, or a “virelai”, or a ballad in the vulgar

English.*

Note C. Minstrelsy.

“A ballad, a ballad,” said the hermit, “against all the ‘ocs’ and

‘ouis’ of France. Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and

downright English was my patron St Dunstan, and scorned ‘oc’ and

‘oui’, as he would have scorned the parings of the devil’s hoof

---downright English alone shall be sung in this cell.”

“I will assay, then,” said the knight, “a ballad composed by a

Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land.”

It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete

master of the minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been

cultivated under the best instructors. Art had taught him to

soften the faults of a voice which had little compass, and was

naturally rough rather than mellow, and, in short, had done all

that culture can do in supplying natural deficiencies. His

performance, therefore, might have been termed very respectable

by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight threw

into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive

enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he

sung.

THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

1.

High deeds achieved of knightly fame,

From Palestine the champion came;

The cross upon his shoulders borne,

Battle and blast had dimm’d and torn.

Each dint upon his batter’d shield

Was token of a foughten field;

And thus, beneath his lady’s bower,

He sung as fell the twilight hour:---

2.

“Joy to the fair!---thy knight behold,

Return’d from yonder land of gold;

No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,

Save his good arms and battle-steed

His spurs, to dash against a foe,

His lance and sword to lay him low;

Such all the trophies of his toil,

Such---and the hope of Tekla’s smile!

3.

“Joy to the fair! whose constant knight

Her favour fired to feats of might;

Unnoted shall she not remain,

Where meet the bright and noble train;

Minstrel shall sing and herald tell---

‘Mark yonder maid of beauty well,

‘Tis she for whose bright eyes were won

The listed field at Askalon!

4.

“‘Note well her smile!---it edged the blade

Which fifty wives to widows made,

When, vain his strength and Mahound’s spell,

Iconium’s turban’d Soldan fell.

Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow

Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?

Twines not of them one golden thread,

But for its sake a Paynim bled.’

5.

“Joy to the fair!---my name unknown,

Each deed, and all its praise thine own

Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,

The night dew falls, the hour is late.

Inured to Syria’s glowing breath,

I feel the north breeze chill as death;

Let grateful love quell maiden shame,

And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.”

During this performance, the hermit demeaned himself much like a

first-rate critic of the present day at a new opera. He reclined

back upon his seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his

hands and twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in attention,

and anon, balancing his expanded palms, he gently flourished them

in time to the music. At one or two favourite cadences, he threw

in a little assistance of his own, where the knight’s voice

seemed unable to carry the air so high as his worshipful taste

approved. When the song was ended, the anchorite emphatically

declared it a good one, and well sung.

“And yet,” said he, “I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long

enough with the Normans, to fall into the tone of their

melancholy ditties. What took the honest knight from home? or

what could he expect but to find his mistress agreeably engaged

with a rival on his return, and his serenade, as they call it, as

little regarded as the caterwauling of a cat in the gutter?

Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee, to the

success of all true lovers---I fear you are none,” he added, on

observing that the knight (whose brain began to be heated with

these repeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the water

pitcher.

“Why,” said the knight, “did you not tell me that this water was

from the well of your blessed patron, St Dunstan?”

“Ay, truly,” said the hermit, “and many a hundred of pagans did

he baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of it.

Every thing should be put to its proper use in this world. St

Dunstan knew, as well as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial

friar.”

And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest

with the following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down

chorus, appropriate to an old English ditty.*

It may be proper to remind the reader, that the chorus of “derry down” is supposed to be as ancient, not only as the times of the Heptarchy, but as those of the Druids, and to have furnished the chorus to the hymns of those venerable persons when they went to the wood to gather mistletoe.

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

1.

I’ll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,

To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;

But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire,

So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

2.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,

And is brought home