Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott

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`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 car 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 at even-song prick'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste---for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.

3.

Your monarch?---Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!

4.

The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

5.

He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

6.

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

7.

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

``By my troth,'' said the knight, ``thou hast
sung well and lustily, and in high praise of thine
order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk, are
you not afraid that he may pay you a visit daring
some of your uncanonical pastimes?''

``I uncanonical!'' answered the hermit; ``I
scorn the charge---I scorn it with my heels!---I
serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly---Two
masses daily, morning and evening, primes, noons,
and vespers, _aves, credos, paters_------''

``Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison
is in season,'' said his guest.

``_Exceptis excipiendis_,'' replied the hermit, ``as
our old abbot taught me to say, when impertinent
laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio of
mine order.''

``True, holy father,'' said the knight; ``but the
devil is apt to keep an eye on such exceptions; he
goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring lion.''

``Let him roar here if he dares,'' said the friar;
``a touch of my cord will make him roar as loud
as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did. I never
feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his
imps. Saint Dunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Winibald,
Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert, Saint Willick,
not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own
poor merits to speed, I defy every devil of them,
come cut and long tail.---But to let you into a secret,
I never speak upon such subjects, my friend,
until after morning vespers.''

He changed the conversation; fast and furious
grew the mirth of the parties, and many a song
was exchanged betwixt them, when their revels
were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door
of the hermitage.

The occasion of this interruption we can only
explain by resuming the adventures of another set
of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we do not
pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep
company with any one personage of our drama.

CHAPTER XVIII

Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
Chequers the sunbeam in the green-sward alley---
Up and away!---for lovely paths are these
To tread, when the glad Sun is on his throne
Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's lamp
With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.
_Ettrick Forest._

When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down
senseless in the lists at Ashby, his first impulse
was to order him into the custody and care of his
own attendants, but the words choked in his throat.
He could not bring himself to acknowledge, in presence
of such an assembly, the son whom he had
renounced and disinherited. He ordered, however,
Oswald to keep an eye upon him; and directed
that officer, with two of his serfs, to convey Ivanhoe
to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed.
Oswald, however, was anticipated in this good office.
The crowd dispersed, indeed, but the knight
was nowhere to be seen.

It was in vain that Cedric's cupbearer looked
around for his young master---he saw the bloody
spot on which he had lately sunk down, but himself
he saw no longer; it seemed as if the fairies
had conveyed him from the spot. Perhaps Oswald
(for the Saxons were very superstitious) might have
adopted some such hypothesis, to account for Ivanhoe's
disappearance, had he not suddenly cast his
eye upon a person attired like a squire, in whom he
recognised the features of his fellow-servant Gurth.
Anxious concerning his master's fate, and in despair
at his sudden disappearance, the translated swineherd
was searching for him everywhere, and had
neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which his
own safety depended. Oswald deemed it his duty
to secure Gurth, as a fugitive of whose fate his master
was to judge.

Renewing his enquiries concerning the fate of
Ivanhoe, the only information which the cupbearer
could collect from the bystanders was, that the
knight had been raised with care by certain well-attired
grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to
a lady among the spectators, which had immediately
transported him out of the press. Oswald, on
receiving this intelligence, resolved to return to his
master for farther instructions, carrying along with
him Gurth, whom he considered in some sort as a
deserter from the service of Cedric.

The Saxon had been under very intense and
agonizing apprehensions concerning his son; for Nature
had asserted her rights, in spite of the patriotic
stoicism which laboured to disown her. But no
sooner was he informed that Ivanhoe was in careful,
and probably in friendly hands, than the paternal
anxiety which had been excited by the dubiety
of his fate, gave way anew to the feeling of injured
pride and resentment, at what he termed
Wilfred's filial disobedience. ``Let him wander
his way,'' said he---``let those leech his wounds for
whose sake he encountered them. He is fitter to
do the juggling tricks of the Norman chivalry than
to maintain the fame and honour of his English ancestry
with the glaive and brown-bill, the good old
weapons of his country.''

``If to maintain the honour of ancestry,'' said
Rowena, who was present, ``it is sufficient to be
wise in council and brave in execution---to be boldest
among the bold, and gentlest among the gentle,
I know no voice, save his father's------''

``Be silent, Lady Rowena!---on this subject only
I hear you not. Prepare yourself for the Prince's
festival: we have been summoned thither with unwonted
circumstance of honour and of courtesy,
such as the haughty Normans have rarely used to
our race since the fatal day of Hastings. Thither
will I go, were it only to show these proud Normans
how little the fate of a son, who could defeat
their bravest, can affect a Saxon.''

``Thither,'' said Rowena, ``do I =not= go; and
I pray you to beware, lest what you mean for courage
and constancy, shall be accounted hardness of
heart.''

``Remain at home, then, ungrateful lady,'' answered
Cedric; ``thine is the hard heart, which
can sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an
idle and unauthorized attachment. I seek the noble
Athelstane, and with him attend the banquet of
John of Anjou.''

He went accordingly to the banquet, of which
we have already mentioned the principal events.
Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the
Saxon thanes, with their attendants, took horse;
and it was during the bustle which attended their
doing so, that Cedric, for the first time, cast his
eyes upon the deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon
had returned from the banquet, as we have seen,
in no very placid humour, and wanted but a pretext
for wreaking his anger upon some one. ``The
gyves!'' he said, ``the gyves!---Oswald---Hundibert!---
Dogs and villains!---why leave ye the knave
unfettered?''
Without daring to remonstrate, the companions
of Gurth bound him with a halter, as the readiest
cord which occurred. He submitted to the operation
without remonstrance, except that, darting a
reproachful look at his master, he said, ``This
comes of loving your flesh and blood better than
mine own.''

``To horse, and forward!'' said Cedric.

``It is indeed full time,'' said the noble Athelstane;
``for, if we ride not the faster, the worthy
Abbot Waltheoff's preparations for a rere-supper*

* A rere-supper was a night-meal, and sometimes signified a
* collation, which was given at a late hour, after the regular supper
* had made its appearance. L. T.

will be altogether spoiled.''

The travellers, however, used such speed as to
reach the convent of St Withold's before the apprehended
evil took place. The Abbot, himself of
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons
with the profuse and exuberant hospitality of their
nation, wherein they indulged to a late, or rather
an early hour; nor did they take leave of their
reverend host the next morning until they had
shared with him a sumptuous refection.

As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery,
an incident happened somewhat alarming to,
the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens,
and to whose opinions can be traced most of those
notions upon such subjects, still to be found among
our popular antiquities. For the Normans being
a mixed race, and better informed according to the
information of the times, had lost most of the superstitious
prejudices which their ancestors had brought
from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves upon
thinking freely on such topics.

In the present instance, the apprehension of impending
evil was inspired by no less respectable a
prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting
upright, howled most piteously as the foremost
riders left the gate, and presently afterwards, barking
wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent
upon attaching itself to the party.

``I like not that music, father Cedric,'' said Athelstane;
for by this title of respect he was accustomed
to address him.

``Nor I either, uncle,'' said Wamba; ``I greatly
fear we shall have to pay the piper.''

``In my mind,'' said Athelstane, upon whose
memory the Abbot's good ale (for Burton was already
famous for that genial liquor) had made a
favourable impression,---``in my mind we had better
turn back, and abide with the Abbot until the afternoon.
It is unlucky to travel where your path
is crossed by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog,
until you have eaten your next meal.''

``Away!'' said Cedric, impatiently; ``the day
is already too short for our journey. For the dog,
I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth,
a useless fugitive like its master.''

So saying, and rising at the same time in his
stirrups, impatient at the interruption of his journey,
he launched his javelin at poor Fangs---for
Fangs it was, who, having traced his master thus
far upon his stolen expedition, had here lost him,
and was now, in his uncouth way, rejoicing at his
reappearance. The javelin inflicted a wound upon
the animal's shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning
him to the earth; and Fangs fled howling from
the presence of the enraged thane. Gurth's heart
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated
slaughter of his faithful adherent in a degree much
deeper than the harsh treatment he had himself
received. Having in vain attempted to raise his
hand to his eyes, he said to Wamba, who, seeing
his master's ill humour had prudently retreated to
the rear, ``I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe
my eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust
offends me, and these bonds will not let me help
myself one way or another.''

Wamba did him the service he required, and
they rode side by side for some time, during which
Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he
could repress his feelings no longer.

``Friend Wamba,'' said he, ``of all those who
are fools enough to serve Cedric, thou alone hast
dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to
him. Go to him, therefore, and tell him that neither
for love nor fear will Gurth serve him longer.
He may strike the head from me---he may scourge
me---he may load me with irons---but henceforth
he shall never compel me either to love or to obey
him. Go to him, then, and tell him that Gurth the
son of Beowulph renounces his service.''

``Assuredly,'' said Wamba, ``fool as I am, I
shall not do your fool's errand. Cedric hath another
javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he
does not always miss his mark.''

``I care not,'' replied Gurth, ``how soon he makes
a mark of me. Yesterday he left Wilfred, my young
master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to kill
before my face the only other living creature that
ever showed me kindness. By St Edmund, St
Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor,
and every other Saxon saint in the calendar,'' (for
Cedric never swore by any that was not of Saxon
lineage, and all his household had the same limited
devotion,) ``I will never forgive him!''

``To my thinking now,'' said the Jester, who
was frequently wont to act as peace-maker in the
family, ``our master did not propose to hurt Fangs,
but only to affright him. For, if you observed, he
rose in his stirrups, as thereby meaning to overcast
the mark; and so he would have done, but Fangs
happening to bound up at the very moment, received
a scratch, which I will be bound to heal with
a penny's breadth of tar.''

``If I thought so,'' said Gurth---``if I could but
think so---but no---I saw the javelin was well aimed---
I heard it whizz through the air with all the
wrathful malevolence of him who cast it, and it
quivered after it had pitched in the ground, as if
with regret for having missed its mark. By the
hog dear to St Anthony, I renounce him!''

And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen
silence, which no efforts of the Jester could again
induce him to break.

Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders
of the troop, conversed together on the state of the
land, on the dissensions of the royal family, on the
feuds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and
on the chance which there was that the oppressed
Saxons might be able to free themselves from the
yoke of the Normans, or at least to elevate themselves
into national consequence and independence,
during the civil convulsions which were likely to
ensue. On this subject Cedric was all animation.
The restoration of the independence of his race was
the idol of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed
domestic happiness and the interests of his
own son. But, in order to achieve this great revolution
in favour of the native English, it was necessary
that they should be united among themselves,
and act under an acknowledged head. The
necessity of choosing their chief from the Saxon
blood-royal was not only evident in itself, but had
been made a solemn condition by those whom
Cedric had intrusted with his secret plans and
hopes. Athelstane had this quality at least; and
though he had few mental accomplishments or talents
to recommend him as a leader, he had still a
goodly person, was no coward, had been accustomed
to martial exercises, and seemed willing to defer
to the advice of counsellors more wise than himself.
Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospitable,
and believed to be good-natured. But whatever
pretensions Athelstane had to be considered
as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that
nation were disposed to prefer to his the title of the
Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from Alfred,
and whose father having been a chief renowned for
wisdom, courage, and generosity, his memory was
highly honoured by his oppressed countrymen.

It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric,
had he been so disposed, to have placed himself at
the head of a third party, as formidable at least as
any of the others. To counterbalance their royal
descent, he had courage, activity, energy, and,
above all, that devoted attachment to the cause
which had procured him the epithet of The Saxon,
and his birth was inferior to none, excepting
only that of Athelstane and his ward. These qualities,
however, were unalloyed by the slightest
shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet
farther his weakened nation by forming a faction
of his own, it was a leading part of Cedric's plan
to extinguish that which already existed, by promoting
a marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane.
An obstacle occurred to this his favourite project,
in the mutual attachment of his ward and his son
and hence the original cause of the banishment of
Wilfred from the house of his father.