Part 8

Oh, whack! Cupid’s a mannikin, Smack on my heart he hit me a polter; Good lack, Judy O’Flannikin! Dearly she loves nate Looney MacTwolter. Judy’s my darling, my kisses she suffers; She’s an heiress, that’s clear, For her father sells beer; He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers; She’s so smart, From my heart I cannot bolt her. Oh, whack, Judy O’Flannikin! She is the girl for Looney MacTwolter.

II.

Oh, hone! good news I need a bit! We’d correspond, but larning would choke her. Mavrone!--I cannot read a bit; Judy can’t tell a pen from a poker. Judy’s so constant, I’ll never forsake her; She’s true as the moon-- Only one afternoon I caught her asleep with a humpbacked shoemaker. She’s so smart, &c.

ά.

Ἀλαλη· τι μικρον ἐστι βρεφος οὐλιον Κυθηρης, ἐμε δ’ ἐγκρατει βελεμνῳ προς καρδιαν ένυξεν. ἀλαλη· τι φημ’; Ιουδιθ ἀπο Φλαννικιν φιλεῖ με, τον Λουνιαν φιλεῖ με, τοκον εὐπρεπη Τυολτρου. μελι και το νεκταρ ἀμον ἀπαλη πεφυκ’ Ιουδιθ· το δ’ ἐμον, χαριεσσα θυμῳ, γλυκερον φιλημα πασχει. ἐφανη δ’ ἀρ’, oὐκ ἀδηλως, μεγαλου λαχουσα κληρου. ὀ πατηρ γαρ, εὐ τοδ’ οιδα, πομα κριθινον πιπρασκει. ὑπο σημα δ’ ἡ καθηται βοος ἡδε και πυραγρας.

Χαριεσσα δ’ ἡ πεφηνε· τοσον, ὡς νιν οὑ δύναιμην ἀπο καρδιας ἀπωσαι· ἀλαλη· μαλιστ’ Ιουδιθ ἀπο Φλαννικιν με τερπει, τον Λουνιαν με τερπει, τοκὸν εὺπρεπη Τυολτρου.

β’.

‘Οτοτοι· τι γραμμ’ ἀπ’ αὐτης καλος ἀγγελος γενοιτ’ ἀν· ἀποροισι δ’ ἀν πλοκαισιν σοφια νιν ἀγχονωη. ‘Οτοτοι· τα γραμματ’ οὐδεις ἐδιδαξε μ’, ἡ δ’ Ιουδιθ γραφιδ’ οὐτι και σιδηρον πυροσειστικον διεγνω· μελι και το νεκταρ ἀμον ἀπαλη πεφυκ’ Ιουδιθ· οὐδ’ εὐφρονως ἐγωγε καταλειψομαι ποτ’ αὐτην· ἐφανη γαρ, άς σεληνη, παναληθινη νεανις· ἀλλ’, ἑσπερας πεσουσης, ἐληψαμην ποτ’ αὐτης ὐποδεμνιας ξυνευνου σκολιῳ γε βυρσοδεψῃ·

χαριεσσα δ’ ἠ πεφηνε, κ. τ. λ.

PATRICK O’CONNOR.

HANG Port St. Dermid, near Ballinocrasy, December 28, 1820.

[NOTE.--The Greek Version, to which this paper was written as a preface, was the composition of the late John Louis Petit, subsequently Vicar of Uplands, Shifnal, Salop.]

THE KNIGHT AND THE KNAVE.

AΝ OLD ENGLISH TALE.

“Reginald!” said the old Baron. It is striking, and fashionable, and classical, to hurry my reader thus _in medias res_; else it had been my duty to have informed him that the _dramatis personæ_ whom he finds upon the scene are the son and grandson of the redoubted Hugh d’Arennes, who did good service by the Conqueror’s side at the field of Hastings. In common with the distinguished chiefs of William’s army, he had received large grants of land, which his enterprising spirit, and his interest with the monarch and his successor, had tended to augment. His heir, however, the present head of the illustrious family, had rather studied the security than the aggrandizement of his possessions, and had grown to a green old age in retirement and seclusion, as far as was compatible with his high rank and exalted situation. The younger speaker of the colloquy was of a character, the description of which may be dismissed as easily. Not having been obliged, like the other young men of his time, to take an active part in the divisions which agitated the period of the reign of the second Henry, Reginald had not acquired the firm and energetic tone of mind by which the sons of the nobility were distinguished. He had been accustomed to shape his conduct, in the most trifling concerns, according to the advice and judgment of his father; and consequently, when deprived for a short period of his monitor, seemed utterly incapable of thinking seriously, or rather seemed to have made a religious vow against thinking at all. This hopeful descendant of the noble Sir Hugh had arrived at the age of twenty, was possessed of a listless, yet handsome, set of features; a careless, yet commanding figure; a true English head at the cup, and a true English hand at the quarrel. And now, having gone through the interruption, which ought to have been the introduction, let us proceed.

“Reginald!” said the old Baron, with a slight inclination of the head, which he was in the habit of using when he wished to throw dignity into his admonitions.

“Ears hear thee,” said the son, without stirring from the huge oaken table upon which, after the fatigues of the chase, he was reclining.

“I have ordered that we should be alone, my son,” said the old man, “because I have to discourse to thee a matter which deeply and nearly concerns thy welfare. Pour for thy father, Reginald.”

Reginald obeyed; and, after performing for himself the same office, resumed his attitude, with an aspect which was ludicrously divided between the resolution to attend and the propensity to inattention.

“Twenty years have gone by, Reginald, since thou didst become the hope of the house of which thou wilt shortly be the head. Ere thou hast other twenty years to look back upon, thou wilt have lost the guidance of thy father, and I shall sleep by the side of mine.”

“Sir Hugh sleeps in the abbey,” said Reginald.

“He doth,” resumed his adviser. “He was a knight of name and fame, and wielded a good sword at Hastings.”

“As touching the sword,” said Reginald, totally unconscious of any metaphorical meaning implied in his father’s words, “it hangs above him in the abbey. Marry, it is somewhat rusty, but nevertheless a good sword.”

“But, Reginald, to come to the point----”

“Thou dost remind me how that it was broken against the fifth rib of Egwulph, surnamed the Impetuous, a good knight and a true--although a Saxon.”

The look of the young man had in it something of animation as he expressed his hereditary contempt of the Saxon race. To his father, however, this demonstration of feeling did not seem altogether so welcome as it might have been upon another occasion. He contracted his huge shaggy eyebrows, turned his eyes from his son to the wine-cup, and from the wine-cup to his son, stroked his chin, folded his arms, and, in short, assumed an attitude of thought, which was little less ridiculous than the thoughtlessness of his companion. After a pause of some minutes, he began to speak, sending out his words with all the caution and circumspection of a Fabius.

“Of a truth, Reginald, the Saxon thanes are in breeding and courtesy rough, and in no way able to compete with the bearing of our Norman knights; but they are not, as thy speech would signify, altogether to be contemned. There is among them much might of arm, and courage of heart; and Sir Hugh was wont to say there were few cravens at Hastings.”

Reginald made no reply: he was deep in mental researches after the probable cause of the Baron’s unaccustomed eulogium upon a race so universally vilified. Finding himself unable to solve the mystery, he waited in silence for some further clue. The old man looked as if to see whether his words had made any impression upon the prejudices of his hearer; and, not being able to ascertain the fact, proceeded: “There is Leofwyn of Kennet Hold,” said he, “his better never drew bow: his grandfather stood before Harold when De Rocroi had him down. He hath riches and retainers, such as never had King of England. Ill befall the man that thinks scorn of Leofwyn of Kennet Hold.”

“He is our near neighbour,” said Reginald. “I have heard that he hath a braver horse than is my black steed Launcelot, and hounds whose equals the world cannot show. He hath a daughter, too, if fame speak rightly, a lady of a most noble presence; and he hath a falcon----” Here he was interrupted by the old Baron, who, as if weary of the circumlocution by which he had been endeavouring to bring about his object, observed dryly: “It is to that lady, Reginald, I would see thee wedded.”

Reginald fixed himself upright upon the table on which he had been extended, and, opening wide his large languid eyes, gazed upon his father with a mute expression of astonishment. The latter, though a little daunted by the silence with which his proposition had been received, proceeded to explain the causes and consequences of his design. It is needless to accompany him through his detail, which, to say truth, was somewhat prolix. It is sufficient to state that the lands of the Saxon looked tempting in the eyes of the Norman lord; and that, in times of such danger and difficulty, it seemed prudent to conciliate the friendship of those who were powerful in their immediate vicinity, and especially those who were attached to the Saxon succession.

Now the Baron, while he detailed his hopes, and his fears, and his designs, fancied that he had made in this scheme a notable hit of policy, and from time to time looked up to the listener’s face for the approbation to which he thought himself entitled. Reginald, however, perceived that his castle-building would meet with obstacles which the architect had never contemplated; and began to be of opinion that a friendly alliance between Norman and Saxon sounded very like an amicable treaty between hound and hare, or a peaceable union between fire and water. To these thoughts he was unwilling to give utterance: a dispute, and upon such a subject, was a thing to which he had an insuperable reluctance: he therefore quietly acquiesced in his father’s reasoning, and, after stipulating that in this matter no trouble should fall upon himself, composed himself in a quiet slumber, while the Baron was recounting the particulars of his ten years’ courtship of Marie, the beautiful heiress of Roger de Vesnoy, the last lord of Battiswold.

The old man, contented with this calm compliance on the part of his son, proceeded forthwith to put his favourite scheme in execution. For many weeks was his brain disturbed by the anxiety which he felt for the result of his negotiations: there were messages, and letters, and heralds, and stipulations, and breakings off, and reconciliations, more than sufficient to perplex the thoughts of a far more able diplomatist. Meantime the person who was to bear the principal part in the play which was now in rehearsal, ate, drank, and slept, talked of his horses and hounds, and his escutcheon, and thought of nothing less than of his fair unseen intended, Elfrida of Kennet Hold. Finally, the treaty was completed more successfully than the violent temper of Leofwyn gave reason to expect; and Reginald received orders to prepare for an immediate journey to receive the bride he had never courted. The first impression upon his mind was that it was passing strange that the pride of a Saxon thane, nay, the pride of a Saxon heiress, could be with such facility subdued. Reflection, however, was not his province; and, banishing as quickly as possible the intrusive idea, he prepared himself to obey his father.

On the morrow he set out. The manuscript from which I draw my information describes, with much prolixity, the accoutrements of himself and his steed; from whence it makes a considerable digression to the changes in the fashions of dress, and the peculiar merits of various breeds of horses. It then makes honourable mention of his attendants, and dwells upon certain scandalous anecdotes connected with their family concerns. The last-mentioned points I deem it right to omit altogether; and upon the others I must be more concise than is the chronicler whom I follow, the erudite Henricus Wykeleius.

It appears that Reginald, although a bigot to the manners and prejudices which his Norman ancestry had entailed upon him, had, upon this occasion, in compliance with the request of his father, assumed the costume of the Saxons. So much had the natural ease and gracefulness of his frame been improved by constant exercise and knightly sports, that the unaccustomed dress seemed to be no restraint or inconvenience to him; and his limbs were as free in the long Saxon robe as they had been wont to be in the short Norman tunic. He reined his horse with a skill which at once excited and curbed his impetuosity, while it set off to the best advantage the forms of both the animal and his rider. Of this, however, neither of them stood in need. Launcelot was one of the noblest steeds that ever bore armed knight to the lists; and Reginald, in spite of the want of animation which was so evident in his features, was really a handsome and well-proportioned youth. Had his education been suited to his talents, or the qualifications of his mind kept pace with those of his body, few warriors might have won lady’s love so lightly as Reginald d’Arennes.

Of his followers, which were six in number, four were merely retainers of little note or name. Of the remaining two some notice must be taken. The first was Roger Naylis, an old and approved dependent, who was his companion upon this journey for the purpose of obviating by his prudence and experience those dangers into which the hot heart or light head of his young master might hurry him. The other was a personage of a description not quite so common. This was Robin Garnet, who had long been in Reginald’s service, in triple capacity of page, associate, and fool. His was a character, of which, in the compass of this tale, it will be impossible to give the reader any idea. In it was to be found the most extraordinary mixture of cunning and folly, blindness and foresight, thoughtlessness and thought. His actions were generally those which no one but a madman would commit; yet the means by which he extricated himself from their consequences were those which none but a man of great acuteness would hit upon. He was the son of poor parents, but had rendered himself, by his talents for frolic and buffoonery, so necessary to the young lord, that he was looked upon almost in the light of his foster-brother. He rode a small piebald nag, which formed a whimsical contrast with the large black courser of his master. His dress was that of an ordinary page; his form, though small, was not inelegant; and his features, though not handsome, had an arch expression about them, which looked very ludicrous, when compared with the lifelessness of Reginald’s.

Nothing more need be said of him save that the extremes of cunning and idiotcy which his conduct perpetually exhibited had conferred upon him two denominations, which were alternately applied as they became by turns appropriate. When the former predominated, he was termed “Robin the Wily;” and when the latter resumed its influence, his appellation was “Robin the Witless.”

Upon the present occasion Reginald was not a little annoyed that he was compelled to converse with his father’s old counsellor, to the exclusion of the humorous partner of his follies. From this inconvenience, however, he was soon relieved. Before he had gone many miles he was met by a messenger from Leofwyn, who, after various excuses and apologies, informed him that his lord had vowed a vow that two men of Norman blood should never cross his threshold together; and that he therefore requested his future son-in-law to dismiss such of his train as fell under this interdict. The young lord certainly was not greatly displeased, when, upon examination, it was found that Robin was the only one of his followers who was not excluded by Norman lineage from the hall of the Saxon thane. Nevertheless, when his aged attendant whispered his suspicions of meditated treason, and intimated the propriety of returning, he gazed on the adviser, and then on the page, and then on the messenger; and expressed, by look and word, his usual sentiment in all such dilemmas--“I doubt!”

“The hall of Leofwyn is open,” said the messenger; “shall I say that the guest dallieth? The Lady Elfrida is in her bridal robe; shall I say that the bridegroom delayeth his purpose?” “I will go with thee,” said Reginald.

“For my part, I say nought,” observed Naylis, “but life may be preserved, and life may be thrown away; and one against a hundred is fearful odds. Fathers will weep when children die; it matters not whether by the naked sword or the poisoned cup.” “I will return with thee!” said Reginald.

“Of a surety,” said Robin, “there is a venture both ways. If we advance, life is perilled; and if we retreat, the lady is lost.” “I know not whether to go or to return?” said Reginald.

“I will return to my master,” said the messenger; “peradventure he will send to thee that shall remove thine apprehensions. Hasten not on the way. Marry! it is well that the Lady Elfrida should wait the leisure of Reginald d’Arennes;” and, turning his horse’s head, he was preparing to depart, when Naylis seized his reins, exclaiming: “Not so, Sir Discourteous! By our Lady thou departest not so lightly. Sir Reginald wendeth to Kennet Hold, and if a hair of his head be injured thou diest, an thou wert Leofwyn’s first-born!”

“Norman hound!” cried the messenger, with an exclamation of surprise, “hast thou divined---- but no! thy thoughts were no parties to thy lips, and I war not for a random word. I will go with ye--rather than your master should lose his bride. By the soul of Hengist, it were pity!” As he spoke he removed his hand, which he had laid upon the hilt of his dagger, and bent upon Reginald a look in which there was much and deep signification, although the standers-by were unable to read its import. Naylis led his young lord apart, and spoke a few words in an earnest whisper. Reginald still seemed irresolute; he began to reply hastily in a tone between soliloquy and expostulation.

“Thou sayest right well, Roger, and with discretion; yet, by my spurs, a younger head had given warmer counsel! How think you, my masters, were it not a pleasant tale to tell that Reginald d’Arennes fled from the bright eyes of his bride? Yet, as thou sayest, Roger, there is danger in this adventure! Not that I heed shaft or spear, bill or battle-axe, in the hand of a Saxon; thou knowest I am no craven, Roger! But then, as thou sayest, Roger--my father, I do believe my death-wound would be his! I will return to him--yet would he be shamed by my return! I will go on--or rather, I will not; thou shalt hasten back to him, Roger, and tell him--hum! I doubt!”

How long the contest might have lasted it is impossible to determine; the remaining attendants were beginning to hazard surmises respecting the eligibility of a night lodging _sub dio_, when Robin the Wily sprung with a kind of harlequin step before his patron, and, throwing himself into the attitude of a despairing maiden, sang, in a ludicrously plaintive voice, some stanzas of a popular air, which may be thus modernized:--

Oh! I am drest in my bridal vest, The feast is on the board! And whither fleeth my father’s guest? Whither Elfrida’s lord?

I look to the east, and I look to the west, The evening moon is toward; But I see not yet my father’s guest, I see not Elfrida’s lord!

Why am I dight in my kirtle of white, My silken snood withal? For not to-night that craven knight Will cross my father’s hall.

She hath torn outright her kirtle of white, Her silken snood withal; And not to-night that craven knight Will cross her father’s hall!

“I will go on to Kennet Hold,” said Reginald. There was something in the look of the page, more than in the words he uttered, which had so deeply inspired his master with that strongest of all incentives, the dread of ridicule, that his determination was now inflexible. Well was it said by the learned monk, Bedo Camerarius, “the resolution of a strong mind giveth way to argument, but the obstinacy of a weak one never!” Naylis was of the same opinion: he held another conference with his master in whispers; the result of which was that Reginald exchanged his loose robe for the rich suit of armour which was borne after him by his attendants.

They were preparing to separate upon their respective journeys, when they discovered the first fruits of Reginald’s hesitation in the departure of their purposed hostage. No orders had been given for his forcible detention; and he had accordingly taken advantage of the consultation which had engaged the attention of the party to effect his retreat. “The hawk without a collar hath but brief thraldom,” said Robin. “Thou art right, knave,” said Naylis; “had thy counsel been earlier, yon slave should have made experiment of the weight of a Norman gyve. But it matters not. Though the Saxon have the temper of his own Zernbock, and the Furies to boot, he dare not--surely he dare not! Well I wot our master would work so deep a requital that the heads of twenty such miscreants should appear cheap ransom!”

“Fare thee well, good Naylis,” said Reginald; “bid my father be of good cheer, and do honour to his son’s bridal! Ha! ha! Thou hast still thy misdoubtings and thine apprehensions--I know thy mind!” “Would thou didst know thine own but half as well!” muttered the old man, as he turned slowly round, followed by the Norman attendants. The steeds, as if rejoicing to be again in motion, arched their proud necks, and flung back their thick manes in the wind: the clattering of their hoofs arose, and sank, and died into silence.

Reginald and the knave, Robin, journeyed some miles without converse. The latter seemed to be thinking of nothing but his new doublet, and the former seemed to be thinking of nothing at all. After a considerable pause, the Knight began the conversation. “I am doubting, Robin----”

“It is a wise man that solveth his own doubts!” returned his attendant.

“I am doubting, Robin,” continued Reginald, “whether thou or I be the greater fool!”

“A gibe! a gibe!” cried the jester; “thy reasons, most convincing disputant? thy proofs, most inventive master? thine arguments, most incontrovertible Knight? Marry, an thou make me the greater fool, it will ill become the servant to be greater than his master.”

“Imprimis, thou art a fool by thy name, which is Witless!”

“I will have license to make reply,” said the jester; “thou art a fool to call a wise man by a fool’s name.”

“Secondly,” resumed Reginald, “thou art a fool by thy face!”

“Who is to choose,” said his antagonist, “between the folly that is seen on the face and the folly which is spoken from the tongue?”

“Thirdly, thou art foolish in thy designs.”

“By Saint Swithin,” cried the respondent, “thou hast the better of me there, for designs formest thou none.”

“Fourthly, thou art a fool by thine occupation!”

“There thou hast spoken well,” said the page; “I am serving-man to Sir Reginald d’Arennes.”

“Finally, Robin,” said Reginald, relapsing into taciturnity, “thou knowest that thou art a fool positive!”

“Thou hast the better of me again, Reginald,” said the complaisant lackey, “for thou art greatly a fool, and surpassingly a fool--but never a positive one.”

Reginald did not hear the import of his follower’s reply; or at least made no answer to it. They proceeded for some minutes in silence, at a brisk pace, when Reginald suddenly stopped, and exclaimed, “We have wandered from our track!”