Walter Scott: Ivanhoe
===============================
a machine-readable transcription

version 1.0:	1993-06-08
This text is in the Public Domain.

  This machine-readable transcription of Ivanhoe is based on
the text printed as volumes 16 and 17 of the Waverley Novels
published by Archibald Constable and Company in 1895.

  The order of the files in this distribution is as follows:

	introduction
	dedicatory.epistle
	chapter.01-09
	chapter.10-19
	chapter.20-29
	chapter.30-39
	chapter.40-44
	notes

Changes to the text
===================

  Page-breaks have been removed, along with page numbers and
column titles.

  End-of-line hyphenations have been removed, and the
de-hyphenated word has been brought up to the first of the
two lines. The text itself has been the main guide for
keeping or removing hyphens; in some cases the Centenary
Edition of the Waverley Novels has been consulted.

  Small capitals in names have been replaced by lower-case
letters. In those cases small caps are used to denote extra
emphasis, they have been marked up accordingly.

  Text in (? blackletter) used mainly for song titles has
been changed to ordinary text, except in one case -- see
markup conventions below.

  In the text, endnotes appeared immediately after each
chapter. In this edition, all endnotes have been collected
and placed at the end of the 'book'. Also, the pages
references of the notes have been replaced by letter
references, after the same pattern used in the Centenary
Edition.

  The following changes have been made to the text:

dedicatory epistle:

  p. xliii (footnote):	it was written. I mention	(missing period)

ch.  2, p. 20:	an || athletic figure		(althetic)
ch.  6, p. 82:	the approaching tourney		(tournay)
ch. 10, p. 159:	there is a dead loss too	(to)
ch. 14, p. 215: House of Anjou			(Anjo<u`>)
ch. 18, p. 265: John of Anjou			(Anjo<u`>)
ch. 20, p. 292: hermit,'' replied the knight	('' missing)
ch. 20, p. 295: called Cedric the Saxon		(Cedric and Saxon)
ch. 21, p. 301: ``That concerns thee		(`That)
ch. 21, p. 325: ``Thy daughter!''		(`Thy)

(add 23 to get 'real' chapter numbers)

ch.  2, p.  33: their || own.''			(own,'')
ch.  3, p.  64: Athelstane: ``deal with		(missing ``)
ch.  3, p. ???: of Anjou confer not		(Anjo<u`>)
ch.  8, p. 127: my own Trysting-tree		(trysting-tree)
ch.  8, p. 138: he of the Fetterlock		(fetterlock)
ch.  8, p. 144: had not gotten to horse		(gotton)
ch. 10, p. 172: Allan-a-Dale			(dale)
ch. 11, p. 200: must be met withal.''		(missing '')
ch. 15, p. 266: doth deny || the same;		(den-)
ch. 16, p. 280: to the ocean. The		(oceean, The)
ch. 17, p. 301: jaws of the brethren		(brethern)
ch. 17, p. 301: toothache			(toothach)
ch. 18, p. 338 (notes): irre-||gular form, stands (form. stands)
ch. 20, p. 364: Ashby-de-la-Zouche.''		(de-la-Zouch.'')
ch. 20, p. 367: Brian de Bois-Guilbert		(Brian-de-Bois-Guilbert)
ch. 20, p. 373: had ap-||peared to do.		(do.'')


Further oddities
================

The word Anjou was spelled Anjo<u`> in three places. Could
the Anjou spelling be a editorial change that wasn't present
in the original text?

In the dedicatory epistle, Scott writes:

   My honest and neglected friend, Ingulphus, has furnished
   me with many a valuable hint;

There is no obvious indication to what or who Ingulphus
refers to.  There is, though, a mention of a purported work
by Dr Dryasdust about King Ulphus earlier in the epistle.  I
suspect that Ingulphus is a misprint for King Ulphus.

However, the same error (if it indeed is one) occurs in the
Centenary Edition, so I have not made any attempts at
correction.



Markup conventions
==================

	First line in each paragraph is indented two spaces.

_ _	placed around italicized text

= =	placed around extra emphasized text - small caps in
        the text

{ }	placed around `The Wardour Manuscript', which
        according to the text should be in `some emphatic
        mode of printing'.

<ae>	the ae ligature
<a^>	a circumflex
<e^>	e circumflex
<e'>	e acute
<oe>	the oe ligature



Footnotes

  Footnotes in the text were placed at the foot of the page;
in this edition they have been placed immediately after the
line in which they are referenced. The footnote callout is
always an asterisk,* and the text of the footnote has been

*    Like this

placed, slightly indented, between two empty lines, with an
asterisk in the left margin as illustrated above.  If the
footnote comes at the end of a paragraph, the first line of
the following paragraph is indented two spaces, as usual.


In chapter 29 an additional note to a footnote was placed at
the end of the chapter. This note-note has been kept where
it occurred, but the reference to the original page has been
replaced by **.  (In the centenary edition both the note-
note and the note to which it refers were placed as
end-notes.)




  The transcription and proofreading was done by Anders
Thulin, Rydsvagen 288, S-582 50 Linkoping, Sweden.  Email
address: ath@linkoping.trab.se

  I'd be glad to learn of any errors that you may find in
the text.



            IVANHOE;

            A ROMANCE.



  Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart,
  And often took leave,----but seemed loath to depart!*

*    The motto alludes to the Author returning to the stage repeatedly
*    after having taken leave.

                                             Prior.



          INTRODUCTION

               TO

            IVANHOE.


  The Author of the Waverley Novels had hitherto
proceeded in an unabated course of popularity,
and might, in his peculiar district of
literature, have been termed _L'Enfant G<a^>t<e'> of
success.  It was plain, however, that frequent
publication must finally wear out the public
favour, unless some mode could be devised to
give an appearance of novelty to subsequent
productions.  Scottish manners, Scottish dialect,
and Scottish characters of note, being
those with which the author was most intimately,
and familiarly acquainted, were the
groundwork upon which he had hitherto relied
for giving effect to his narrative.  It was,
however, obvious, that this kind of interest
must in the end occasion a degree of sameness
and repetition, if exclusively resorted to, and
that the reader was likely at length to adopt
the language of Edwin, in Parnell's Tale:---

       ------`` `Reverse the spell,' he cries,
      'And let it fairly now suffice,
        The gambol has been shown.' ''

  Nothing can be more dangerous for the
fame of a professor of the fine arts, than to permit
(if he can possibly prevent it) the character
of a mannerist to be attached to him, or
that he should be supposed capable of success
only in a particular and limited style.  The
public are, in general, very ready to adopt the
opinion, that he who has pleased them in one
peculiar mode of composition, is, by means of
that very talent, rendered incapable of venturing
upon other subjects.  The effect of this
disinclination, on the part of the public, towards
the artificers of their pleasures, when they attempt
to enlarge their means of amusing, may
be seen in the censures usually passed by vulgar
criticism upon actors or artists who venture
to change the character of their efforts,
that, in so doing, they may enlarge the scale
of their art.

  There is some justice in this opinion, as
there always is in such as attain general
currency.  It may often happen on the stage,
that an actor, by possessing in a preeminent
degree the external qualities necessary to give
effect to comedy, may be deprived of the right
to aspire to tragic excellence; and in painting
or literary composition, an artist or poet
may be master exclusively of modes of thought,
and powers of expression, which confine him
to a single course of subjects.  But much more
frequently the same capacity which carries a
man to popularity in one department will obtain
for him success in another, and that must
be more particularly the case in literary composition,
than either in acting or painting, because
the adventurer in that department is not
impeded in his exertions by any peculiarity of
features, or conformation of person, proper for
particular parts, or, by any peculiar mechanical
habits of using the pencil, limited to a particular
class of subjects.

  Whether this reasoning be correct or otherwise,
the present author felt, that, in confining
himself to subjects purely Scottish, he was not
only likely to weary out the indulgence of his
readers, but also greatly to limit his own power
of affording them pleasure.  In a highly polished
country, where so much genius is monthly
employed in catering for public amusement,
a fresh topic, such as he had himself had the
happiness to light upon, is the untasted spring
of the desert;---

    ``Men bless their stars and call it luxury.''

But when men and horses, cattle, camels, and
dromedaries, have poached the spring into
mud, it becomes loathsome to those who at first
drank of it with rapture; and he who had the
merit of discovering it, if he would preserve his
reputation with the tribe, must display his talent
by a fresh discovery of untasted fountains.

  If the author, who finds himself limited to a
particular class of subjects, endeavours to sustain
his reputation by striving to add a novelty
of attraction to themes of the same character
which have been formerly successful under
his management, there are manifest reasons
why, after a certain point, he is likely to fail.  
If the mine be not wrought out, the strength
and capacity of the miner become necessarily
exhausted.  If he closely imitates the narratives
which he has before rendered successful,
he is doomed to ``wonder that they please no
more.'' If he struggles to take a different view
of the same class of subjects, he speedily discovers
that what is obvious, graceful, and
natural, has been exhausted; and, in order to
obtain the indispensable charm of novelty, he
is forced upon caricature, and, to avoid being
trite, must become extravagant.

  It is not, perhaps, necessary to enumerate
so many reasons why the author of the Scottish
Novels, as they were then exclusively termed,
should be desirous to make an experiment
on a subject purely English.  It was his purpose,
at the same time, to have rendered the
experiment as complete as possible, by bringing
the intended work before the public as the effort
of a new candidate for their favour, in order
that no degree of prejudice, whether favourable
or the reverse, might attach to it, as a new
production of the Author of Waverley; but
this intention was afterwards departed from,
for reasons to be hereafter mentioned.

  The period of the narrative adopted was
the reign of Richard I., not only as abounding
with characters whose very names were sure
to attract general attention, but as affording a
striking contrast betwixt the Saxons, by whom
the soil was cultivated, and the Normans, who
still reigned in it as conquerors, reluctant to
mix with the vanquished, or acknowledge
themselves of the same stock.  The idea of this
contrast was taken from the ingenious and unfortunate
Logan's tragedy of Runnamede, in
which, about the same period of history, the
author had seen the Saxon and Norman barons
opposed to each other on different sides of the
stage.  He does not recollect that there was
any attempt to contrast the two races in their
habits and sentiments; and indeed it was obvious,
that history was violated by introducing
the Saxons still existing as a high-minded and
martial race of nobles.

  They did, however, survive as a people, and
some of the ancient Saxon families possessed
wealth and power, although they were exceptions
to the humble condition of the race in
general.  It seemed to the author, that the existence
of the two races in the same country,
the vanquished distinguished by their plain,
homely, blunt manners, and the free spirit
infused by their ancient institutions and laws;
the victors, by the high spirit of military fame,
personal adventure, and whatever could distinguish
them as the Flower of Chivalry, might,
intermixed with other characters belonging to
the same time and country, interest the reader
by the contrast, if the author should not
fail on his part.

  Scotland, however, had been of late used so
exclusively as the scene of what is called Historical
Romance, that the preliminary letter
of Mr Laurence Templeton became in some
measure necessary. To this, as to an Introduction,
the reader is referred, as expressing
author's purpose and opinions in undertaking
this species of composition, under the
necessary reservation, that he is far from
thinking he has attained the point at which he
aimed.

  It is scarcely necessary to add, that there
was no idea or wish to pass off the supposed
Mr Templeton as a real person.  But a kind of
continuation of the Tales of my Landlord had
been recently attempted by a stranger, and it
was supposed this Dedicatory Epistle might
pass for some imitation of the same kind, and
thus putting enquirers upon a false scent, induce
them to believe they had before them the
work of some new candidate for their favour.

  After a considerable part of the work had
been finished and printed, the Publishers, who
pretended to discern in it a germ of popularity,
remonstrated strenuously against its appearing
as an absolutely anonymous production, and
contended that it should have the advantage of
being announced as by the Author of Waverley.  
The author did not make any obstinate opposition,
for he began to be of opinion with Dr
Wheeler, in Miss Edgeworth's excellent tale
of ``Man<oe>uvring,'' that ``Trick upon Trick''
might be too much for the patience of an indulgent
public, and might be reasonably considered
as trifling with their favour.

  The book, therefore, appeared as an avowed
continuation of the Waverley Novels; and it
would be ungrateful not to acknowledge, that it
met with the same favourable reception as its
predecessors.

  Such annotations as may be useful to assist
the reader in comprehending the characters of
the Jew, the Templar, the Captain of the mercenaries,
or Free Companions, as they were
called, and others proper to the period, are
added, but with a sparing hand, since sufficient
information on these subjects is to be found in
general history.

  An incident in the tale, which had the good
fortune to find favour in the eyes of many readers,
is more directly borrowed from the stores
of old romance.  I mean the meeting of the
King with Friar Tuck at the cell of that buxom
hermit.  The general tone of the story belongs
to all ranks and all countries, which emulate
each other in describing the rambles of a disguised
sovereign, who, going in search of information
or amusement, into the lower ranks
of life, meets with adventures diverting to the
reader or hearer, from the contrast betwixt the
monarch's outward appearance, and his real
character.  The Eastern tale-teller has for his
theme the disguised expeditions of Haroun
Alraschid with his faithful attendants, Mesrour
and Giafar, through the midnight streets of
Bagdad; and Scottish tradition dwells upon
the similar exploits of James V., distinguished
during such excursions by the travelling name
of the Goodman of Ballengeigh, as the Commander
of the Faithful, when he desired to be
incognito, was known by that of Il Bondocani.  
The French minstrels are not silent on so popular
a theme.  There must have been a Norman
original of the Scottish metrical romance of
Rauf Colziar, in which Charlemagne is introduced
as the unknown guest of a charcoal-man.*

*   This very curious poem, long a _desideratum_ in Scottish literature,
*   and given up as irrecoverably lost, was lately brought
*   to light by the researches of Dr Irvine of the Advocates' Library,
*   and has been reprinted by Mr David Laing, Edinburgh.

It seems to have been the original of
other poems of the kind.

  In merry England there is no end of popular
ballads on this theme.  The poem of John
the Reeve, or Steward, mentioned by Bishop
Percy, in the Reliques of English Poetry,* is

*   Vol. ii. p. 167.

said to have turned on such an incident; and
we have besides, the King and the Tanner of
Tamworth, the King and the Miller of Mansfield,
and others on the same topic.  But the
peculiar tale of this nature to which the author
of Ivanhoe has to acknowledge an obligation,
is more ancient by two centuries than any of
these last mentioned.

  It was first communicated to the public in
that curious record of ancient literature, which
has been accumulated by the combined exertions
of Sir Egerton Brydges. and Mr Hazlewood,
in the periodical work entitled the British
Bibliographer.  From thence it has been
transferred by the Reverend Charles Henry
Hartsborne, M.A., editor of a very curious volume,
entitled ``Ancient Metrical Tales, printed
chiefly from original sources, 1829.'' Mr
Hartshorne gives no other authority for the
present fragment, except the article in the
Bibliographer, where it is entitled the Kyng
and the Hermite.  A short abstract of its
contents will show its similarity  to  the  meeting
of King Richard and Friar Tuck.

  King Edward (we are not told which among
the monarchs of that name, but, from his temper
and habits, we may suppose Edward IV.)
sets forth with his court to a gallant hunting-match
in Sherwood Forest, in which, as is not
unusual for princes in romance, he falls in with
a deer of extraordinary size and swiftness, and
pursues it closely, till he has outstripped his
whole retinue, tired out hounds and horse, and
finds himself alone under the gloom of an extensive
forest, upon which night is descending.  
Under the apprehensions natural to a situation
so uncomfortable, the king recollects that he
has heard how poor men, when apprehensive of
a bad nights lodging, pray to Saint Julian, who,
in the Romish calendar, stands Quarter-Master-General
to all forlorn travellers that render
him due homage.  Edward puts up his orisons
accordingly, and by the guidance, doubtless, of
the good Saint, reaches a small path, conducting
him to a chapel in the forest, having a hermit's
cell in its close vicinity.  The King hears
the reverend man, with a companion of his
solitude, telling his beads within, and meekly
requests of him quarters for the night.  ``I
have no accommodation for such a lord as ye
be,'' said the Hermit. ``I live here in the wilderness
upon roots and rinds, and may not receive
into my dwelling even the poorest wretch
that lives, unless it were to save his life.'' The
King enquires the way to the next town, and,
understanding it is by a road which he cannot
find without difficulty, even if he had daylight
to befriend him, he declares, that with or without
the Hermits consent, he is determined to
be his guest that night.  He is admitted accordingly,
not without a hint from the Recluse,
that were he himself out of his priestly weeds,
he would care little for his threats of using
violence, and that he gives way to him not out
of intimidation, but simply to avoid scandal.

  The King is admitted into the cell---two
bundles of straw are shaken down for his accommodation,
and he comforts himself that he
is now under shelter, and that

     ``A night will soon be gone.''

  Other wants, however, arise.  The guest
becomes clamorous for supper, observing,

     ``For certainly, as I you say,
       I ne had never so sorry a day,
         That I ne had a merry night.''

  But this indication of his taste for good
cheer, joined to the annunciation of his being
a follower of the Court, who had lost himself
at the great hunting-match, cannot induce the
niggard Hermit to produce better fare than
bread and cheese, for which his guest showed
little appetite; and ``thin drink,'' which was
even less acceptable.  At length the King
presses his host on a point to which he had
more than once alluded, without obtaining a
satisfactory reply:

    ``Then said the King, `by Godys grace,
      Thou wert in a merry place,
        To shoot should thou lere
      When the foresters go to rest,
      Sometyme thou might have of the best,
        All of the wild deer;
      I wold hold it for no scathe,
      Though thou hadst bow and arrows baith,
        Althoff thou best a Frere.' ''

  The Hermit, in return, expresses his apprehension
that his guest means to drag him into
some confession of offence against the forest
laws, which, being betrayed to the King, might
cost him his life.  Edward answers by fresh
assurances of secrecy, and again urges on him
the necessity of procuring some venison.  The
Hermit replies, by once more insisting on the
duties incumbent upon him as a churchman,
and continues to affirm himself free from all
such breaches of order:---

      ``Many day I have here been,
        And flesh-meat I eat never,
           But milk of the kye;
        Warm thee well, and go to sleep,
        And I will lap thee with my cope,
           Softly to lye.''

  It would seem that the manuscript is here
imperfect, for we do not find the reasons which
finally induce the curtal Friar to amend the
King's cheer.  But acknowledging his guest
to be such a ``good fellow'' as has seldom
graced his board, the holy man at length produces
the best his cell affords.  Two candles
are placed on a table, white bread and baked
pasties are displayed by the light, besides
choice of venison, both salt and fresh, from
which they select collops.  ``I might have eaten
my bread dry,'' said the King, ``had I not
pressed thee on the score of archery, but now
have I dined like a prince---if we had but drink
enow.''

  This too is afforded by the hospitable anchorite,
who dispatches an assistant to fetch a pot
of four gallons from a secret corner near his
bed, and the whole three set in to serious drinking.
This amusement is superintended by the
Friar, according to the recurrence  of certain
fustian words, to be repeated by  every compotator
in turn before he drank---a  species of
High Jinks, as it were, by which  they regulated
their potations, as toasts were given in
latter times.  The one toper says _fusty bandias_,
to which the other is obliged to reply, _strike
pantnere_, and the Friar passes many jests on
the King's want of memory, who sometimes
forgets the words of action.  The night is spent
in this jolly pastime.  Before his departure
in the morning, the King invites his reverend
host to Court, promises, at least, to requite his
hospitality, and expresses himself much pleased
with his entertainment.  The jolly Hermit
at length agrees to venture thither, and to
enquire for Jack Fletcher, which is the name
assumed by the King.  After the Hermit has
shown Edward some feats of archery, the joyous
pair separate.  The King rides home, and
rejoins his retinue.  As the romance is imperfect,
we are not acquainted how the discovery
takes place; but it is probably much
in the same manner as in other narratives
turning on the same subject, where the host,
apprehensive of death for having trespassed
on the respect due to his Sovereign, while incognito,
is agreeably surprised by receiving
honours and reward.

  In Mr Hartshorne's collection, there is a
romance on the same foundation, called King
Edward and the Shepherd,* which, considered

*   Like the Hermit, the Shepherd makes havock amongst the
*   King's game; but by means of a sling, not of a bow; like the
*   Hermit, too, he has his peculiar phrases of compotation, the
*   sign and countersign being Passelodion and Berafriend.  One
*   can scarce conceive what humour our ancestors found in this
*   species of gibberish; but

*      ``I warrant it proved an excuse for the glass.''

as illustrating manners, is still more curious
than the King and the Hermit; but it is foreign
to the present purpose.  The reader has here
the original legend from which the incident in
the romance is derived; and the identifying
the irregular Eremite with the Friar Tuck of
Robin Hood's story, was an obvious expedient.

  The name of Ivanhoe was suggested by an
old rhyme.  All novelists have had occasion
at some time or other to wish with Falstaff, that
they knew where a commodity of good names
was to be had.  On such an occasion the
author chanced to call to memory a rhyme
recording three names of the manors forfeited
by the ancestor of the celebrated Hampden,
for striking the Black Prince a blow with his
racket, when they quarrelled at tennis;---

      ``Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
        For striking of a blow,
        Hampden did forego,
        And glad he could escape so.''

  The word suited the author's purpose in two
material respects,---for, first, it had an ancient
English sound; and secondly, it conveyed no
indication whatever of the nature of the story.  
He presumes to hold this last quality to be of
no small importance.  What is called a taking
title, serves the direct interest of the bookseller
or publisher, who by this means sometimes sells
an edition while it is yet passing the press.  But
if the author permits an over degree of attention
to be drawn to his work ere it has appeared,
he places himself in the embarrassing condition
of having excited a degree of expectation
which, if he proves unable to satisfy, is an error
fatal to his literary reputation.  Besides, when
we meet such a title as the Gunpowder Plot, or
any other connected with general history, each
reader, before he has seen the book, has formed
to himself some particular idea of the sort of
manner in which the story is to be conducted,
and the nature of the amusement which he is
to derive from it.  In this he is probably disappointed,
and in that case may be naturally disposed
to visit upon the author or the work, the
unpleasant feelings thus excited.  In such a
case the literary adventurer is censured, not
for having missed the mark at which he himself
aimed, but for not having shot off his shaft
in a direction he never thought of.

  On the footing of unreserved communication
which the Author has established with the
reader, he may here add the trifling circumstance,
that a roll of Norman warriors, occurring
in the Auchinleck Manuscript, gave him
the formidable name of Front-de-B<oe>uf.

  Ivanhoe was highly successful upon its appearance,
and may be said to have procured
for its author the freedom of the Rules, since
he has ever since been permitted to exercise
his powers of fictitious composition in England,
as well as Scotland.

  The character of the fair Jewess found so
much favour in the eyes of some fair readers,
that the writer was censured, because, when
arranging the fates of the characters  of the
drama, he had not assigned the hand of Wilfred
to Rebecca, rather than the less interesting
Rowena.  But, not to mention that the prejudices
of the age rendered such an union almost
impossible, the author may, in passing,
observe, that he thinks a character of a highly
virtuous and lofty stamp, is degraded rather
than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue
with temporal prosperity.  Such is not the recompense
which Providence has deemed worthy
of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous
and fatal doctrine to teach young persons, the
most common readers of romance, that rectitude
of conduct and of principle are either naturally
allied with, or adequately rewarded by,
the gratification of our passions, or attainment
of our wishes.  In a word, if a virtuous and self-denied
character is dismissed with temporal
wealth, greatness, rank, or the indulgence of
such a rashly formed or ill assorted passion as
that of Rebecca for Ivanhoe, the reader will be
apt to say, verily Virtue has had its reward.  
But a glance on the great picture of life will
show, that the duties of self-denial, and the
sacrifice of passion to principle, are seldom thus
remunerated; and that the internal consciousness
of their  high-minded discharge of duty,
produces on their own reflections a more adequate
recompense, in the form of that peace
which the world cannot give or take away.

    Abbotsford,
1st September, 1830.



        DEDICATORY EPISTLE

               TO

   THE REV.  DR DRYASDUST, F.A.S.

  Residing in the Castle-Gate, York.


Much esteemed and dear Sir,

  It is scarcely necessary to mention the
various and concurring reasons which induce
me to place your name at the head of the following
work.  Yet the chief of these reasons
may perhaps be refuted by the imperfections
of the performance.  Could I have hoped to
render it worthy of your patronage, the public
would at once have seen the propriety of
inscribing a work designed to illustrate the
domestic antiquities of England, and particularly
of our Saxon forefathers, to the learned
author of the Essays upon the Horn of King
Ulphus, and on the Lands bestowed by him
upon the patrimony of St Peter.  I am conscious,
however, that the slight, unsatisfactory,
and trivial manner, in which the result of my
antiquarian researches has been recorded in
the following pages, takes the work from under
that class which bears the proud motto,
_Detur digniori_.  On the contrary, I fear I shall
incur the censure of presumption in placing
the venerable name of Dr Jonas Dryasdust at
the head of a publication, which the more
grave antiquary will perhaps class with the
idle novels and romances of the day.  I am
anxious to vindicate myself from such a charge;
for although I might trust to your friendship
for an apology in your eyes, yet I would not
willingly stand conviction in those of the public
of so grave a crime, as my fears lead me
to anticipate my being charged with.

  I must therefore remind you, that when we
first talked over together that class of productions,
in one of which the private and family
affairs of your learned northern friend, Mr
Oldbuck of Monkbarns, were so unjustifiably
exposed to the public, some discussion occurred
between us concerning the cause of the
popularity these works have attained in this
idle age, which, whatever other merit they
possess, must be admitted to be hastily  written,
and in violation of every rule assigned to
the epopeia.  It seemed then to be your opinion,
that the charm lay entirely in the art with
which the unknown author had availed himself,
like a second M`Pherson, of the antiquarian
stores which lay scattered around him, supplying
his own indolence or poverty of invention,
by the incidents which had actually taken
place in his country at no distant period, by
introducing real characters, and scarcely suppressing
real names.  It was not above sixty
or seventy years, you observed, since the whole
north of Scotland was under a state of government
nearly as simple and as patriarchal
as those of our good allies the Mohawks and
Iroquois.  Admitting that the author cannot
himself be supposed to have witnessed those
times, he must have lived, you observed, among
persons who had acted and suffered in them;
and even within these thirty years, such an infinite
change has taken place in the manners
of Scotland, that men look back upon the habits
of society proper to their immediate ancestors,
as we do on those of the reign of Queen
Anne, or even the period of the Revolution.
Having thus materials of every kind lying
strewed around him, there was little, you observed,
to embarrass the author, but the difficulty
of choice.  It was no wonder, therefore,
that, having begun to work a mine so plentiful,
he should have derived from his works
fully more credit and profit than the facility
of his labours merited.

  Admitting (as I could not deny) the general
truth of these conclusions, I cannot but
think it strange that no attempt has been made
to excite an interest for the traditions and
manners of Old England, similiar to that which
has been obtained in behalf of those of our poorer
and less celebrated neighbours.  The Kendal
green, though its date is more ancient,
ought surely to be as dear to our feelings, as
the variegated tartans of the north.  The name
of Robin Hood, if duly conjured with, should
raise a spirit as soon as that of Rob Roy; and
the patriots of England deserve no less their
renown in our modern circles, than the Bruces
and Wallaces of Caledonia.  If the scenery of
the south be less romantic and sublime than
that of the northern mountains, it must be allowed
to possess in the same proportion superior
softness and beauty; and upon the whole,
we feel ourselves entitled to exclaim with the
patriotic Syrian---``Are not Pharphar and
Abana, rivers of Damascus, better than all the
rivers of Israel?''

  Your objections to such an attempt, my dear
Doctor, were, you may remember, two-fold.  
You insisted upon the advantages which the
Scotsman possessed, from the very recent existence
of that state of society in which his scene
was to be laid.  Many now alive, you remarked,
well remembered persons who had not only
seen the celebrated Roy M`Gregor, but had
feasted, and even fought with him.  All those
minute circumstances belonging to private life
and domestic character, all that gives verisimilitude
to a narrative, and individuality to the
persons introduced, is still known and remembered
in Scotland; whereas in England, civilisation
has been so long complete, that our
ideas of our ancestors are only to be gleaned
from musty records and chronicles, the authors
of which seem perversely to have conspired to
suppress in their narratives all interesting details,
in order to find room for flowers of monkish
eloquence, or trite reflections upon morals.  
To match an English and a Scottish author in
the rival task of embodying and reviving the
traditions of their respective countries, would
be, you alleged, in the highest degree unequal
and unjust.  The Scottish magician, you said,
was, like Lucan's witch, at liberty to walk over
the recent field of battle, and to select for the
subject of resuscitation by his sorceries, a body
whose limbs had recently quivered with existence,
and whose throat had but just uttered
the last note of agony.  Such a subject even
the powerful Erictho was compelled to select,
as alone capable of being reanimated even by
_her_ potent magic---

    ------gelidas leto scrutata medullas,
    Pulmonis rigidi stantes sine vulnere fibras
    Invenit, et vocem defuncto in corpore qu<ae>rit.

The English author, on the other hand, without
supposing him less of a conjuror than the
Northern Warlock, can, you observed, only
have the liberty of selecting his subject amidst
the dust of antiquity, where nothing was to be
found but dry, sapless, mouldering, and disjointed
bones, such as those which filled the
valley of Jehoshaphat.  You expressed, besides,
your apprehension, that the unpatriotic
prejudices of my countrymen would not allow
fair play to such a work as that of which I endeavoured
to demonstrate the probable success.
And this, you said, was not entirely owing to the
more general prejudice in favour of that which
is foreign, but that it rested partly upon improbabilities,
arising out of the circumstances
in which the English reader is placed.  If you
describe to him a set of wild manners, and a
state of primitive society existing in the Highlands
of Scotland, he is much disposed to acquiesce
in the truth of what is asserted.  And
reason good.  If he be of the ordinary class
of readers, he has either never seen those
remote districts at all, or he has wandered
through those desolate regions in the course
of a summer tour, eating bad dinners, sleeping
on truckle beds, stalking from desolation to
desolation, and fully prepared to believe the
strangest things that could be told him of a
people, wild and extravagant enough to be attached
to scenery so extraordinary.  But the
same worthy person, when placed in his own
snug parlour, and surrounded by all the comforts
of an Englishman's fireside, is not half
so much disposed to believe that his own ancestors
led a very different life from himself;
that the shattered tower, which now forms a
vista from his window, once held a baron who
would have hung him up at his own door without
any form of trial; that the  hinds,  by  whom
his little pet-farm is managed, a few centuries
ago  would  have  been  his  slaves; and that
the complete influence  of  feudal  tyranny  once
extended over  the  neighbouring  village,  where
the attorney is now a man of more importance
than the lord of the manor.

  While I own the force of these objections,
I must confess, at the same time, that they do
not appear to me to be altogether insurmountable.
The scantiness of materials is indeed a
formidable difficulty; but no one knows better
than Dr Dryasdust, that to those deeply
read in antiquity, hints concerning the private
life of our ancestors lie scattered through the
pages of our various historians, bearing, indeed,
a slender proportion to the other matters
of which they treat, but still, when collected
together, sufficient to throw considerable light
upon the _vie priv<e'>e_ of our forefathers; indeed,
I am convinced, that however I myself may
fail in the ensuing attempt, yet, with more labour
in collecting, or more skill in using, the
materials within his reach, illustrated as they
have been by the labours of Dr Henry, of the
late Mr Strutt, and, above all, of Mr Sharon
Turner, an abler hand would have been successful;
and therefore I protest, beforehand,
against any argument which may be founded
on the failure of the present experiment.

  On the other hand, I have already said, that
if any thing like a true picture of old English
manners could be drawn, I would trust to the
good-nature and good sense of my countrymen
for insuring its favourable reception.

  Having thus replied, to the best of my power,
to the first class of your objections, or at least
having shown my resolution to overleap the
barriers which your prudence has raised, I
will be brief in noticing that which is more
peculiar to myself.  It seems to be your opinion,
that the very office of an antiquary, employed
in grave, and, as the vulgar will sometimes
allege, in toilsome and minute research,
must be considered as incapacitating him from
successfully compounding a tale of this sort.  
But permit me to say, my dear Doctor, that
this objection is rather formal than substantial.
It is true, that such slight compositions
might not suit the severer genius of our friend
Mr Oldbuck.  Yet Horace Walpole wrote a
goblin tale which has thrilled through many a
bosom; and George Ellis could transfer all the
playful fascination of a humour, as delightful
as it was uncommon, into his Abridgement of
the Ancient Metrical Romances.  So that,
however I may have occasion to rue my present
audacity, I have at least the most respectable
precedents in my favour.

  Still the severer antiquary may think, that,
by thus intermingling fiction with truth, I am
polluting the well of history with modern inventions,
and impressing upon the rising generation
false ideas of the age which I describe.  
I cannot but in some sense admit the force of
this reasoning, which I yet hope to traverse
by the following considerations.

  It is true, that I neither can, nor do pretend,
to the observation of complete accuracy,
even in matters of outward costume, much less
in the more important points of language and
manners.  But the same motive which prevents
my writing the dialogue of the piece in
Anglo-Saxon or in Norman-French, and which
prohibits my sending forth to the public this
essay printed with the types of Caxton or Wynken
de Worde, prevents my attempting to confine
myself within the limits of the period in
which my story is laid.  It is necessary, for
exciting interest of any kind, that the subject
assumed should be, as it were, translated into
the manners, as well as the language, of the
age we live in.  No fascination has ever been
attached to Oriental literature, equal to that
produced by Mr Galland's first translation of
the Arabian Tales; in which, retaining on the
one hand the splendour of Eastern costume,
and on the other the wildness of Eastern fiction,
he mixed these with just so much ordinary
feeling and expression, as rendered them
interesting and intelligible, while he abridged
the long-winded narratives, curtailed the monotonous
reflections, and rejected the endless
repetitions of the Arabian original.  The tales,
therefore, though less purely Oriental than in
their first concoction, were eminently better
fitted for the European market, and obtained
an unrivalled degree of public favour, which
they certainly would never have gained had
not the manners and style been in some degree
familiarized to the feelings and habits of
the western reader.

  In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes
who will, I trust, devour this book with
avidity, I have so far explained our ancient
manners in modern language, and so far detailed
the characters and sentiments of my
persons, that the modern reader will not find
himself, I should hope, much trammelled by
the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity.  In
this, I respectfully contend, I have in no respect
exceeded the fair license due to the author
of a fictitious composition.  The late ingenious
Mr Strutt, in his romance of Queen-Hoo-Hall,*

*   The author had revised this posthumous work of  Mr  Strutt.
*   See General Preface to the present edition, Vol I. p. 65.

acted upon another principle; and
in distinguishing between what was ancient
and modern, forgot, as it appears to me, that
extensive neutral ground, the large proportion,
that is, of manners and sentiments which are
common to us and to our ancestors, having
been handed down unaltered from them to us,
or which, arising out of the principles of our
common nature, must have existed alike in
either state of society.  In this manner, a man
of talent, and of great antiquarian erudition,
limited the popularity of his work, by excluding
from it every thing which was not sufficiently
obsolete to be altogether forgotten and
unintelligible.

  The license which I would here vindicate,
is so necessary to the execution of my plan,
that I will crave your patience while I illustrate
my argument a little farther.

  He who first opens Chaucer, or any other
ancient poet, is so much struck with the obsolete
spelling, multiplied consonants, and antiquated
appearance of the language, that he
is apt to lay the work down in despair, as encrusted
too deep with the rust of antiquity, to
permit his judging of its merits or tasting its
beauties.  But if some intelligent and accomplished
friend points out to him, that the difficulties
by which he is startled are more in
appearance than reality, if, by reading aloud
to him, or by reducing the ordinary words to
the modern orthography, he satisfies his proselyte
that only about one-tenth part of the
words employed are in fact obsolete, the novice
may be easily persuaded to approach the ``well
of English undefiled,'' with the certainty that
a slender degree of patience will enable him
to enjoy both the humour and the pathos with
which old Geoffrey delighted the age of Cressy
and of Poictiers.

  To pursue this a little farther.  If our neophyte,
strong in the new-born love of antiquity,
were to undertake to imitate what he had
learnt to admire, it must be allowed he would
act very injudiciously, if he were to select
from the Glossary the obsolete words which it
contains, and employ those exclusively of all
phrases and vocables retained in modern days.  
This was the error of the unfortunate Chatterton.
In order to give his language the appearance
of antiquity, he rejected every word
that was modern, and produced a dialect entirely
different from any that had ever been
spoken in Great Britain.  He who would imitate
an ancient language with success, must
attend rather to its grammatical character,
turn of expression, and mode of arrangement,
than labour to collect extraordinary and antiquated
terms, which, as I have already averred,
do not in ancient authors approach the number
of words still in use, though perhaps somewhat
altered in sense and spelling, in the proportion
of one to ten.

  What I have applied to language, is still
more justly applicable to sentiments and manners.
The passions, the sources from which
these must spring in all their modifications,
are generally the same in all ranks and conditions,
all countries and ages; and it follows, as
a matter of course, that the opinions, habits of
thinking, and actions, however influenced by
the peculiar state of society, must still, upon
the whole, bear a strong resemblance to each
other.  Our ancestors were not more distinct
from us, surely, than Jews are from Christians;
they had ``eyes, hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions;'' were ``fed
with the same food, hurt with the same weapons,
subject to the same diseases, warmed and
cooled by the same winter and summer,'' as
ourselves.  The tenor, therefore, of their affections
and feelings, must have borne the same
general proportion to our own.

  It follows, therefore, that of the materials
which an author has to use in a romance, or
fictitious composition, such as I have ventured
to attempt, he will find that a great proportion,
both of language and manners, is as
proper to the present time as to those in which
he has laid his time of action.  The freedom
of choice which this allows him, is therefore
much greater, and the difficulty of his task
much more diminished, than at first appears.  
To take an illustration from a sister art, the
antiquarian details may be said to represent
the peculiar features of a landscape under delineation
of the pencil.  His feudal tower must
arise in due majesty; the figures which he introduces
must have the costume and character
of their age; the piece must represent the peculiar
features of the scene which he has chosen
for his subject, with all its appropriate elevation
of rock, or precipitate descent of cataract.  
His general colouring, too, must be copied from
Nature: The sky must be clouded or serene,
according to the climate, and the general tints
must be those which prevail in a natural landscape.
So far the painter is bound down by
the rules of his art, to a precise imitation of
the features of Nature; but it is not required
that he should descend to copy all her more
minute features, or represent with absolute exactness
the very herbs, flowers, and trees, with
which the spot is decorated.  These, as well
as all the more minute points of light and shadow,
are attributes proper to scenery in general,
natural to each situation, and subject to
the artist's disposal, as his taste or pleasure
may dictate.

  It is true, that this license is confined  in
either case within legitimate bounds.  The
painter must introduce no ornament inconsistent
with the climate or country of his landscape;
he must not plant cypress trees upon
Inch-Merrin, or Scottish firs among the ruins
of Persepolis; and the author lies under a corresponding
restraint.  However far he may
venture in a more full detail of passions and
feelings, than is to be found in the ancient
compositions which he imitates, he must introduce
nothing inconsistent with the manners
of the age; his knights, squires, grooms, and
yeomen, may be more fully drawn than in the
hard, dry delineations of an ancient illuminated
manuscript, but the character and costume of
the age must remain inviolate; they must be
the same figures, drawn by a better pencil, or,
to speak more modestly, executed in an age
when the principles of art were better understood.
His language must not be exclusively
obsolete and unintelligible; but he should admit,
if possible, no word or turn of phraseology
betraying an origin directly modern.  It is
one thing to make use of the language and sentiments
which are common to ourselves and
our forefathers, and it is another to invest them
with the sentiments and dialect exclusively
proper to their descendants.

  This, my dear friend, I have found the most
difficult part of my task; and, to speak frankly,
I hardly expect to satisfy your less partial
judgment, and more extensive knowledge of
such subjects, since I have hardly been able to
please my own.

  I am conscious that I shall be found still
more faulty in the tone of keeping and costume,
by those who may be disposed rigidly to
examine my Tale, with reference to the manners
of the exact period in which my actors
flourished: It may be, that I have introduced
little which can positively be termed modern;
but, on the other hand, it is extremely probable
that I may have confused the manners of
two or three centuries, and introduced, during
the reign of Richard the First, circumstances
appropriated to a period either considerably
earlier, or a good deal later than that era.  It
is my comfort, that errors of this kind will
escape the general class of readers, and that
I may share in the ill-deserved applause of
those architects, who, in their modern Gothic,
do not hesitate to introduce, without rule or
method, ornaments proper to different styles
and to different periods of the art.  Those
whose extensive researches have given  them
the means of judging my backslidings  with
more severity, will probably be lenient in proportion
to their knowledge of the difficulty of
my task.  My honest and neglected friend,
Ingulphus,  has furnished me with many a
valuable hint; but the light afforded by the
Monk of Croydon, and Geoffrey de Vinsauff,
is dimmed by such a conglomeration of uninteresting
and unintelligible matter, that we
gladly fly for relief to the delightful pages of
the gallant Froissart, although he flourished at
a period so much more remote from the date
of my history.  If, therefore, my dear friend,
you have generosity enough to pardon the presumptuous
attempt, to frame for myself a minstrel
coronet, partly out of the pearls of pure
antiquity, and partly from the Bristol stones
and paste, with which I have endeavoured to
imitate them, I am convinced your opinion of
the difficulty of the task will reconcile you to
the imperfect manner of its execution.

  Of my materials I have but little to say
They may be chiefly found in the singular Anglo-Norman
MS., which Sir Arthur Wardour
preserves with such jealous care in the third
drawer of his oaken cabinet, scarcely allowing
any one to touch it, and being himself not able
to read one syllable of its contents.  I should
never have got his consent, on my visit to
Scotland, to read in those precious pages for
so many hours, had I not promised to designate
it by some emphatic mode of printing, as
{The Wardour Manuscript}; giving it, thereby,
an individuality as important as the Bannatyne
MS., the Auchinleck MS., and any other monument
of the patience of a Gothic scrivener.  
I have sent, for your private consideration, a
list of the contents of this curious piece, which
I shall perhaps subjoin, with your approbation,
to the third volume of my Tale, in case the
printer's devil should continue impatient for
copy, when the whole of my narrative has been
imposed.

  Adieu, my dear friend; I have said enough
to explain, if not to vindicate, the attempt
which I have made, and which, in spite of
your doubts, and my own incapacity, I am
still willing to believe has not been altogether
made in vain.

  I hope you are now well recovered from
your spring fit of the gout, and shall be happy
if the advice of your learned physician should
recommend a tour to these parts.  Several
curiosities have been lately dug up  near the
wall, as well as at the ancient station  of Habitancum.
Talking of the latter, I suppose you
have long since heard the news, that a sulky
churlish boor has destroyed the ancient statue,
or rather bas-relief, popularly called Robin of
Redesdale.  It seems Robin's fame attracted
more visitants than was consistent with the
growth of the heather, upon a moor worth a
shilling an acre.  Reverend as you write yourself,
be revengeful for once, and pray with me
that he may be visited with such a fit of the
stone, as if he had all the fragments of poor
Robin in that region of his viscera where the
disease holds its seat.  Tell this not in Gath,
lest the Scots rejoice that they have at length
found a parallel instance among their neighbours,
to that barbarous deed which demolished
Arthur's Oven.  But there is no end to
lamentation, when we betake ourselves to such
subjects.  My respectful compliments attend
Miss Dryasdust; I endeavoured to match the
spectacles agreeable to her commission, during
my late journey to London, and hope she has
received them safe, and found them satisfactory.
I send this by the blind carrier, so that
probably it may be some time upon its journey.*

*   This anticipation proved but too true, as my learned correspondent
*   did not receive my letter until a twelvemonth after
*   it was written. I mention this circumstance, that a gentleman
*   attached to the cause of learning, who now holds the principal
*   control of the post-office, may consider whether by some mitigation
*   of the present enormous rates, some favour might not be
*   shown to the correspondents of the principal Literary and Antiquarian
*   Societies.  I understand, indeed, that this experiment
*   was once tried, but that the mail-coach having broke down under
*   the weight of packages addressed to members of the Society
*   of Antiquaries, it was relinquished as a hazardous experiment.  
*   Surely, however it would be possible to build these vehicles in a
*   form more substantial, stronger in the perch, and broader in the
*   wheels, so as to support the weight of Antiquarian learning;
*   when, if they should be found to travel more slowly, they would
*   be not the less agreeable to quiet travellers like myself.---L. T.

The last news which I hear from Edinburgh
is, that the gentleman who fills the situation
of Secretary to the Society of Antiquaries
of Scotland,* is the best amateur draftsman

*   Mr Skene of Rubislaw is here intimated, to whose taste
*   and skill the author is indebted for a series of etchings, exhibiting
*   the various localities alluded to in these novels.

in that kingdom, and that much is expected
from his skill and zeal in delineating
those specimens of national antiquity, which
are either mouldering under the slow touch of
time, or swept away by modern taste, with
the same besom of destruction which John
Knox used at the Reformation.  Once more
adieu; _vale tandem, non immemor mei_.  Believe
me to be,

        Reverend, and very dear Sir,

     Your most faithful humble Servant.

                         Laurence Templeton.

Toppingwold, near Egremont, 
 Cumberland, Nov. 17, 1817. 



               IVANHOE.



               CHAPTER I.

   Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,
   The full-fed swine return'd with evening home;
   Compell'd, reluctant, to the several sties,
   With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.
                              Pope's _Odyssey_.

  In that pleasant district of merry England which
is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient
times a large forest, covering the greater part
of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between
Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster.  The
remains of this extensive wood are still to be seen
at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe
Park, and around Rotherham.  Here haunted of
yore the fabulous Dragon of Wantley; here were
fought many of the most desperate battles during
the Civil Wars of the Roses; and here also flourished
in ancient times those bands of gallant outlaws,
whose deeds have been rendered so popular
in English song.

  Such being our chief scene, the date of our story
refers to a period towards the end of the reign of
Richard I., when his return from his long captivity
had become an event rather wished than hoped
for by his despairing subjects, who were in the
meantime subjected to every species of subordinate
oppression.  The nobles, whose power had become
exorbitant during the reign of Stephen, and whom
the prudence of Henry the Second had scarce reduced
to some degree of subjection to the crown,
had now resumed their ancient license in its utmost
extent; despising the feeble interference of the
English Council of State, fortifying their castles,
increasing the number of their dependants, reducing
all around them to a state of vassalage, and
striving by every means in their power, to place
themselves each at the head of such forces as might
enable him to make a figure in the national convulsions
which appeared to be impending.

  The situation of the inferior gentry, or Franklins,
as they were called, who, by the law and spirit
of the English constitution, were entitled to hold
themselves independent of feudal tyranny, became
now unusually precarious.  If, as was most generally
the case, they placed themselves under the
protection of any of the petty kings in their vicinity,
accepted of feudal offices in his household, or
bound themselves by mutual treaties of alliance
and protection, to support him in his enterprises,
they might indeed purchase temporary repose; but
it must be with the sacrifice of that independence
which was so dear to every English bosom, and at
the certain hazard of being involved as a party in
whatever rash expedition the ambition of their protector
might lead him to undertake.  On the other
hand, such and so multiplied were the means of
vexation and oppression possessed by the great
Barons, that they never wanted the pretext, and
seldom the will, to harass and pursue, even to the
very edge of destruction, any of their less powerful
neighbours, who attempted to separate themselves
from their authority, and to trust for their protection,
during the dangers of the times, to their own
inoffensive conduct, and to the laws of the land.

  A circumstance which greatly tended to enhance
the tyranny of the nobility, and the sufferings of
the inferior classes, arose from the consequences
of the Conquest by Duke William of Normandy.  
Four generations had not sufficed to blend the hostile
blood of the Normans and Anglo-Saxons, or to
unite, by common language and mutual interests,
two hostile races, one of which still felt the elation
of triumph, while the other groaned under all the
consequences of defeat.  The power bad been completely
placed in the hands of the Norman nobility,
by the event of the battle of Hastings, and it had
been used, as our histories assure us, with no moderate
hand.  The whole race of Saxon princes and
nobles had been extirpated or disinherited, with
few or no exceptions; nor were the numbers great
who possessed land in the country of their fathers,
even as proprietors of the second, or of yet inferior
classes.  The royal policy had long been to weaken,
by every means, legal or illegal, the strength of a
part of the population which was justly considered
as nourishing the most inveterate antipathy to their
victor.  All the monarchs of the Norman race had
shown the most marked predilection for their Norman
subjects; the laws of the chase, and many
others equally unknown to the milder and more
free spirit of the Saxon constitution, had been fixed
upon the necks of the subjugated inhabitants, to add
weight, as it were, to the feudal chains with which
they were loaded.  At court, and in the castles of
the great nobles, where the pomp and state of a court
was emulated, Norman-French was the only language
employed; in courts of law, the pleadings
and judgments were delivered in the same tongue.  
In short, French was the language of honour, of
chivalry, and even of justice, while the far more
manly and expressive Anglo-Saxon was abandoned
to the use of rustics and hinds, who knew no other.  
Still, however, the necessary intercourse between
the lords of the soil, and those oppressed inferior
beings by whom that soil was cultivated, occasioned
the gradual formation of a dialect, compounded
betwixt the French and the Anglo-Saxon, in which
they could render themselves mutually intelligible
to each other; and from this necessity arose by
degrees the structure of our present English language,
in which the speech of the victors and the
vanquished have been so happily blended together;
and which has since been so richly improved by
importations from the classical languages, and from
those spoken by the southern nations of Europe.

  This state of things I have thought it necessary
to premise for the information of the general reader,
who might be apt to forget, that, although no great
historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark
the existence of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate
people subsequent to the reign of William the Second;
yet the great national distinctions betwixt
them and their conquerors, the recollection of what
they had formerly been, and to what they were
now reduced, continued down to the reign of Edward
the Third, to keep open the wounds which
the Conquest had inflicted, and to maintain a line
of separation betwixt the descendants of the victor
Normans and the vanquished Saxons.

--

  The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy
glades of that forest, which we have mentioned in
the beginning of the chapter.  Hundreds of broad-headed,
short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which
had witnessed perhaps the stately march of the Roman
soldiery, flung their gnarled arms over a thick
carpet of the most delicious green sward; in some
places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies,
and copsewood of various descriptions, so closely
as totally to intercept the level beams of the sinking
sun; in others they receded from each other,
forming those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy
of which the eye delights to lose itself, while imagination
considers them as the paths to yet wilder
scenes of silvan solitude.  Here the red rays of
the sun shot a broken and discoloured light, that
partially hung upon the shattered boughs and mossy
trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in
brilliant patches the portions of turf to which they
made their way. A considerable open space, in the
midst of this glade, seemed formerly to have been
dedicated to the rites of Druidical superstition;
for, on the summit of a hillock, so regular as to
seem artificial, there still remained part of a circle
of rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions.  Seven
stood upright; the rest had been dislodged from
their places, probably by the zeal of some convert
to Christianity, and lay, some prostrate near their
former site, and others on the side of the hill.  One
large stone only had found its way to the bottom,
and in stopping the course of a small brook, which
glided smoothly round the foot of the eminence,
gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of murmur
to the placid and elsewhere silent streamlet.

  The human figures which completed this landscape,
were in number two, partaking, in their dress
and appearance, of that wild and rustic character,
which belonged to the woodlands of the West-Riding
of Yorkshire at that early period.  The
eldest of these men had a stern, savage, and wild
aspect.  His garment was of the simplest form
imaginable, being a close jacket with sleeves, composed
of the tanned skin of some animal, on which
the hair had been originally left, but which had
been worn of in so many places, that it would
have been difficult to distinguish from the patches
that remained, to what creature the fur had belonged.
This primeval vestment reached from the
throat to the knees, and served at once all the
usual purposes of body-clothing; there was no wider
opening at the collar, than was necessary to
admit the passage of the head, from which it may
be inferred, that it was put on by slipping it over
the head and shoulders, in the manner of a modern
shirt, or ancient hauberk.  Sandals, bound with
thongs made of boars' hide, protected the feet, and
a roll of thin leather was twined artificially round
the legs, and, ascending above the calf, left the
knees bare, like those of a Scottish Highlander.  
To make the jacket sit yet more close to the body,
it was gathered at the middle by a broad leathern
belt, secured by a brass buckle; to one side of
which was attached a sort of scrip, and to the other
a ram's horn, accoutred with a mouthpiece, for the
purpose of blowing.  In the same belt was stuck
one of those long, broad, sharp-pointed, and two-edged
knives, with a buck's-horn handle, which
were fabricated in the neigbbourhood, and bore
even at this early period the name of a Sheffield
whittle.  The man had no covering upon his head,
which was only defended by his own thick hair,
matted and twisted together, and scorched by the
influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red colour,
forming a contrast with the overgrown beard upon
his cheeks, which was rather of a yellow or amber
hue. One part of his dress only remains, but it is
too remarkable to be suppressed; it was a brass
ring, resembling a dog's collar, but without any
opening, and soldered fast round his neck, so loose
as to form no impediment to his breathing, yet so
tight as to be incapable of being removed, excepting
by the use of the file.  On this singular gorget
was engraved, in Saxon characters, an inscription
of the following purport:---``Gurth, the son of
Beowulph, is the born thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood.''

  Beside the swine-herd, for such was Gurth's occupation,
was seated, upon one of the fallen Druidical
monuments, a person about ten years younger
in appearance, and whose dress, though resembling
his companion's in form, was of better materials,
and of a more fantastic appearance.  His jacket
had been stained of a bright purple hue, upon
which there had been some attempt to paint grotesque
ornaments in different colours.  To the
jacket he added a short cloak, which scarcely reached
half way down his thigh; it was of crimson
cloth, though a good deal soiled, lined with bright
yellow; and as he could transfer it from one shoulder
to the other, or at his pleasure draw it all
around him, its width, contrasted with its want of
longitude, formed a fantastic piece of drapery.  He
had thin silver bracelets upon his arms, and on his
neck a collar of the same metal bearing the inscription,
``Wamba, the son of Witless, is the thrall of
Cedric of Rotherwood.'' This personage had the
same sort of sandals with his companion, but instead
of the roll of leather thong, his legs were
cased in a sort of gaiters, of which one was red
and the other yellow.  He was provided also with
a cap, having around it more than one bell, about
the size of those attached to hawks, which jingled
as he turned his head to one side or other; and as
he seldom remained a minute in the same posture,
the sound might be considered as incessant. Around
the edge of this cap was a stiff bandeau of leather,
cut at the top into open work, resembling a coronet,
while a prolonged bag arose from within it,
and fell down on one shoulder like an old-fashioned
nightcap, or a jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a
modern hussar.  It was to this part of the cap that
the bells were attached; which circumstance, as
well as the shape of his head-dress, and his own
half-crazed, half-cunning expression of countenance,
sufficiently pointed him out as belonging to
the race of domestic clowns or jesters, maintained
in the houses of the wealthy, to help away the
tedium of those lingering hours which they were
obliged to spend within doors.  He bore, like his
companion, a scrip, attached to his belt, but had
neither horn nor knife, being probably considered
as belonging to a class whom it is esteemed dangerous
to intrust with edge-tools.  In place of these,
he was equipped with a sword of lath, resembling
that with which Harlequin operates his wonders
upon the modern stage.

  The outward appearance of these two men formed
scarce a stronger contrast than their look and
demeanour.  That of the serf, or bondsman, was
sad and sullen; his aspect was bent on the ground
with an appearance of deep dejection, which might
be almost construed into apathy, had not the fire
which occasionally sparkled in his red eye manifested
that there slumbered, under the appearance of
sullen despondency, a sense of oppression, and a disposition
to resistance.  The looks of Wamba, on
the other hand, indicated, as usual with his class,
a sort of vacant curiosity, and fidgetty impatience
of any posture of repose, together with the utmost
self-satisfaction respecting his own situation, and
the appearance which he made.  The dialogue which
they maintained between them, was carried on in
Anglo-Saxon, which, as we said before, was universally
spoken by the inferior classes, excepting
the Norman soldiers, and the immediate personal
dependants of the great feudal nobles.  But to give
their conversation in the original would convey but
little information to the modern reader, for whose
benefit we beg to offer the following translation:

  ``The curse of St Withold upon these infernal
porkers!'' said the swine-herd, after blowing his
horn obstreperously, to collect together the scattered
herd of swine, which, answering his call with
notes equally melodious, made, however, no haste
to remove themselves from the luxurious banquet
of beech-mast and acorns on which they had fattened,
or to forsake the marshy banks of the rivulet,
where several of them, half plunged in mud,
lay stretched at their ease, altogether regardless of
the voice of their keeper.  ``The curse of St Withold
upon them and upon me!'' said Gurth; ``if the two-legged
wolf snap not up some of them ere nightfall,
I am no true man.  Here, Fangs! Fangs!'' he
ejaculated at the top of his voice to a ragged wolfish-looking
dog, a sort of lurcher, half mastiff, half
greyhound, which ran limping about as if with the
purpose of seconding his master in collecting the
refractory grunters; but which, in fact, from misapprehension
of the swine-herd's signals, ignorance
of his own duty, or malice prepense, only drove
them hither and thither, and increased the evil which
he seemed to design to remedy.  ``A devil draw
the teeth of him,'' said Gurth, ``and the mother of
mischief confound the Ranger of the forest, that cuts
the foreclaws off our dogs, and makes them unfit
for their trade!* Wamba, up and help me an thou

*   Note A.  The Ranger of the Forest, that cuts the fore-claws
*   off our dogs.

beest a man; take a turn round the back o' the
hill to gain the wind on them; and when thous't
got the weather-gage, thou mayst drive them before
thee as gently as so many innocent lambs.''

  ``Truly,'' said Wamba, without stirring from the
spot, ``I have consulted my legs upon this matter,
and they are altogether of opinion, that to carry
my gay garments through these sloughs, would be
an act of unfriendship to my sovereign person and
royal wardrobe; wherefore, Gurth, I advise thee
to call off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny,
which, whether they meet with bands of travelling
soldiers, or of outlaws, or of wandering
pilgrims, can be little else than to be converted into
Normans before morning, to thy no small ease
and comfort.''

  ``The swine turned Normans to my comfort!''
quoth Gurth; ``expound that to me, Wamba, for
my brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to
read riddles.''

  ``Why, how call you those grunting brutes running
about on their four legs?'' demanded Wamba.

  ``Swine, fool, swine,'' said the herd, ``every fool
knows that.''

  ``And swine is good Saxon,'' said the Jester;
``but how call you the sow when she is flayed, and
drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels,
like a traitor?''

  ``Pork,'' answered the swine-herd.

  ``I am very glad every fool knows that too,'' said
Wamba, ``and pork, I think, is good Norman-French;
and so when the brute lives, and is in the
charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon
name; but becomes a Norman, and is called pork,
when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast among
the nobles what dost thou think of this, friend
Gurth, ha?''

  ``It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however
it got into thy fool's pate.''

  ``Nay, I can tell you more,'' said Wamba, in the
same tone; ``there is old Alderman Ox continues
to hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the
charge of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes
Beef, a fiery French gallant, when he arrives
before the worshipful jaws that are destined to
consume him.  Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur
de Veau in the like manner; he is Saxon when
he requires tendance, and takes a Norman name
when he becomes matter of enjoyment.''

  ``By St Dunstan,'' answered Gurth, ``thou speakest
but sad truths; little is left to us but the air
we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved
with much hesitation, solely for the purpose of
enabling us to endure the tasks they lay upon our
shoulders.  The finest and the fattest is for their
board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best
and bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers,
and whiten distant lands with their bones,
leaving few here who have either will or the power
to protect the unfortunate Saxon.  God's blessing
on our master Cedric, he hath done the work of a
man in standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf
is coming down to this country in person,
and we shall soon see how little Cedric's trouble
will avail him.---Here, here,'' he exclaimed again,
raising his voice, ``So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs!
thou hast them all before thee now, and bring'st
them on bravely, lad.''

  ``Gurth,'' said the Jester, ``I know thou thinkest
me a fool, or thou wouldst not be so rash in
putting thy head into my mouth.  One word to
Reginald Front-de-B<oe>uf, or Philip de Malvoisin,
that thou hast spoken treason against the Norman,
---and thou art but a cast-away swineherd,---thou
wouldst waver on one of these trees as a terror to
all evil speakers against dignities.''

  ``Dog, thou wouldst not betray me,'' said Gurth,
``after having led me on to speak so much at disadvantage?''

  ``Betray thee!'' answered the Jester; ``no, that
were the trick of a wise man; a fool cannot half so
well help himself---but soft, whom have we here?''
he said, listening to the trampling of several horses
which became then audible.

  ``Never mind whom,'' answered Gurth, who had
now got his herd before him, and, with the aid of
Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim
vistas which we have endeavoured to describe.

  ``Nay, but I must see the riders,'' answered
Wamba; ``perhaps they are come from Fairy-land
with a message from King Oberon.''

  ``A murrain take thee,'' rejoined the swine-herd;
``wilt thou talk of such things, while a terrible
storm of thunder and lightning is raging within a
few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles!
and for summer rain, I never saw such broad downright
flat drops fall out of the clouds; the oaks, too,
notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak
with their great boughs as if announcing a tempest.  
Thou canst play the rational if thou wilt; credit
me for once, and let us home ere the storm begins
to rage, for the night will be fearful.''

  Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal,
and accompanied his companion, who began his
journey after catching up a long quarter-staff which
lay upon the grass beside him.  This second Eum<ae>us
strode hastily down the forest glade, driving
before him, with the assistance of Fangs, the whole
herd of his inharmonious charge.



                 CHAPTER II.

   A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,
   An outrider that loved venerie;
   A manly man, to be an Abbot able,
   Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:
   And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear
   Gingeling in a whistling wind as dear,
   And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,
   There as this lord was keeper of the cen.
                                   Chaucer.

  Notwithstanding the occasional exhortation
and chiding of his companion, the noise of the
horsemen's feet continuing to approach, Wamba
could not be prevented from lingering occasionally
on the road, upon every pretence which occurred;
now catching from the hazel a cluster of half-ripe
nuts, and now turning his head to leer after a cottage
maiden who crossed their path.  The horsemen,
therefore, soon overtook them on the road.

  Their numbers amounted to ten men, of whom
the two who rode foremost seemed to be persons
of considerable importance, and the others their
attendants.  It was not difficult to ascertain the
condition and character of one of these personages.  
He was obviously an ecclesiastic of high rank; his
dress was that of a Cistercian Monk, but composed
of materials much finer than those which the
rule of that order admitted.  His mantle and hood
were of the best Flanders cloth, and fell in ample,
and not ungraceful folds, around a handsome,
though somewhat corpulent person.  His countenance
bore as little the marks of self-denial, as his
habit indicated contempt of worldly splendour.  His
features might have been called good, had there not
lurked under the pent-house of his eye, that sly
epicurean twinkle which indicates the cautious voluptuary.
In other respects, his profession and situation
had taught him a ready command over his
countenance, which he could contract at pleasure into
solemnity, although its natural expression was
that of good-humoured social indulgence.  In defiance
of conventual rules, and the edicts of popes
and councils, the sleeves of this dignitary were lined
and turned up with rich furs, his mantle secured at
the throat with a golden clasp, and the whole dress
proper to his order as much refined upon and ornamented,
as that of a quaker beauty of the present
day, who, while she retains the garb and costume
of her sect continues to give to its simplicity, by
the choice of materials and the mode of disposing
them, a certain air of coquettish attraction, savouring
but too much of the vanities of the world.

  This worthy churchman rode upon a well-fed
ambling mule, whose furniture was highly decorated,
and whose bridle, according to the fashion of
the day, was ornamented with silver bells.  In his
seat he had nothing of the awkwardness of the
convent, but displayed the easy and habitual grace
of a well-trained horseman.  Indeed, it seemed
that so humble a conveyance as a mule, in however
good case, and however well broken to a pleasant
and accommodating amble, was only used by the
gallant monk for travelling on the road.  A lay
brother, one of those who followed in the train,
had, for his use on other occasions, one of the most
handsome Spanish jennets ever bred at Andalusia,
which merchants used at that time to import, with
great trouble and risk, for the use of persons of
wealth and distinction.  The saddle and housings
of this superb palfrey were covered by a long foot-cloth,
which reached nearly to the ground, and on
which were richly embroidered, mitres, crosses, and
other ecclesiastical emblems.  Another lay brother
led a sumpter mule, loaded probably with his superior's
baggage; and two monks of his own order,
of inferior station, rode together in the rear, laughing
and conversing with each other, without taking
much notice of the other members of the cavalcade.

  The companion of the church dignitary was a
man past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular; an
athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant
exercise seemed to have left none of the softer part
of the human form, having reduced the whole to
brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained a
thousand toils, and were ready to dare a thousand
more.  His head was covered with a scarlet cap,
faced with fur---of that kind which the French call
_mortier_, from its resemblance to the shape of an
inverted mortar.  His countenance was therefore
fully displayed, and its expression was calculated to
impress a degree of awe, if not of fear, upon strangers.
High features, naturally strong and powerfully
expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro
blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun,
and might, in their ordinary state, be said to slumber
after the storm of passion had passed away; but the
projection of the veins of the forehead, the readiness
with which the upper lip and its thick black moustaches
quivered upon the slightest emotion, plainly
intimated that the tempest might be again and easily
awakened.  His keen, piercing, dark eyes, told
in every glance a history of difficulties subdued,
and dangers dared, and seemed to challenge opposition
to his wishes, for the pleasure of sweeping it
from his road by a determined exertion of courage
and of will; a deep scar on his brow gave additional
sternness to his countenance, and a sinister expression
to one of his eyes, which had been slightly
injured on the same occasion, and of which the vision,
though perfect, was in a slight and partial degree
distorted.

  The upper dress of this personage resembled
that of his companion in shape, being a long monastic
mantle; but the colour, being scarlet, showed
that he did not belong to any of the four regular
orders of monks.  On the right shoulder of the
mantle there was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a
peculiar form.  This upper robe concealed what at
first view seemed rather inconsistent with its form,
a shirt, namely, of linked mail, with sleeves and
gloves of the same, curiously plaited and interwoven,
as flexible to the body as those which are now
wrought in the stocking-loom, out of less obdurate
materials.  The fore-part of his thighs, where the
folds of his mantle permitted them to be seen, were
also covered with linked mail; the knees and feet
were defended by splints, or thin plates of steel,
ingeniously jointed upon each other; and mail hose,
reaching from the ankle to the knee, effectually protected
the legs, and completed the rider's defensive
armour.  In his girdle he wore a long and double-edged
dagger, which was the only offensive weapon
about his person.

  He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a
strong hackney for the road, to save his gallant war-horse,
which a squire led behind, fully accoutred
for battle, with a chamfrom o