Ivanhoe: A Romance
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 Hartshorne, 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 Hermit’s 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 God’s grace,
Thou wert in a merry place,
To shoot should thou here
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,4 which, considered 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-Bœuf.
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, 1_st 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