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OA' AVA 7TWOAVA/L OA’/G/AV
or w/Dazy currºwz Aw EWGZAwp
AºA'O// A.A.A’/L V 7T/M/A.S.
WITH CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS BY
º
WF CAREW HAZLITT
£omb on
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SWAN SO N N ENS C H E IN &
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New York : MACMILLAN & CO
CO's












- - BUTLER & TANNER,
THE SELwooD PRINTING Works,
FROME, ANS London.
- - a -
--
--
3.


ºss
-
CONTENTS.
—º-
SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
THE KNIGHT AND HIS WIFE. (Fifteenth Century).
THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. (Fourteenth Century)
THE FRIAR AND THE Boy. (15th–16th Century)
THE SMITH AND HIs DAME. (Sixteenth Century)
VIRGILIUS
ROBERT THE DEVIL.
FRIAR BACON .
FAUST OR FAUSTUS .
FRIAR, RUSH
FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
HEREWARD THE SAXON
FULKE FITzwARIN
THE KING AND THE HERMIT .
THE NUT-BROWN MAID . - - - -
RoBIN Hood
I34
156
I77
223
235
242



324
iv. CONTENTS.
ROMANTIC LEGENDs.
PAGE
CHEVY CHACE. (End of Fourteenth Century) . . . , 34 I
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. (End of Fourteenth Century) 347
CAULINE. AN IRISH STORY. (Fourteenth Century). • 353
THE KING AND THE TANNER . - - - - . 361
THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. (Fifteenth Century). . 367
THE HEIR OF LINNE . - - - - - . 379
ROSWAL AND LILIAN - - - - - - . 385
THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BETHNAL GREEN - - . 395
WHITTINGTON (1350–1424) . - - - - . 404
THE PINNER OF WAKE FIELD . - - . 417
. THOMAS HICKATHRIFT . - - - - - . 430
- THE KING AND THE NORTHERN MAN . - -" . 439
DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMORO US LEGENDS.
JOHN ADROYNS - - - - - - - • 449
THE MILLER AND THE TAILOR - - - - . 454
THE MALTMAN OF COLEBROOK - - - - . 459
| - THE MILLER OF ABINGDON. (Fifteenth Century) . : 464
\ THE FRIAR WHO TOLD THE THREE CHILDREN’s FORTUNEs 47.2
THE SERJEANT TURNED FRIAR - - - - - 475
THE MONK OF LEICESTER who was FOUR TIMES SLAIN
AND ONCE HANGED. (Sixteenth Century) . - . 48o



INTRODUCTION.
AN assemblage of fictitious narratives, presenting
romantic adventures, supernatural episodes, and
dark, if not even immoral, scenes, might seem to
recommend itself only to an illiterate age or to a
time of life when the opportunity for study and
investigation has not yet been given. But nothing
can well be more certain than the fact that tales
of a fabulous cast have at all periods possessed an
irresistible fascination alike for old and young, and
that the knowledge of their unreality does not sen-
sibly or generally impair our affection for these
compositions. All the wondrous myths which have
come to us from the East, and all the creations
of Western fancy and belief, constitute for ourselves
the same inexhaustible treasury of reading and
meditation which they have been to our foregoers
in this land from a period almost immemorial ; and
as society grows more and more artificial and
prosaic in its day by day routine, with a more
powerful admixture of archaeological feeling, we may
perhaps expect to see a more widely diffused sym-
pathy with stories and traditions which owe much
of their charm to their strong contrast with existing
conditions and possibilities.
v
__-
_-

vi INTRODUCTION.
The new interest and rank lent to the Legend
in ballad or other shape by its recognition as an
agent in elucidating or confirming many obscure
features in the national life of the past in no wise
displace it from its ancient home in all our hearts
as a picture and reflex of bygone ages and people.
It may for a season discharge a twofold function ;
but probably the day will arrive when the vast
majority of readers will prefer to view this species
of production from the philosophical side. The
study of such romantic epics as A'offin Hood, Doctor
Aausſus, Friaz. Bacon, Friar Aus/, and lºgi/ius
should not prove less attractive to an educated
intelligence because evidence of a trustworthy
character is adduced that there is in these and
in other analogous stories something beyond the
superficial meaning conveyed by the text. The
exploits and sentiments handed down to us in these
fictions ought, on the contrary, to acquire in Our
eyes an augmented charm and worth, when we
discover so much mineral riches beneath the sur-
face, and are enabled to add them to the material
for tracing the development of our country and our
1.3.Cé. -
The compositions which form the volume before
us were the product of times and conditions so
immeasurably different from those with which we
have grown up, that it demands a very considerable
effort to realize the circumstances contributory to
their existence and popularity, and it is necessary
to follow the clew backward till we do our best to
succeed in making ourselves part of the age which
favoured and witnessed the rise of narratives par-


INTRODUCTION. vii
taking of the common nature of all folk-lore in
their unequal admixture of fable and fact and in
their servility to local or contemporary costume.
The bulk of our popular literature owes its
derivation to four leading sources: the political
vicissitudes formerly so frequent, the Forest Laws,
maritime and commercial adventure, and supersti-
tion. The interesting epic of Æobin Hood may
be considered as falling under the first and second
of these categories or divisions, since at the period
of life which the Outlaw and his friends had
apparently attained when they embraced a career
fraught with so much hardship and peril nothing
less than necessity could have induced them to
forsake their homes and renounce the protection
of the laws. To the same group belong the Aïng
and Že /Zermit, the Aïng and the Zammer, the
Ainner of Wakefield, and Adam Bel, of all of
which the scene is laid amid the dense woodlands
and in the townships bordering on them. Chevy
Chace, the Bażſe of Ożferðurn, and perchance the
AVuč-órown /l/aid, may be almost classed with this
highly interesting family of legends.
The stories of Whittington, the B/ind Beggar
of Beć/..na/ Green, Zom d Zinco/n, and 7%0mas
of Æeading offer examples of romantic inventions
originating in the early mercantile enterprise of Our
country and its relations with others; and into this
section we should probably not err in admitting the
Syuire of Zow /)égree.
A very conspicuous feature in the present volume
is the remarkable series of Tales of Magic and
Enchantment, which, like the others, we have for

z
- - --
viii INTRODUCTION.
readier study and comparison arranged in consecu-
tive order. No one who possesses a fair amount
either of sensibility or cultivated taste can peruse
without being strongly impressed with the contents
such relics as Virgilius, A'offerſ the Devil, Friar
Bacon, Friar Aus/, /Joctor Faustus, the Friar and
the Boy; and the Child of Bristol, of which nearly
all are obviously products of a foreign soil, but
which have grown by length of use as familiar to
us as our own indigenous creations.
The endeavour to render these pages a represen-
tative selection necessitated the choice of a few of
those traditions of a domestic tenor which are plen-
tiful enough in our ballad lore, but are generally too
brief or fragmentary to yield material for a narrative
even of the most sketchy character. We hope that
we have been successful in gathering a few satisfac-
tory illustrations however of this attractive kind
of fiction, and need do little more than refer to the
portion of the book in which they are all brought
together. There is in some, beyond the mere
humour or fun, considerable power of structure and
cleverness of plot ; and the //omż of Zeicester—of
which Marlowe borrowed one of the incidents in
his ſew of Malta, -the Miller and the 7 ailor, and
the Ma/man of Colebrooſé may be recommended as
masterpieces in their way.
Our inborn proneness to a love of the marvel-
lous and unarguable, which has originated in our
imperfect acquaintance with the laws of nature and
our own being, does not appear to suffer diminution
as education and culture advance; for it is found
to co-exist with the highest intellectual development



INTRODUCTION. ix
and the most refined critical temper. To the
generality of readers and thinkers our romantic
and legendary lore is, and will probably long re-
main, a mere repertory of names and abstractions;
and we have not to go back many years to meet
with an epoch when our most learned countrymen
discerned in the popular literature of England
little beyond a source of entertainment, with the
slenderest basis or nucleus of history and truth.
The tales of silvan or domestic life, of stirring
adventure, and of mystical enchantment, of which
there are such abundant printed and manuscript
remains, were regarded by Bishop Percy and his
immediate contemporaries and followers as poetical
amplifications of the chronicles, and even as col-
lateral vouchers for the statements found in their
pages. But it is not too much to assert that, to the
world at large, a ballad or other like relic was what
a primrose was to Wordsworth's Pećer Æe// :
“A primrose on a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.”
There was no suspicion of an inner sense or an
occult moral. There was no surmise that beneath
the rugged surface of a few homely stanzas lay
(hitherto ungotten) some precious hint or germ,
illustrating the thought of the primitive era with
which they had kindred and touch.
The average Englishman or Englishwoman who
takes up a volume of popular tales, whether in
prose or verse, is still apt to lay it down again with
an ingenuous homage to the quaintness of the con-


X INTRODUCTION,
tents and a stricture on the morality or the spelling.
The presence of a hidden meaning and value does
not occur to them. If they have arrived at the
point of having heard of such things, it is to be
entered to their credit. The circulating libraries
are not often asked for books of this class, and of
our private homes how few possess them
A century since, the ballad and the nursery-rhyme
enjoyed a wider vogue and a more loyal allegiance ;
but except in the most sequestered districts the
minstrel and old-wife have become matter of the
past. On the other hand, a strong and wholesome
feeling has arisen for trying to build up out of
existing material something better than the old-
fashioned library of garlands and broad-sheets, with
their bountiful admixture of corrupt and even
spurious ingredients, and to question these records
in a different spirit and from a higher standpoint.
The admittance of Folk-lore to a place among
the sciences, and the espousal of that important
movement by students in various parts of the world,
have gradually led to a very fruitful inquiry into
the genesis of all these stories and their international
correlation. The result which has been thus far
attained, although it is unexpectedly great, is yet
very incomplete; but more than sufficient is ascer-
tained to convince reasonable persons that our ideas
and conclusions on these subjects will have to be
considerably modified. We hardly required to be
told that Æeynard the Fox was an apologue, and
that Whittington and /ºis Caſſ should not be quite
literally interpreted, But every one was not pre-
pared to learn that /Joctor Faustus, ſºočin Hood,
















INTRODUCTION. xi
yacá áže Giant-Ai//er, and many more, stood in a
~ similar predicament, and that much which we took
to be true was otherwise, while a good deal which
we passed unobserved was pregnant with religious,
Social, and political significance. Here, as almost
everywhere else, it now appears that we are inside
the threshold of a revolution in thought, which may
prove fatal, if it has not already done so, to a host
of traditional beliefs and associations.
S In works of a supernatural complexion, the whole
- region outside fact and science is at the command
of the inventor or romancist, whose resources are
barely capable of exhaustion ; but from the paucity
of fictions of a high order of excellence in this de-
partment we easily judge that its wealth of material
forms a condition of difficulty, if not of failure,
although dramatic fitness and concord are not incom-
patible with the wildest extravagance. It is in so
few cases that the unity of the story or conception
is sustained throughout ; and in Virgi/ius, Faustus,
A and other celebrated legends, there is a disappoint-
is leaven of puerile contradiction. A background
or thread of serious incident is an indispensable foil
to the miraculous, and at the same time is bound to
J. be unceasingly in conflict with it.
In the narratives which we have selected and
printed below, we have purposely refrained from
introducing criticism and argument, and have con-
tented ourselves with presenting a series of read-
able and genuine texts. To the ordinary reader
archaeological learning and detail constitute a de-
terrent feature in a book. But at the same time
it seemed desirable not to let the opportunity pass
--
*


xii INTRODUCTION.
of offering some preamble explanatory of the prin-
cipal stories, especially where it happened that there
was a hidden moral or a philosophical aspect
material to a complete appreciation of the subject.
For advanced scholars there may be nothing fresh
in all that is put forward ; but to many it will be
serviceable to find in our introductions certain sug-
gestions and statements explanatory of some of the
fictions which the volume includes.
The series has been arranged in four classified
divisions : Supernatural Relations; Feudal and
Forest Tales; Romantic Stories; Descriptive and
Humorous Stories.
We regret our inability to include in the present
collection an authentic text of the famous story of
Aſerne &/ºe //under—made so familiar to English-
folk by its occurrence in the Merry Wives of
Windsor—not so much on account of its originality
or novelty, as on that of its importance as the
English type of a world-wide legend and idea.
The Wild Hunter myth is spread over the whole
of Europe, especially in those countries which con-
tinued down to the historical era, as they do indeed
still, to be covered by immense tracts of forest-land.
The origin and texture of the Herne story may
be surmised, however, from those of the kindred
German traditions ; and we perceive in the case,
for example, of the Hunter of //acáe/möerg, in
Roscoe and Grimm, that the belief, if it did not
originate in persons of narrow culture and children,
was at least chiefly entertained by such, and con-
sequently amounted to folk-lore in its normal
acceptation.
/
* -
| -
.
INTRODUCTION. xiii
In the History of Fu/Åe Fitzwarin, an epic of
the Plantagenet times, one of the incidents is laid
in Windsor Forest, where the outlaw and his
followers are said to have been on familiar ground.
But there seems to be no further clew to any link
between the Fitzwarren cycle and Herne ; although
we may remember that the forest was at that time
of vast dimensions, and lent itself more readily than
now to weird or romantic reports of former fre-
quenters of the scene.
So far as the general reader is concerned, and
indeed such as feel an interest in Percy's Æe/igues
and other collections of the same character, the
probability is that many of the ancient tales here
found present themselves for the first time in an
intelligible form. For in their metrical dress the
uncouth orthography and the redundant doggerel
are apt at once to mystify and repel; and stories,
which might as well have been allowed to remain
in MS. or in black letter, when the spelling and
style are equally archaic, are susceptible by faithful
and judicious handling of yielding to the lovers of
the ballad and the folk-tale a store at once of
entertainment and instruction.
As regards the tone and style which have been
adopted, a considerable amount of care has been
taken to strike a middle course between modern
diction and phraseology and a vocabulary too archaic
and obscure. To observe a certain genuine quaint-
ness of language and expression, and at the same
ſ time to avoid antiquarianism, proved a task of
some difficulty, as the process necessarily narrowed
the choice of terms and figures of speech.








xiv. INTRODUCTION.
It is to be regretted indeed that for so many of
our early fictions we have to resort to poetical texts,
which are at once more diffuse and less exact than
those in prose, the requirements of rhyme or even
metre necessitating the modification of the sense,
on the one hand, and the employment of redundant
pleonasms on the other. But the reduction of
stories to this form was dictated by the feeling that
it rendered them more attractive to popular readers
and audiences. /
Correctness and grace of versification are rarely .
found in these metrical productions, even where the
writer was capable of developing and sustaining a
plot, and possessed a tolerable power of description.
The ruggedness of the lines, the infelicity of the
phrases, and the superfluous expletives contribute
to render our early poetical romances very tedious
and disagreeable to modern taste and to an ear which
has been educated and refined by a succession of
masters of style and melody from Waller to the
present day.
The practice of altering the original forms of
compositions to suit a variety or change of fashion is
very ancient. The Åoman de /a A'ose was digested
into prose. Some of the stories of the Decameron
were versified. Plays were turned into novels, and
novels into plays; and the ballad was amplified
into a prose chapbook.
In estimating the descriptions of persons, circum-
stances, and accessories in the following series, the
reader will do well to bear generally in mind the -
discrepancy between the costume of the period
concerned and our own, no less than the vein







INTRODUCTION. XV
and type is a descent to sheer nakedness.
of hyperbole which usually pervades romantic nar-
ratives, and the tendency to exaggerate in dealing
with heroic topics. This warning is all the more
requisite, inasmuch as even the Zittle Gest repre-
sents in language and feeling a fifteenth-century
modernization and conception of a fourteenth-
century epos. The distance between passed ages
and Our Own, and the development of science and
art in the interval, have contributed to qualify the
accounts which we get, not only in these fictions,
but in the ancient chronicles, of architecture, furni-
ture, dress, ceremonial, pomp, martial or knightly
prowess, and the poetry of the early English life.
It is as with the relative valuation of the currency
—we have to allow for the difference of standard.
Again, in such stories as have been taken from
ballads, we ought to see that we invariably get in
this form of composition selected scenes only, as in
an ordinary play. A ballad or a romance is not an
exhaustive biography, or even a biographical outline ;
it merely seizes salient points and characteristics,
and presents them in a more or less consecutive
order, and with more or less fidelity to life.
The treatment to which we have had recourse
is recommendable by its preservation of the temper
and mind of the old texts ; but it is feasible only
where, as, it is to be hoped, in the specimens selected,
there is a fairly pronounced vein of intrinsic interest
| and permanent worth. The divestment of inferior
º of their antique cerements in spelling



THE KNIGHT AND HIS WIFE.
(Fifteenth Century.)
[7%is is a short ſable of engaging beauty and in-
£erest, and 2//us/rates the old and steadfast belief in
the ascendency of Christianity over the principle of
eviſ ày virtue of /ai/ and Žrayer, Öztá, a/#/bough
Že ſee/ing and spirit are congenia/, /*ere we have
a specia/ examp/e of mario/affrºy, wit/, //e miracu-
Zolts transfiguration of Our Lady for a beneficent
Żużose.]
THERE was in a certain country a knight, who was
at one time very rich, and every year he held a
great feast in honour of Our Blessed Lady. But he
spent so largely, that he by degrees became poor.
A good woman he had to his wife, who held the
Virgin as dear as he did ; and sorely the fiend
rudged therefore.
º The season came round for the yearly jubilee to
(Our Lady, and the poor knight had not wherewithal
to discharge the cost of the same ; and he was
abashed, that he betook himself to the forest, to
unto her.
lwell there in solitude till the feast-day was passed
and gone. -
The Devil saw the poor knight's case, and of his
f . -
wife was he secretly enamoured; but nought might
his unholy passion prevail through that lady's
virtuous living and the love which Our Lady bare
3


4. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
One day, while the knight her lord was still in
the green forest, came the fiend to his side in
human guise, and asked him why he walked there,
and why he wore so dejected a mien.
Then the poor knight related to the stranger his
story. “I was once,” quoth he, “a rich man ; but
now all is lost. I was wont to celebrate every year
the feast of Our Blessed Lady, and at present I
lack money—yea, for my very livelihood.”
The stranger answering him said: “If thou wilt
grant me my will, I will give thee greater riches
than ever thou haddest before. Go to the place
that I shall bid thee, and thou wilt find gold in
store. Then come back hither, and speak with me
again, and bring thy wife with thee along.”
The poor knight wist not that he was a fiend
that spake thus unto him, and he promised to do as
he bad him. So home he went, and found there
forthwith money enough, as the stranger had fore-
told. Right fain was he hereof, and Our Lady's
feast was held with greater spending of gold and
silver than had ever been remembered.
The time passed away, and the day arrived when
he was to meet the stranger once more, and to
bring his wife with him. That gentle lady durst
not do other than his bidding, and she made herself
ready accordingly, and they mounted their palfreys
and rode forth toward the forest. On the way, §
the roadside, stood a chapel of Our Blessed Lady,
and the knight's wife said unto her lord, “Let *
enter this chapel, and pray to God to keep us in
His fear.” But the knight was full of glee º
jollity, and recked nought of prayer, and to his


THE KNIGHT AND HIS WIFE. 5
lady quoth he “Thou mayest get down, if thou
listest, and pray ; but for me I will proceed on my
journey. Do not tarry long, however, or I shall
wax wrath.”
The lady promised not to overstay, and into the
chapel she hied, and placed herself nigh an image
of Our Blessed Lady, where she reclined, and a
drowsiness overtook her, so that she fell asleep.
Now Our Blessed Lady, to requite that good
wife of the poor knight for all her love to her, trans-
formed herself into her likeness, and riding on the
palfrey rejoined the knight, who wist not that it
was Our Lady that rode beside him. But when
they came where it had been appointed that they
should meet the stranger, he stood there ; but be-
cause he was in truth a fiend, he knew her to be, not
the knight's wife, but the Holy Virgin; and he cried
to the knight : “Traitor, I bad thee bring thy wife
with thee, and in her room thou hast brought
Christ's Mother Hanged shouldest thou be by
the neck for thy falsehood l’
These words made the knight wax fearful ; and
he descended from his horse, and sank on his knees
before Our Lady, shedding tears and imploring
forgiveness.
| Our Lady said unto him : “ Knight, thou hast
erred. Thou hast delivered thyself to the fiend.
Return him his gift. Bestir thyself henceforth in
the service of God, and He will reinstate thee in thy
goods.” She uttered these words and vanished.
| The knight leapt on his palfrey, and rode to the
| chapel, where his wife yet slept by the altar.






THE CHILD OF BRISTOL.
(Fourteenth Century.)
[7%ere are perhaps few more favourable and
more striking specimens of early popular mythology
than the little production which we now introduce.
It is the story of a rich and covetous father who is
redeemed from eternal punishment by the fractica/
piety and charity, as distinguished from the mere
ad/uration or prayers, of an affectionate son, and
the writer of the narrative has brought to his task
no mean /iterary Sáil/ and no ordinary insight into
Żuman nature. 7%e father who is thus emanci-
fated from he// by his offspring was a ricſ, framA/in
or yeoman, who by his avarice had unconsciously
brought about a catastrophe which put to the fest the
Zoyalty and love of his young heir 7%e good deed's
of the C/.../d gradually release his parent from
ôondage and pain, and he reduces Aimself to Žoverſy
in order to restore to its owners froßerty which the
dead man had misappropriated. The father ulti.
mately presents himself in the Aikeness of a maſſed
child; or, in other words, is brought back by prayer
and almsdeeds to his original beauty and immocence.
The term attorney, which more than once occurs
here, must Če understood in the sense of an attorney,
“ in fact,” or agent, exercising what is commonly
Amozºm as a power of attorney; and the emp/oyment
of the word is probably a very early one.
6 -


















THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. 7
7%e tale àreathes an air of unyitestioning and
zenshaken faith germane to the priest-ridden and
ðemighted century which produced it. Zm the intro-
duction to the two existing versions of it in Hazlitt's
“A”opular Poetry,” 1864–66, the editor has adduced
the principal analogues and imitations of it in various
co//ections and poems.] -
HE who made both heaven and hell in seven days
bless us all that are here assembled together, old
and young, great and small, if so they lend good ear
to my tale | The best tale that ever was told is
worth little enough, unless some listen thereto. So,
I pray you, as many as are now present, to desist
from your talking, and to hear what I am about
to Say.
There dwelled in England in old days, in the fair
city of Bristol, a very rich lawyer, who had gotten
into his hands great possessions, and was a lord of
many townships, castles, and forests, and of much
cattle; and he used his craft in law to beguile the
poor man, for he had not the fear of God before
his eyes.
This rich man, who was both a merchant and an
usurer, had one only son, a comely child, of rare
promise, and by him he set all his store. For his
sake he heaped up riches, and oppressed his neigh-
bours far and wide ; for he looked to make him,
º whenso he himself should die, even richer than he
was, and more powerful and great than any in all
that country. -
It happened, when this youth was twelve years
old, that his father sent him to school to learn

8 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
clergy; and the Child grew wise and witty and in
mislike of all ungodliness. Then his father devised
in his thought how it would bestead his heir, so that
he might not be deceived by men when he came to
full estate, and stood in his father's place, to have
Some learning in law; and accordingly he called the
child to him, and said to him thus: “Son, I have it
in my mind to cause thee for a twelvemonth's space
to learn so much of the law of this land as will
hinder thy neighbours and all others, when thou
comest to manhood, from doing thee wrong.”
But the Child answered softly: “Father, many
prosper well in this world that are no lawyers, and
so I trust that I may do. That craft will I never
study which may put my soul in jeopardy, and be
to God's displeasure. I am loth to follow any
calling which is contrary to my spiritual well-being.
Ever hath it been my wish to live by merchandise,
in which a man may advance himself by honest
means in the sight of heaven. Here at Bristol
liveth one who is a good and true man, as I hear
tell: let me be his bound prentice seven year, and
learn his business, and dwell under his roof.”
So his father, seeing his bent, rode to Bristol,
and made covenant with the said merchant to take
his son for seven years; and the boy went unto that
merchant, and by his courtesy and honesty won his
love, and the love of all those that came into those
parts to buy and to sell their goods.
Now, meanwhile, the Child's father pursued his
godless ways, lending out moneys to use, robbing
the parson and the vicar of their tenths, and wring-
ing from the poor man all he might, with intent to


THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. 9
leave his estate so that his heir would be lifted by
his riches above all others without a peer.
But, as all things will have an end, this usurer,
who was waxing in years, fell sick and lay on his
bed, and doubting that his life might draw to a close
suddenly, he summoned to his side some of the
chief men of the country, that were his neighbours
and acquaintance, and besought them out of charity
to be his executors. Then, because his goods had
been so ill-gotten, and the fear of the Lord was not
in him, no one among them all assented to be made
his executor, saying that they would not have to
do with his affairs from dread of the wrath of God
upon them. -
This sick usurer lamented sorely his case, that
none would for conscience' sake be executor to him ;
and seeing that he drew nigher and nigher to his
end, he sent for his son, where he lay at the good
merchant's house, seven mile thence, and when he
had come to him, he shewed him how it was, and
begged him, as he was heir to all his fair lands and
goods whatsoever, to take that office upon him.
Quoth he “Son, I have gathered all this to-
gether for thee, than whom I have no other heir,
and I see well that in friendship there is no trust.
Do thou therefore this thing for me.” -
His son turned away from him, uttering not a
word ; and then the dying man, when he perceived
his unwillingness, further said : “I charge thee, as
thou wilt have my blessing ere I go, obey my
behest.”
“Ah! father,” cried the boy, “thou layest on me
a heavy charge, and thy command I cannot gainsay.

IO SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
But on my part, lo! I enjoin thee, on the fourteenth
day after thy passage, to appear before me, and let
me behold thy spirit, and see whether it be saved or
damned ; and further I pray and require thee, both
thou and any that shall bear thee company at that
time, to do me no trespass.”
“Son,” answered the father, “I agree."
“Alas,” thought the boy, “that for any gold or
land of mine a man's soul should stand in peril to
be lost l'' -
The priest came, and gave that rich usurer, as he
lay on his death-bed, the glorious sacrament, and
shrove him, and prayed to God to be merciful
unto him ; and when God was so pleased, the sick
man passed away.
Then his good son brought his father to burial,
and spread largesse among young and old, and gave
much store of gold to holy priests, so that there
was great mourning and many a dirge for the rich
usurer; and the boy, who began to draw toward
man's estate, sold his father's cattle and houses and
lands, and with the money he kept in his service a
hundred priests, causing them to say for his father's
soul thirty trentals of masses. So this pious youth
dispossessed himself of almost all that rich usurer's
goods, till gold he had none, and where he was heir
to so much riches there was, as the fortnight drew
near to completion, no poorer man than him in the
whole land.
Now, when the day arrived wherein he had
appointed to meet his father, he repaired to the
chamber in which his father had died, and remained
there in prayer nearly to noon ; and toward midday,

THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. II
as he knelt praying, there came a flash of lightning
and a peal of thunder, and he muttered Bene-
dicite / and called upon God for succour.
And as he thus knelt and prayed, his father's
spirit appeared to him, as he had enjoined, flaming
like a glowing coal, and the devil led it by the neck
in a gleaming chain.
The boy said : “I conjure thee, whatever thou
art, speak to me.”
The spirit answered : “I am thy father that begat
thee. Now thou mayest perceive my sad estate.”
“It pierceth my heart, father,” answered the boy
again, “to behold thee in such sorrowful plight.”
The spirit replied : “Son, I fare thus, as thou
Seest me to-day, because I got my estate by deceit
and extortion ; unless it be restored, I shall go in
this guise a hundred year henceforward. Ease me
therefore of my bond, for till then my soul is in
durance.”
“ Nay, father, not so, if God will give me grace.
Pledge me that this same day fortnight ye will
return to me in this place, and I shall labour all I
can meanwhile to bring thy soul into a better state.”
The spirit gave its assent, and in a clap of
thunder vanished ; and on the next day following
the boy went to Bristol to seek his former master,
the good merchant. To whom : “I have served
you, sir,” quoth he, “many a day ; for the love of
God, be my friend. My father has passed ; and I
need a little sum of gold, until I have found a chap-
man for the residue of my heritage.”
But the good merchant blamed him for parting
with his patrimony, and said to him thus: “If so it
I 2 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
is that need presseth, I will lend thee a hundred
marks, and I will not ask for the same again this
seven year.”
The youth avowed that he must find some one to
buy his lands that still remained to him ; and when
he told the good merchant that his steward held
them to be worth a hundred pounds, the other said
unto him, “I will give thee three hundred all truly
told”; and when the youth consented, he fetched the
gold, and counted it out to him, and the son of the
rich usurer was right glad in his heart, and thanked
his master, and went his way.
So now he caused it to be proclaimed and pub-
blished in all churches and all markets, that whoso,
man or woman, had suffered loss by his father,
should come to him, and he would satisfy them to
the full. And he did as he made promise till the
money was all spent, and the second fortnight
passed away.
Then he prepared to meet the spirit, as he had
done before, and knelt down and prayed against the
hour when it behoved it to appear; and when the
youth beheld him, the burning chain was no longer
on his neck, and the red flame in which he had
been wrapped was turned to blackness.
“Now, father,” said the youth, “tell me how it
goeth with thee.” -
“All the better for thee, son,” quoth the spirit;
“blessed be the day that I begat thee! Yet I live
still in much pain and woe, and so must continue
till my term is fulfilled.”
“Father,” answered the youth then, “say to me
now what goeth most grievously against thee P”


THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. I 3
“Tenths and offerings, that I refused, son, and
never would pay,” returned the spirit, “are the
cause why I remain, all thy good almsdeeds not-
withstanding, thus wretched and forlorn. Give me
back my pledge, for there is no remedy, and I
must be gone.”
The youth replied thus: “I shall still once more
essay what I may do, father. Promise me again
that thou wilt be visible to me a fortnight from this
day in the same place, and I will against then try
what to amend thy cheer I can do.”
To his old master, the kind merchant at Bristol,
he betook himself, and said to him : “Sir, it is so,
that I lack yet a little sum of money, to make
another bargain.” And as he spake he wept.
The merchant replied: “Thou art a fool; thou
hast been among bad company, and hast lost money
at cards or dice. Thou hast nought left that thou
canst sell. Thou art, I doubt, an unthrift.”
But the youth offered to become a bondservant
to the merchant, himself and all his heirs for ever,
if he might have for which he prayed ; and the good
merchant softened toward him once more, saying,
“How much wouldest thou ?”
He said: “Forty marks will supply me.”
That burgher loved the youth so well in his heart,
that into his inner chamber he went and fetched
the money, and he gave it to him, saying: “Thou
didst ask me for forty marks, and, lo! forty pounds
herewith I give thee; and God bless thee to
boot | * -
The youth departed, light of heart, and to all the
churches far and near where his father owed tenths

I4. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
and offerings he went on pilgrimage, and paid them
one and all whatso they demanded, till his money
was utterly spent ; and as he returned home hungry
and penniless, he met an old man by the way, who
said to him : “Sir, it is so that your father owed
me for a measure of corn. I beg thee pay me
therefore.”
The youth humbled himself before the man, and
said to him, kneeling on one knee, that gold he had
none ; but he stripped off his own doublet, and laid
it on the shoulders of the other, saying, “It is all,
father, that I have"; and he went on his journey
in his shirt and breeches, till he came to his own
house, where his father's spirit was to visit him.
He knelt and prayed long, and presently he
became aware of the gladdest song that ever was
heard, and when it was ended, by a light which
burned more brightly than a thousand torches, a
naked child, led by an angel of God, stood before
him.
“Son,” said the vision, “blessed be thou, and all
that shall be born of thee!”
“Father,” he answered, “I rejoice to behold thee
in that state in which thou now art, and I trust that
thou art saved.” -
“Son,” the vision answered, “I go to heaven.
God Almighty reward thee, and make thee prosper
Now yield me up my pledge that I gave to thee,
and I go.”
And the youth discharged his father from that
hour, and to heaven he went.
Then the Child, thanking God and Our Blessed
Lady, went anon to Bristol; and he was in his

THE CHILD OF BRISTOL. I 5
poor array, for his gay clothes had he given for the
measure of corn. And when the burgher, his old
master, espied him, he asked him what he had done
to bring himself to such a pass.
He said: “I have come to yield myself to thy
service to my life's end.”
But the merchant would not take that answer,
and said to him : “Now, tell me, son, by the love
which is between us, why thou goest thus, and how
thou makest thy thrift so thin.”
“Sir,” answered the young man, then, “all my
goods have I sold to get my father into heaven;
for through his covetous and unholy life so many
had he set against him that no man would be
his executor or attorney.” And he set before
him the whole story of his father's appearances,
and how at length he was admitted to bliss. “And
so,” he said, “now all my sorrow, sir, is healed and
assuaged.” -
“Son,” quoth the kind merchant, “blessings on
thy name, that thou couldest so impoverish thyself
to save thy own father's soul | All the world shall
do thee honour. Thou art a steadfast and true
friend, the like whereof I have seldom seen. Few
sons would thus save their fathers after they were
gone. Executors know I many an one, but none
such as thou art. Now I say unto thee, I make
thee partner with me in Bristol to buy and to sell
for me as I should myself do; and seeing that I
have no child to come after me, thou shalt be to
me a son, and shalt inherit all my goods when I
am dead.”
And the merchant wedded him to a rich man's


I 6 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
daughter of that country, and in the process of time
dying left to him, as he had said, all his lands, cattle,
and goods; so that he became greater in wealth
than before, and through the blessing of God the
treasure which he had restored to holy Church and
the poor was given back to him twofold.

THE FRIAR AND THE BOY.
(15th–16th Century.)
[7%is story is probably of German origin, and in
its present s/affe àe/ongs to the first quarter of the
sixteenth century. Suðsequent/y the references to
//e idea in our /iterature are a/most immumerað/e,
and the narrative in a curtailed form, under the
title of Tom Piper, gained a permanent place in the
nursery /i/rary. A/#/ough, no doubt, the legend is
derived from a Teutonic source, f/iere is an indication
that the Æmg/ish writer in this case was immediately
indebted to a French text which ſays the scene in
Orleans. Zm Hazlitt's “Popular Poetry," iii. 54–59,
(1849) will be ſound a detailed account of the various
Ž/ases through which the belief in the enchanted
properties of a horn, faāor, or other offſecá passed in
the course of time in different countries ; and perhaps
the myth of the “A’at-catcher of Hamelen " comes
nearest to the present composition, which is one of the
/arge series reflecting on the lar morality of the
Aopish clergy just prior to the A’eformation. 7%e
friar, it may be noted, is not clothed with any power
of invocation or exorcism to eatricate himself from
the dilemma in which he is //aced by the boy.]
GoD that died for all give them a good life and
long that listen to my tale !
A. L. I7 C
I 8 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
There was a man in a certain country who in
process of time had three wives. By the first he
had a son, who was a light-hearted lad; but by the
other twain issue had he none.
His father loved this boy well; but his stepdame
looked upon him with an evil eye, and stinted him
in his victual, and did him many a shrewd turn.
At length she said unto the goodman : “I heartily
pray you, sir, that you would put away this boy,
who is a cursed plague to me, and let him serve
some one else who will give him his desert.”
Her husband answered her, saying: “Woman,
he is but a child. Let him abide with us another
year, till he is better able to shift. We have a
man, a stout carl, who keeps our beasts afield ;
look, the boy shall take his place, and we will have
the fellow in the stead of him at home.”
To which the goodwife agreed.
So on the morrow the little lad was sent to tend
the sheep, and all the way he sang out of the gaiety
of his heart; and his dinner he carried with him in
a clout. But when he came to see what his step-
dame had given him to eat, he had small lust thereto,
and he took but little, thinking that he would get
more when he returned homeward at sundown.
The boy sat on a hill-side, watching his sheep
and singing, when there came along an aged man,
and stood still, when he espied the child, saying unto
him, “Son, God bless thee!”
“Welcome, father,” the boy replied.
The old man said : “I hunger sore; hast thou
any food of which thou mightest give me even
some P’’
-
-

THE FRIAR AND THE BOY. I9
The child returned : “To such victual as I have
thou art welcome, father.”
So he gave the old man the rest of his dinner,
and thereof he was full fain. He ate, and grudged
not. To please him was not hard.
Then, when he had finished, he said: “Gramercy,
child ; and for the meat which thou hast spared me
I will give thee three things. Tell me now what
they shall be.”
The boy thought in his mind, and anon : “I
would,” quoth he, “ have a bow, wherewith I could
shoot birds.”
“I will find thee incontinently,” said the stranger,
“one that shall last thee through thy whole life,
and shall never need renewing. Thou hast but to
draw it, and it will hit the mark.”
Then he handed him the bow and the arrows;
and when the child saw them, aloud he laughed, and
was mightily content. -
“Now,” said he, “if I had a pipe, if it were ever
so small, then I should be glad.”
“A pipe I here give thee,” the old man said,
“which hath in it strange properties; for all who-
soever, save thyself, shall hear it, when thou
playest, must dance to the music perforce. I
promised thee three things. Say, what is to be
the last P”
“I seek nothing more,” replied the boy.
“Nothing P’ quoth the stranger. “Speak, and
thou hast thy will.”
“Well,” said he, musing, “I have at home a
stepdame—a shrewd wife she-and she oftentimes
looks ill-favouredly at me, as though she meant me


2O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
no love. Now, prythee, when so she looketh in
that wise, let her laugh till she fall to the earth,
and laugh still, unless I bid her to desist.”
“It is granted,” said the stranger. “Farewell!"
“God keep thee, sir,” said the boy.
The evening drew on, and Jack wended home-
ward in great glee. He took his pipe and played it,
and all his beasts and his dog danced to it in a row.
He played as he went along, and the sheep and
kine followed at his heels and the dog, dancing all
the way, till they came to his father's abode ; and he
put by the pipe, and saw that all was fast, and then
walked he into the house.
His father sat at his supper, and Jack said unto
him, “I am a-hungered, sir; my dinner I might not
eat, and I have had charge of the beasts the whole
day.”
The husbandman threw a capon's wing toward
him and told him to eat it. The goodwife sorely
grudged that he should have so fair a morsel, and
eyed him sourly. But she straightway fell to
laughing, and she laughed, and she laughed, till
she could no longer stand or sit, and fell on the
floor, laughing still, and she ceased not till she was
half-dead ; and then the boy said, “Dame, enough l’”
and she laughed not a whit more, which made them
both amazed.
Now this goodwife loved a friar, who oftentimes
came to the house; and when he next shewed him-
self she made complaint to him of the boy, and told
him how Jack had caused her to laugh, and had
mocked her, and she prayed this friar to meet him
on the morrow and beat him for his pains.

THE FRIAR AND THE BOY. 2 I
“I will do thy pleasure as thou desirest," quoth
the friar.
“Do not forget," quoth the goodwife. “I trow
he is some witch.”
So the morning following the boy went forth
to drive his father's beasts to the field, and he took
with him his bow and his pipe. And the friar rose
betimes likewise, lest he might be too late, and he
approached the boy, and thus he accosted him :
“What, forsooth, hast thou done by thy step-
mother, Jack, that she is angered at thee P Tell me
what it is ; and if thou canst not satisfy me, surely I
will beat thee.”
“What aileth thee P” asked Jack. “My dame
fares as well as thou. Have done with thy chiding.
Come, wilt thou see how I can bring down a bird
with my bow, and what other things I can do 2
Though I be a little fellow, I will shoot yonder bird,
and yours it shall be.”
“Shoot on,” said the friar.
The bird was hit surely enough, and dropped into
a thorn-bush. - -
“Go and fetch it,” said Jack.
The friar stepped into the middle of the brambles
and picked up the bird. Jack put the pipe to his lips
and began to play. The friar let the bird fall and
set to dancing, and the louder the pipe sounded the
higher he leapt, and the more the briars tore his
clothes and pierced his flesh. His dress was now
in shreds, and the blood streamed from his legs
and arms. Jack played all the faster, and laughed
withal.
“Gentle Jack,” gasped out the friar, “hold thy

22 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
hand. I have danced so long that I am like to die.
Let me go, and I promise thee I will never again
offer thee harm.” -
“Jump out on the other side," quoth the boy,
pausing, “and get thee gone.”
And the holy man made all the haste he could
for shame's sake; for the thorns had almost stripped
him to the skin, and covered him with blood.
When he reached the house they wondered where
he had been, and how he had fallen into such a
sorry plight. The goodwife said : “I see well,
father, by thine array that thou hast come to some
mischief. What has befallen thee P”
“I have been with thy son,” he replied. “The
devil overcome him, for no one else may !”
Then entered the goodman, and his wife said
unto him : “Here is a pretty matter | Thy dear
son hath well-nigh slain this holy friar. Alack
alack l’”
The goodman said: “Aenedicite / what hath the
boy been doing to thee, friar P”
“ He made me dance willy-willy among the
briars, and, by Our Lady, the pipe went so merrily
that I might have danced till I burst myself.”
“Hadst thou met with thy death so, father,”
said the goodman, “it had been a great sin.”
At night, at the usual hour, the boy came back,
and his father called him unto him, and questioned
him about the friar.
“Father,” said Jack, “I did nought, I tell thee,
but play him a tune.” -
“Well,” answered the goodman, “let me hear
this pipe myself.”
THE FRIAR AND THE BOY. 23
“Heaven forbid!” cried the friar, wringing his
hands.
“Yea," quoth the goodman, “give us some
music, Jack.”
“If,” entreated the friar piteously, “thou wilt
indeed have him play, first bind me to some
post. If I hear that pipe I must fain dance, and
then my life is nought worth. I am a dead man.”
They fastened him to a post in the centre of the
hall, and they all laughed at his distress, and one
said, “The friar is out of danger of falling now.”
“Now, boy,” said the goodman, “play on.”
“That will I do, father,” he replied, “till you
bid me hold, and I warrant ye shall have music
enough.” -
As soon as the boy took up the pipe and laid his
mouth to it, all began to dance and jump, faster and
faster, and higher and higher, as though they were
out of their wits. Even the friar struck his head
against the post and screamed with pain. Some
leapt over the table ; some tumbled against the
chairs; some fell in the fire. Jack passed out into
the street, and they all followed him, capering wildly
as they went. The neighbours started at the sound,
and came out of their houses, springing over the
fences; and many that had gone to rest jumped out
of bed and hurried into the village, naked as they
were, and joined the throng at Jack's heels. A
phrenzy was upon them all, and they bounded into
the air, and looked not whither they plunged; and
some that could no longer keep their feet for lame-
ness danced on all fours.















24. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
The goodman said to his son, “Jack, I trow it is
best to give over.”
“Let it be so,” said the boy, and he desisted from
his playing accordingly.
“This is the merriest sport,” said the goodman,
“that I have known this seven year.”
“Thou cursed boy!” exclaimed the friar, when
they returned to the house, “I summon thee before
the judge. Look thou be there on Friday.”
“Good,” answered the boy; “I will. I would
with all my heart it were already come.”
Friday arrived, and friar Topas and the step-
dame, and the whole party, appeared, and the judge
was in his place, and there was a goodly gathering
of people, for there were many other cases to be
heard. The friar was fain to wait till his turn came,
and then he addressed the judge, saying to him :
“See, my lord, I have brought a boy to thee
who hath wrought me and others many grievous
trouble and sorrow. He is a necromancer such as
in all this country hath not his like.”
“I hold him for a witch,” put in the goodwife,
and Scowled at Jack ; and forthwith she set to laugh-
ing till she fell down, and none could tell what she
ailed, or whence her great mirth arose.
“Woman,” said the judge, “tell thy tale.” But
she could not utter another word, though Jack
stayed her laughter as he had power given to him
to do so by the stranger on the hillside.
Then spake Friar Topas, and said: “My lord, this
boy will worst us all unless you soundly chastise
him. He hath, sir, a pipe that will make you dance
and hop till you are well-nigh spent.”
THE FRIAR AND THE BOY. 25
The judge said, “This pipe I fain would see, and
. know what sort of mirth it maketh.”
“Marry ! God forbid!” quoth the friar, “till I
am out of the hearing of it.”
, “Play on, Jack,” said the judge, “and let me see
what thou canst do.”
Jack set the pipe to his lips and blew, and the
whole room was quickly in motion. The judge
sprang over the desk and bruised both his shins;
and he shouted out to the boy to cease for God's
sake and the love of the Virgin.
“Well,” said Jack, “I will if they will promise
me that they will never again do me trespass so
long as I live.”
Then as many as were there, the friar, the step-
dame, and the rest, sware before the judge that they
would keep the peace toward the boy, and help him
to their power at all seasons against his enemies;
and when they had done so Jack bad the judge
farewell, and all proceeded merrily home.
And thus it may be seen how the boy, because
he was courteous and kind to the old man whom
he met on the hillside while he tended his father's
beasts, prospered, and kept every one in his country
in his fear for evermore. For the old man was in
truth a magician.





THE SMITH AND HIS DAME.
(Sixteenth Century.)
[7%is is one of those strange inventions which
belong to the period of transition from Æastern ſa&ſe
and mediava/ demonology to a revival of the mira-
culous inſervention of Christ in response to prayer.
7%e prevalent sufferstition was and is, that in-
vocations to the Deity are efficacious in Żroducing
desired resu//s 60% interna//y and externa//y, and
#is Óe/ief is an exact inversion of the rea/ mature
aud waſue of frayer, the operation and virtue of
which are /imited to its inſ'uence on our ſee/ºngs and
cozza'atc/. -
A 6/acksmith, who is ſiſ/ed wiłż żmpious pride
on account of Žis masterſu/ Anow/edge of his craft,
incurs the disſº/easure of Our Zord, who visits ſºme
for £/ºe puzºose of humiliating his presumption. /*
eventuates in Christ undertaking to do what Zhe
man wiłż aſ! Aſs eafterience considers to Öe impos-
sió/e. 7%e Smith has a mother-in-law, who has
Öeen Öed-ridden upward of forty years, and Christ
engages to Öring Aer &acé to youth by ſaying her
on the ſo?ge, and Žammering her out. The miracle
is peºformed, and the old woman is restored to vigour
and beauty.
Aut the smith unluckily essays without Divine

26

THE SMITH AND HIS DAME. 27
Žntervention to achieve a similar triumph in the case
of his wife, and Öurns her to death. Æut prayers
are addressed to /esus ; and He reappears, resus-
citates the woman, and from Zhe ſames is seem to
emerge //e subject of Že second experiment, “ &right
as a 6/ossome,” and a thousandºſo/a younger than She
was Óefore. Of course, one can on/y Zook on such a
narrative as a piece of whimsica/iſſy, since the centra/
incident at once removes it out of the category of
prodigies accom//ished by ſeechdom or /egerdemain.
Zºo &/ºe AE/izabethan reader, for whom the /ī///e £aſe
was written, Že particulars may have presented
moč/ºng &eyond a humorous exercise of fancy. 7%e
serious side was not considered.
7%e proposa/ made by /esus to the Smith to
enable a b/ind man to guide himself Öy means of
a rod of steel has probaſſy some reference to the
ancient theory of magnetism.
7%e description of the 6/acksmith himself imports
a Żerson of much /*g/ier socia/ and financia/ con-
sideration than an operative of that class at the
Żresent day; and the Aero of the story, in fact,
ðelonged to a period when the ca//ing was far more
Zucrative and prominent, owing to more primitive
trave/ſing conditions and the universal use of horses
for nearly al/ purposes. In AEmg/and it was the
same as elsewhere : the forge and the smithy were an
essential feature in every ſoca/ity, great and sma//;
and the leading members of the trade formed from
the seventeenth century a Guild, which súſ/ exists,
though shorn of its original significance and practica/
wa/ue. -

28 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
GOD that died on a tree yield His grace unto
them that will hearken unto me, and I shall tell of
a marvel. -
In Egypt there dwelt a smith, who prospered long
and well, and had land and fee, and husbandmen at
his bidding. This smith was a cunning artificer,
and could, by my troth, work in any metal ; and he
was wont to boast that, save himself, there was none
that followed that same craft worth a straw.
Now Our Blessed Lord was wrath with this
Smith by reason of his pride and vain-glory, and
thought how He might compass his chastisement.
And so it happened on a day, that, as he stood at his
forge working, Our Lord came unto him secretly,
and said unto him : “Lo, I have a thing for thee
to do; and if thou canst do it, thou shalt be well
paid, i' faith.”
“Say on,” replied the Smith, as one that wist not
who spake thus unto him, “for I am a master of all
this cunning ; and whatever thou shalt be pleased
to command, it shall be done to point.”
Then said Our Blessed Lord unto him : “Canst
thou make a yard of steel to lead a blind man, so
that he may never fall 2 If so thou canst this
accomplish, then I will salute thee a master of thy
calling.”
Then the Smith fell into a study, and presently
answered the stranger thus : “Sir, I trow thou art
mad or something worse to talk of such things. If
a man be blind, he must have a fellow who can
see to lead him in the way. For if two blind men
walk together, they commonly both fall into the
ditch; and how should a blind man with a blind rod,
THE SMITH AND HIS DAME. 29
º
be the steel never so hard, find his way P Nay; it
is false.” -
“Well,” said Our Blessed Lord unto the Smith,
‘I can make such a rod, or I can restore an old
man to his youth, as he was before.”
“I have an old quean here with me,” the smith
said ; “she is my wife's mother, and it is forty years
or more since she set foot to ground. By my faith,
if thou couldst make her young again, then right
glad were I.”
Our Lord said: “Where is she Let me see her,
and I shall shew thee a feat beyond thy reach.”
The Smith hastened to fetch his dame, where she
lay a-bed. -
“Mother,” quoth he, “art thou asleep 2 I have
come for thee, that thou mayest be made young
again.” And he pulled her out of the place where
she lay, and carried her on his shoulders back to
the stranger, and her cries and struggles heeded not.
Our Lord said unto him : “Verily, Smith, it shall
be done unto her as I say. Take her now, and
put her on thy forge, and make her fast, that she fall
not therefrom, and with thy bellows blow thy best.”
He blew as he was commanded by the stranger,
till the fire roared, and the old wife was as red as a
hot coal; yet pain suffered she none.
The Smith said : “Now is it all over. She will
never eat meat more. I have blown till I sweat.”
“Let me alone,” quoth the stranger. “Thou shalt
behold anon a full fair woman in place of thy old
beldame.”
He blessed her, and said unto her, “ Dame,
awake.” And he bad the smith to strike her with


3O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
his hammer, and straightway she arose, and was
comely and young to the sight.
Our Lord said to the Smith : “She is whole once
more. We have made her young again with hammer
and bellows. There is none in Egypt that may
surpass her. Behold, one that was an old crone is
now as though she were but thirty years of her age.
Now acknowledge me for thy master.”
“Sir,” then quoth the smith, “I dare well say
that, an' a man were dead, thou mightest make him
live again by thy excellent craft and mastership.
Now what shall I pay thee, ere thou goest, to teach
me this art P.”
Our Lord rejoined : “What thou seekest is in
vain ; thou canst never compass these things. And
I prythee do not essay them, lest thou shouldest be
deceived. But leave thy boasting ; for whatsoever
thou knowest, there is ever much to learn. My
name is Jesus, and I now depart from thee to go
into another country.” -
And Our Lord was lost to view.
When Our Lord was no longer manifest to the
Smith, the Smith went and called his wife Joan, de-
siring her to come to him ; who cried out, and asked
him if he wist not well that she was in no case to
come, as he bad her, for she was lame and might
not walk, and she was waxing in years, so that her
sight failed her and her bones ached. She feared
to fall at every step she took.
The Smith was forgetful of the admonition which
Our Lord had given to him, and thought that he
might do with her even as Christ Jesus had done
with the old wife his mother; and so he sent unto



THE SMITH AND HIS DAME. 3 I
her : “Come forth, and at a stroke I will make thee
young as thou wast before. Look! thy own mother,
that could neither walk nor see, is as merry as a
bird, and her complexion is like a rose.”
Then when the woman came, and saw her mother,
how she was young and lusty, she said unto her,
“Art thou my mother indeed P”
“Yea,” quoth she, “Öemedicite / " -
“Who made thee whole, then, mother?” she asked.
“Even one,” she answered, “that came this way.
Men call his name Jesus.”
“Verily he has worked a wonder by thee; for
even yesterday thou wast but a feeble trot.”
“Wife,” said the Smith, “ had I a right hot fire,
I could make thee as thy mother is.” And he
fetched a quarter of coals, and took his bellows, and
blew till there was a white heat.
“Lo,” cried the Smith, “there is none in all this
country can do this save I.” And he laid hold of
his wife to place her on the forge. -
“What art thou doing, thief, with me?” she cried.
“Knowest thou not that I am thy own wife P” -
“I go to burn thee, as I did thy sweet mother,”
quoth the Smith.
“Traitor, if thou burnest me, thou shalt hang on
a tree,” she shouted. “Curses upon thee I Did we
not keep thee, when thou hadst nought 2 and goest
thou about to burn me P” -
“Fear not,” said the Smith ; “ thou shalt with the
fire and the hammer be made as when I saw thee
first. Come.” And he took her by the middle, to
fasten her on the forge. But she struggled and
kicked and sware, and when he had her at last well



32 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
on the furnace, she caught him by the hair, and
smote him in the eye, and called loudly for help.
He waxed wrath hereat, and cast her clean into
the flames, and once she rose, and twice, essaying
to rend him with her nails. But he heaped on
the coals, and then the water, and set to work with
his bellows, and blew as hard as he could. “Ha!
haſ " he cried ; “I shall make thee young again
yet, I see well.”
Then, when she lay still, he raised her up, and
hammered at her with all his might, till both her
legs dropped from her.
“What is this 2" he said, aghast; “wilt thou not
be young, wife 2 What thou art not dead 2 Come,
speak a word. Say AEo.”
But she uttered no word, and anon an arm fell
into the flame ; and the smith threw down his
hammer, and ran into the street like one distracted,
shouting for Jesus to come to him.
Then incontinently Our Lord appeared unto the
Smith, and said unto him, “ Man, what hast thou
done P”
“I sought to do as thou hadst done by my dame
before, and make my wife young by burning her in
the furnace, and beating her with the hammer.”
“Did I not shrewdly avise thee, man,” quoth
Jesus, “not to venture herein 2 Thou hast burned
thy wife, and slain her.”
“Ah! good Lord,” answered him the smith, “I
cry for mercy. I disobeyed you, Lord.” -
“Thou repentest thy sin,” said Jesus; “and as
thou prayest, so it shall be done.”
And He blessed her, and bad her arise; and she
THE SMITH AND HIS DAME. 33
arose straightway, and seemed as bright as a blos-
som, and a thousand-fold fairer than she was before.
She sank on her knees, and prayed to God on
high, and the Smith fetched his mother; and all those
three knelt together, and held up their joined hands,
to give praise and glory to Heaven.
Our Lord then said to the Smith : “See that thou
never do this thing more, for it is a craft which
thou canst not learn. But I grant unto thee this
boon, that over all thy fellows in the mystery which
thou professest thou shalt have lordship, and that
none, save he seek thy counsel and aid, may prosper.”
These words He delivered to the Smith, and
again He enjoined him in no wise, to his life's end,
to intermeddle with such things as belonged not to
man ; and so He departed into other lands, to do
like acts of grace and mercy.
Let us all give thanks that there is such a Lord,
and pray that He may bring us to His bliss
So endeth the tale of the smith, which that burned
his dame, and made her whole again by the help of
Christ Jesus.




VIRGILIU.S.
[It is weſ/ Anown that the poet Virgi'ſ, who in his
works has included descriptions of the inferna/7′egions,
and who was supposed to have been the grandson of a
magician, from an ignorant misreading of Maius for
Magus, shared the ſate of many scholars, both during
the Middle Ages and aſ a Załer Žeriod, in Öeing
Žnvested wit/, //e character and Žower of a wizard.
7%e most singular ſač/es were current in Southern
Z/a/y about his miraculous eaſº/oiás aſ AWa//es and
elsewhere in the same vicinity, when, on the reviva/
of literature under monastic auspices in Z/e 4/ºrteen//
century, the com/i/ers of Öooks &egan to coſ/ec/
materia/for their Žužoses, and eager/y availed them-
se/ves of stories relative to sue/, a famous personage,
handed down from age to age, and gradua/ſy magni-
fied and distorted by a variety of agencies.
“Virgi/ius” may be considered as Óe/onging to the
same family of Żradition as Bacon and Faustus,
and presents to our view a remarkað/e iſ/us/ration of
//e s/ow famg/e of Æoman or //a/ian fo/A-/ore wit/.
Aeterogeneous Middle-Age empirica/ beliefs and ideas.
When a matc/ents was oãfained, as ūz // is case and
in those of AEacon and Faustus, and many offers,
there was no /i/zić to the accumu/aſion round it of
fabulous growſ/s, and the guestion of historica/ or
/iterary propriety did not enter into the Zhoughts of
34

VIRGILIUS. 35
those who identifted exploits or opinions with cele-
ôrated names. -
Zá may be surmised that the prophetic and mys-
£ical cast of the fourtſ, “Ac/ogue" of Virgi/ and the
account in the “Afmeid” of the Aero's descent into
Že// were primarily instrumenta/ in surrounding the
A'oman Čard with an atmosphere of romance, and if
the same fortune àeſe// //orace in his own home, the
//enomenon Öecomes less suz/rising and less abnormal.
Zn the present instance, we have to bear in mind the
dense ignorance and the Žuerile credu/ity prevalent
in Zła/y genera/y, and especia//y in the south, at
#/kis moment, when we weig/, //e facilities which
existed in what are ca/led the /)aré Ages for the
propagation of the most chi/a'is/, and most incon-
gruous theories. -
7%e short freamó/e, in which the origin and sur-
zoundings of the Gothic Virgi/ius are gravely and
circumstanţia//y set fortſ, is worthy of the remainder
of the production, and is as distant from the first
draft of an authentic view of Æoman Żistory as the
/after is from that at Żresent acceſſed. Zł seems
a/most incredióſe that the true facts, so far as they
are, or can ever Óe, AEmozwn aſ a//, show/a/ /ave Óeen
over/aid/ ôy such a stražume of iſ/iterate ſa≤ but
#/e same ſale Čeſe// every &rancſ, of learning and
archaeology during #/e fransitional ſeriod when
western civilization was effaced by the dec/ime and
fa/Z of Æoman ascendency.
One strižing/ſeculiarity in “Virgi/ius” is the resort
of Żaſ refuſed magician, for the accomplishment of
some of his designs, to the agency of water and air
under what afted” to Öe impossióſe conditions. AEué
36 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
the storyte//er has at no time been hamfered by the
/aws of nature or /imits of science.
One eaf/amation may be offered of the presence of
Žese motions, and it is that f/e description was
ôorrowed from the observed /oca/İzation of mist or
waftour in a compact form, by the action of the wind,
and from Že atmosf/eric //enomenon. Anown as a
mirage.
A second specia/feature is the association of the
mystery of working in meta/s and the production of
automata więż occuſ/ / /ºi/osoft/hy—an //omeric idea,
which continued to ſouris/, //ºrough //e Middle Ages,
as we see far//y eace//i/ied in Z/ºe /egend of Way-
/and Smith, down to the more recent period wit/4
w/ic/, //e singular story of the “ Smit/, and his
/Jame” commects iſse//, 7%e pieces of mechanism
ascribed to lºgi/ius were fročaff/y some species of
clockworé, and would at #/e/resent day Óe considered
zºdimentary devices.
The description which we find here of the wa//s of
A’ome is so far curious, Z/ał ż was probab/y derived
from the persona/ offservation of the romancist, and
Żołmżs to #/e fractice, where towns were not walled
or ſortified, of surrounding them with Žalisades.
/n the adventure wit/, //e So/dan's daughter “ the
side of France” is quoted as the country where
lºgi/ius /ad his orchards, Öztá áy such a ?/Arase
we are mere/y to understand a Zoca/iſſy in Žat
dºec/70%.
The version of the origin of A/a//es, and its
ſoundation on eggs, is a//arent/y commected wit/.
an attempt to ea/ain the volcanic mature of the soil
2nder/ying and surrounding that city.







VIRGILIUS. - 37
7%e extraordinary account which we get of the
deat/, of the enchanter reads /i/ e a ſumó/e of the
ancient Óe/ief in rejuvenescence, which was usual/y
ôy ſºre, wit/; some /egend of Že murder of a ricſ.
mean Öy / is servant for ſºur/oses of //under. Ævent
the emperor in the story does not credit the defence
set ºff Öy the man, and executes him as an assassin.
7%e costume of Že narrative, in short, is that of
#/ºe ſeriod £o which iſ belongs, and by studying far-
£iculars which are not perhaps offſherwise of great
interest or importance we may gain many serviceable
g/impses of Že socia/ and /o/ifica/ /č/e of former
ages, even where it is no weightier matter than the
custome of schoo/öoys &eing senå Öe/ween £/eir ſessons to
//ay in Z/e ſie/als.
Many of the incidents have their and/ogues in
Že fabliaux and in AEastern traditiona/ /o/A-/ore,
whicſ, were on/y available in a manuscripá or ora/
s/affe w/ºem “ lºgi/ius” was written and Žuć/ished
in #/e early years of the sixteenth century.
Certain of the scenes or adventures reca/Z čhe
coarser passages in Ow/g/ass and Scogin.
Z%e Æng/isſ, feat which we have employed zwas in
a///roðaðility indeed derived from a Dutch original,
of which a copy is before us, with a series of woodcut
emóe//isſiments of a common//ace character, except
indeed that one of them depicts the ordeal imposed
ôy lºgi/ius on 4/ºe gen//ewoman in 4/ºe maréeſ-//ace.
7%eze is a/so a French zerszoz.
An one passage we note the reference to a ſu/y
fruit and corn Aarvest. It is a/ways difficult and
hazardous to re/y on these clews in popular taſes :
6%f zwe seemz to discern here an indication //a/ #4e

38 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
writer observed the unities rather unusual/y, or that
the work before us had an /talian original, with
which we have not so far met, although such a ?/rase
as “town-house" app/ied to the Capitol at ſome
Öes/eaks rather a Flemis/ or /Jutch source and a
/iteral trams/ation of Stadt-huis.]
I.
IN the city of Rome, in old days, there dwelled
two brothers, named Romulus and Remus ; and
because that city was too strait and small for two
kings, as these twins were, Remus departed, yield-
ing up to Romulus his heritage, and went and
founded in Champagne the fair city of Rheims,
which he embattled with fair and high walls.
Now it happened that Remus came on a time
to Rome to see his brother, and because the walls
of Rome were so low that a man might leap Over
them, Remus made sport thereof, and at a run leapt
over them in a certain place, which so angered his
brother that he slew him, and, leading his army
into Champagne, destroyed the said fair city of
Rheims. But the wife of Remus and her son, that
bare his father's name, escaped.
Then the wife of Remus, that was a lady of high
lineage and richly allied, rebuilt the city, when
Romulus his brother had departed ; and anon her
son, that was named Remus, repaired to Rome, and
slew his uncle Romulus, and reigned in his place,
and was called emperor.
In his court this emperor had many knights ; but
there was one that had espoused the daughter of a
very rich Senator, and was a man of great power and

VIRGILIUS. 39
renown ; and by this lady had he one son, who was
called Virgilius.
Whenas that child was born, the city of Rome
shook, and he shewed himself of much promise
and of a rare wit, and he was put to school at
Tolentum, where he studied diligently; and soon
after his father died, whom his mother the senator's
daughter loved so well, that she would not consent
to wed again.
One day Virgilius and his fellows had leave,
according to the usage of those times, to go into the
fields for to play ; and it fortuned to Virgilius that,
as he strayed among the hills, he espied a great hole,
into which he crept, and all was in darkness; and
he went a little farther, and it wox lighter again ;
and so he advanced inward till he heard a voice
saying, “Virgilius ! Virgilius !” But he looked about,
and could see nobody.
He cried, “Who calleth me 2"
The voice answered and said, “Virgilius, seest
thou not that board beside thee with the word
marked thereon P”
“Yea,” he replied.
“Remove it then,” said the voice, “and let me
out.”
“Who art thou,” then asked Virgilius, “that liest
there-beneath P” -
“I am a devil,” quoth the voice, “that was con-
jured out of the body of a certain one, and am
banished and imprisoned hereunder till the day of
doom, unless I be delivered by the hand of man.
So I pray thee, Virgilius, enlarge me from this
bondage, and I shall shew unto thee many books

4O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
of magic, that thou shalt grow to be the greatest
necromancer of all men, and shalt be able to help
thyself and thy poor kinsfolk which were deprived
of their heritage. Surely it is a small boon that I
ask for so great a reward.”
Virgilius, who knew that his mother had been
wronged by her kindred, and of the emperor could
in no wise gain redress, was tempted to do as the
devil would have him ; and when the devil had
upon his asking shown him the books that he
purposed to bestow upon him, he slid away the
board, whence-beneath that devil glid like an eel,
and came and stood straightway before Virgilius
in the semblance of a big man, that Virgilius was
astonished, seeing so great a man issue forth from
so small a hole. -
Then, when the devil had delivered the books to
Virgilius, Virgilius said unto him : “Might ye fall
back into that hole once more ?' I warrant not.”
The devil said he could, and when he had shown
Virgilius how it was possible, Virgilius shut down
the hole suddenly, and cried, “Now thou shalt
abide where thou art till the hour appointed "; and
although the devil besought him, he left him there
lamenting and chiding. And thus it was that
Virgilius became a famous sorcerer and expert in
the black art.
II.
The mother of Virgilius, as she wox old and deaf,
began to long for the sight of her son, whom she
wished to incite to the recovery of his heritage,
which certain withheld from him, and which having
he might be the greatest in all Rome. Wherefore
VIRGILIUS. 4 I
she sent one of her servants to the school where he
yet was ; and the man found him teaching scholars
from all countries, among them many great lords'
sons; for I assure ye he had grown a fair and wise
youth, and was proficient in all arts.
The messenger shewed unto Virgilius the case,
and took his answer that he could not come at that
time, but sent his mother four sumpters laden with
money and other choice gifts; and soon after, when
he had arranged his affairs, he set out to Rome,
where he saluted his mother, who had not beheld
him these twelve years, and she was glad enough
to see him again.
But the enemies of Virgilius misliked his coming,
and would not eat nor drink with him ; and Virgilius
was wrath, and gave money and lands to all his
poor kindred, and yielded hearty thanks to all those
who had shown his mother kindness in his absence,
and of such as denied him entrance on his heritage
he made complaint to the emperor.
The emperor took counsel with such as held
Virgilius in despite, and they advised him to pay
no heed to one who was but a schoolmaster, and to
leave the land with those who might aid him in his
needs; and the emperor said therefore to Virgilius
that he would take four or five years to consider
well whether he were the true heir or no.
Thereat Virgilius fretted sorely, and he assembled
together all his poor kinsfolk, and gave them meat
and drink, and wherewith to make merry till the
harvest, when the corn and fruit should be ripe.
And when it was so that the corn and fruit were
ripe, Virgilius by his art did enchant the air over






42 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
the lands that were held by his enemies, so that all
their corn and fruit were gathered into his garners,
and they had not a whit. Whereupon his enemies
mustered together in such a throng that the emperor
for fear fled out of Rome. But Virgilius encom-
passed his lands with a wall of air, that none might
enter thereinat without his leave gotten ; and when
his enemies approached to take him and smite off
his head, the air so enveloped and bound them
that they could neither stir backward nor forward.
At which when they chafed and marvelled, Virgilius
came to them, and said: “Lo so long as I live, ye
shall have no profit from the lands whereof ye have
disinherited me; and ye may tell the emperor that
I am tarrying his pleasure against such time as he
shall determine if I am true heir or no, and that
meanwhile I shall take my belonging as I may, nor
care for what he may do.”
When the emperor learned the words of Virgilius,
he gathered together his army, with the intent to
beleaguer his castle and burn all his places, and do
him to death for his treason; for he was sorely
enraged that he should have thus defiantly spoken.
But as soon as all the host was before the castle,
Virgilius laid a spell upon it that it stood motionless,
and presently the emperor imagined that he and all
his soldiers that were with him were surrounded on
each side by water. -
Then Virgilius appeared in the sight of the
emperor, and spake unto him these words: “Lord
emperor, you have no power to do me harm nor to
profit by my lands whereof you have disinherited
me, whereas I should be one of your greatest lords

VIRGILIUS. 43
and nearest of your kinsmen, and in the day of need
might help you more than all other.” The emperor
threatened him, but he feared him not; and Virgilius
and his folk dressed victual and ate it, so that the
host outside could see them so do, but the emperor
and his folk had nought whereof to eat.
Now while they were in these straits, one that
also professed necromancy came before the emperor,
and made offer to cause all the folk that were with
Virgilius, and Virgilius himself, to fall into a sleep,
so that this spell might be relaxed. And so it was ;
and Virgilius had much ado to keep himself from
sleeping; and he saw how the emperor and his
soldiers moved once more, and approached the walls,
raising ladders against them. Then Virgilius looked
into his books, and found how this might be averted,
and made the enemy stand still again, some that
were on the ladders or the walls, or one foot on
either, remaining void of faculty to go upward or
downward. -
The emperor asked his conjuror if he might not
deliver them from their distress, but he answered
him Nay; and Virgilius defied the emperor, and
imprisoned him and his army in a circuit of air a
whole day. When the night drew on, Virgilius
came secretly to him, and shewed him what dis-
honour it was to so"mighty a prince to fall into so
low a state, for that he had undertaken what he
could not fulfil.
The emperor answered and said that if Virgilius
should free him out of this danger wherein he was,
he would restore him all his lands, and acknowledge
him for his kinsman; and he sware by his crown


44 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
º
to be true to his pledge. Virgilius then brake the
spell, and the emperor and his folk entered into the
castle, and were right nobly entertained and feasted ;
and Virgilius was reinstated in his lands, and became
the greatest lord in Rome after the emperor.
III.
Now Virgilius, when he had so gotten again his
goods, fell enamoured of a fair lady, and by his art
made her understand his mind; whereupon she,
meaning to beguile him, appointed a time when he
should come to her house that stood in the market-
place, and she would let down a basket from the
tower, wherein he might come to her chamber. But
when Virgilius had entered into the basket, and
had been drawn up half-way to the gentlewoman's
window, she left him to hang there, making fast
the cord.
“Lo to-morrow, sir," quoth she, “it is market
day, and ye will be seen and mocked of all.”
And so it happened. But the emperor, when he
understood how it was, commanded the lady to
release Virgilius; and he departed his way, saying
that he would be avenged on her for her false
dealing. -
He incontinently used his art, and extinguished
all the fire in Rome, that none but he had fire ; and
when the emperor sent to him to ask how they
might have fire again, he answered so : “Ye must
have a scaffold set up in the middle of the market-
place, and place the gentlewoman that hung me in
the basket thereon in her smock only ; and then
make cry throughout Rome that whoever needeth













VIRGILIUS. 45
-
fire may come and fetch it from between the gentle-
woman's legs; nor other fire shall ye have any.”
So all the multitude went, as Virgilius bad them,
and got their fire and lit their candles there, both
rich and poor. And soon after this Virgilius married
another lady, and built for himself a marvellous
palace with four angles; and he took the emperor
into each angle by turn, and he heard all that the
people said in that quarter, albeit they but whispered.
The emperor, thus perceiving the might of Vir-
gilius and his great subtlety, demanded of him on a
day howSO he might cause Rome to prosper, and to
have many lands subject to the same ; and likewise
to know when it was within the purpose of any land
to rise up against it. Virgilius answered at that
time, “Lord emperor, that shall I do"; and forth-
with he set him to place in the Capitol divers carved
images in Stone, that we name idols, of all the gods
appertaining to such lands as were to Rome obeis-
Sant; and in the midst he put one god of Rome,
and to every god his bell, to the intent that when
any other land should make war upon Rome, all
the gods might turn their backs on the god of the
Romans, and the god of that land which willed war
might clink his bell. Then, ere the people of the
land could muster in array and come to Rome, the
emperor, thus avised, might go into that land and
subdue it.
Now the folk of Carthage, that were very cun-
ning and expert, had secret knowledge of this
device, and were sore at heart by reason of the great
hurt that Rome had wrought them ; and so they
sent forth three trusty messengers, provided with



46 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
much abundance of gold and silver, to essay to
destroy the work of Virgilius.
These three men repaired to Rome, and first of
all they buried, deep in the earth, a great pot full
of money, and sank in the Tiber, by the bridge, a
barrel of golden pence. Then they proclaimed
themselves soothsayers and dream-expounders, and
reported unto the Senate of Rome that if they might
have leave to dig in a certain hill, and to cast nets
in the river, they would come upon a marvellous
treasure, whereof they had dreamed ; and the Senate
gave them leave, and they found the pot of money
and the golden pence, and made to the senators
costly gifts in recompense.
Anon they came again to the Senate, and prayed
it, whereas they had discovered that beneath the
Capitol there was buried a treasure far greater than
the other two, to grant liberty to them to dig in quest
thereof. And the Senate granted them liberty, who
assembled labourers, and took away as much ground
as underlay the Capitol, which was called Salvatio
Zºomae, or, the Sa/vation of Æome, and privily de-
parted ; and the next day after the Capitol fell down,
and all the great labour of Virgilius was lost, to the
amazement and dismay of those lords of Rome, who
thus saw how they had been deceived by the men
of Carthage.
Yet once more the emperor prayed Virgilius of
his good counsel, that the thieves and night-walkers
in Rome, which did great mischief and committed
many murders, might be stayed and abolished ; and
Virgilius wrought hereupon a horse of copper, with
a man of copper on his back, and bad the emperor
VIRGILIUS. 47
cause proclamation to be made that whoso, after ten
of the clock at night, should range the streets, and
should be slain, there should be no inquisition there-
into. But the thieves and other evil-doers lent no
ear to that proclamation, and did as before ; and
when at ten of the clock the bell rang, and none
marked it, the man of copper on his copper horse
galloped through the streets, leaving none over-
looked, and slew every man and woman whom he
met withal, slaying in one night two hundred or
In Ore.
The thieves and night-walkers misliking this
gin, they devised how they might escape from
the copper man upon his copper horse ; and they
contrived ladders with hooks, which, whenso they
should hear the copper man drawing nigh, they
could fix to the houses, and climb beyond the
danger thereof; which they did, and the streets
returned to their former perilous estate. And the
emperor sought out Virgilius, that he might aid him
to find a remedy, who made two copper hounds,
which should run beside the copper horse; and when
the thieves and night-walkers thought to climb their
ladders, these copper hounds sprang thereto, and
tare them in pieces. After which none durst go in
the streets of Rome by night, and the evil-doers
were clean destroyed.
A while after, in order to discover the more
effectually false swearers, Virgilius devised a metal
serpent: and whoso into the mouth of that serpent
should put his head, and had falsely sworn, might
not withdraw it again ; but if it was so that the oath
was true, then he might pluck it back without harm


48 SUPERNATURAL I,EGENDS.
done. And many tried that ordeal till a certain lady,
that was a knight's wife in Lombardy, beguiled
Virgilius by means of her lover, whom she caused
to disguise himself in a fools'-coat. And Virgilius in
despite brake the serpent to pieces; for with all his
cunning and necromancy women still had the better
of him by their mother-wit. -
Then, by cause that the city was plunged in dark-
ness, when the day waned, Virgilius studied how
he might make a light to burn for ever in the very
middle of Rome for the special good of the common
sort that had no lamps nor candles; and he set up a
mighty pillar of marble, and between the pillar and
his palace he built a bridge, over which Virgilius
passed from his palace to the top of the pillar; and
thereon he placed a lamp of glass that would burn
to the world's end, and no man could put it out :
which lamp lighted all the streets of Rome, so that
all might see, even in the smallest, by night as well
as by day. And on the walls of the palace Virgilius
placed a metal man that held in his hand a metal
bow, wherewith he ever aimed at the lamp as though
he would put it out. Yet he did not ; and the lamp
gave light to all Rome during the life of Virgilius
and three hundred years after; and to this day would
so have done if one of the burgesses' daughters had
not, as she sported with her fellows on the roof of
the palace, touched the metal bow, which made the
bolt shoot out and break the wonderful lamp that
Virgilius had fashioned.
But Virgilius in his time did many other strange
and marvellous things. Whereof one that we shall
rehearse was an orchard, wherein he planted all

VIRGILIUS. 49
º
-
º
manner of trees that bare fruit and blossom, and set
every sort of bird and tame beast, with a fountain
in the midst and great plenty of fish; and the birds,
which came within this garden, might well enter,
yet could in no wise fly out, for it was encompassed
about with a wall of air.
But, above all, beneath the orchard he made a
secret chamber, where he placed all his money and
goods that he had, for he was so exceeding rich,
that he scarce wist how much good he possessed;
and two metal men, that perpetually smote on two
anvils with great hammers, kept this chamber, that
none could come near it, or Virgilius had quickly
lost the whole of his treasure.
IV.
So great power had Virgilius over the air, that he
made an image, and suspended it therein, that none
in Rome might open door or window, and not see
that image; and it had this property, that no woman,
after she had looked upon it, had any bodily lust
thenceforward. Which when the women of Rome
understood, they prayed the wife of Virgilius to use
sleight, that the image might fall. Who thereupon,
to do them pleasure, passed over the bridge of air,
and cast down the image, so that all the women
were as before.
But when Virgilius perceived that it was so, he
was wrath, and knew who had done this deed, for
none might compass such a thing save his wife
alone; and he demanded of her if she had cast it
down. Who answered, “Nay”; and Virgilius set
it up once more. Then the women complained
A. L. E


5O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
again to his wife, that it was even worse than here-
tofore with them, and begged her to throw it down
a second time. But Virgilius lay in wait, where he
might see her ; and when it was accomplished, he
cried in anger that he would throw her down after
it. But he did not. Yet he said that he would
not meddle with women hereafter, and from that
time he misliked his wife.
Oftentimes it had been reported to him how fair
was the Soldan's daughter; but he had never seen
her ; and now he crossed over to her on a bridge
through the air, and spake with her, and so ordered
her mind that she consented to his love. And this
lady said unto Virgilius one night, that she would
fain return with him into his own country, and see
what manner of man he was, and where he dwelled.
Virgilius answered and said, “Thou shalt cross
over many lands, and shalt not touch the ground";
and he bare her through the air by means of the
bridge which he made, and brought her to Rome.
He demanded of her how many she saw, and she
said, only him alone. Then he shewed her his
palace and Orchard, and the metal men that guarded
his riches, and for ever smote with their mighty
hammers on their anvils; and he let her see his
treasure; and after, when she had tarried with him
a certain space, he carried her back through the air
to her father's country; and the Soldan was a glad
man, for he wist not whither his daughter had gone.
Virgilius gave her of the fruit of his orchard
to bear with her along, and the Soldan knew,
because they were walnuts and such like fruit, that
the strange man who had taken her away was a
VIRGILIUS. 5 I
Frank from beyond the sea. So he commanded his
daughter, if so he came again to her, to give him to
drink of a certain sleeping potion, but in no wise to
partake of the same ; and when Virgilius repaired
to her again, she gave him thereof that he slept, and
was taken, and adjudged by the Soldan to die.
But Virgilius defied the Soldan, and caused him
and all his lords suddenly to find themselves in a
great river that ran thereby, where they swam and
plunged like ducks ; and they thus remained under
his spell, until such time as he had risen into the
air with the Soldan's daughter, when he made the
river abate, and so set them free again, to their great
marvelling. And he, with that lady whom he loved
so well, came safely to Rome over the bridge of air.
Now he was of this lady, the Soldan's daughter,
mightily enamoured, while his own wife for certain
sufficient reasons he had disdained and eschewed.
Yet he thought not to marry her, but to raise her to
a high estate, and to find for her a husband of like
degree; and first of all he imagined how he might
found in the midst of the sea, in her honour, a fair
town with large possessions thereto pertaining.
The foundation of it was eggs; and in it he built
a four-cornered tower, on the top whereof he set an
apple, which hung by its stalk from a chain, nor no
man could remove the apple unless he brake it;
then above the apple he placed a bottle, and on
the bottle, again, an egg, where they yet continue.
And so the town was finished by his cunning in
short space, and he called it Naples. And when
the egg stirreth, the tower quakes; and if the egg
should break, the town shall sink into the sea.

52 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Here he brought a part of his treasure, and placed
his mistress, the Soldan's daughter; and he gave
her the town, and all belonging to it, and married
her to a Spanish lord. - -
The emperor, when he heard what a noble town
it was, sorely coveted it, and within a brief time lay
siege to it. But the Spanish lord that had married
the Soldan's daughter defended the place with great
valour, and Virgilius so ordered that all the water
in the rivers outside the town was turned to rain,
and the emperor and his host were discomfited, for
that they had no water; and so they returned again
to Rome.
Then Virgilius removed all his goods to Naples,
save his treasure which he left in care of the two
metal men, who smote on the anvils with their
mighty hammers day and night; and he made the
town the abode of scholars and merchants, with
harbours, and schools, and baths, to which all might
alike resort; and the schools he endowed with much
land, to the intent that the scholars should have and
enjoy it, each his share, so long as he continued
in that place, and no longer; and Virgilius himself
taught necromancy therein, for he was the most
learned and apt man in that science that ever was
born ; and in his days Naples was the fairest city in
the whole world.
V.
Yet the emperor was so loth to part with Virgilius,
that he was fain to dwell at Rome, all this notwith-
standing; and being there he promised the emperor
that in good time he would perform in his behalf



VIRGILIUS. 53
many other marvels: as, namely, to make the trees
bear thrice a year, and ripe fruit and blossom at
Once ; to cause ships to sail against the stream ; to
enable men to earn money as quickly as spent ; and
to let women bring forth children without travail;
and many another wonderful matter, put-case in the
meanwhile Virgilius should not happen to die.
And Virgilius about this time built another castle,
whereinto was one entrance, and no more, and round
about flowed water on every side. It stood without
the city of Rome, and the gate was kept by four
and twenty metal men, that held four and twenty
flails, which were made to work day and night, so
that no one could enter, till Virgilius commanded
the flails to cease, or he was slain.
Then when Virgilius looked upon this castle,
and upon the treasure that he had privily removed
thither, and considered that he was waxing old, it
came into his thought how he might so contrive by
his mastery to renew himself, and be young again.
Virgilius had among his servants a fellow that
above all the rest he in especial trusted ; and while
his mind was occupied with this thing, he called him
one day, and took him with him along to his castle
without the city. And when they were come to the
gate, Virgilius said unto him, “Get you first into
the castle.” The man answered and said, “Sir,
an' I should enter, the flails would slay me to a
surety.”
His master thereupon shewed to him the manner
in which the flails worked, and how they might be
made to cease; and he made them to cease, and
they both passed into the castle. Then Virgilius











54 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
turned the vices, and the flails once more stirred
and quickened as they were wont.
As soon as they were within, Virgilius led his
servant into the cellar, where he kept a fair lamp
ever burning, and spake to him thus: “Dearly be-
loved friend, whom I above all others trust, see you
that barrel that standeth below the lamp 2 Ye
must therein put me ; but ye must first slay me, and
hew me small, and cut my head into four pieces, and
lay it at the bottom of the cask, and my heart in the
centre; and ye must salt them all, and for nine
days together see that the lamp is filled, and that
the leakage therefrom fall into the cask upon me.
And when nine days are come and gone, and ye
have done all this as I bid, I shall be renewed, and
be young again, and live many winters more, unless
it be that I be taken above.”
But when the servant heard this speech, he was
exceeding sorrowful, and would not by any means
be consenting to the death of Virgilius, nor would
not slay him. Nevertheless his master urged him,
saying that it must be done, and there was none
else that might do the same; and so the man did
as he was charged, and went each day in and out
of the castle, and made the flails cease and fed the
lamp.
The emperor missing Virgilius for the space of
seven days, he marvelled what had become of him,
and he sent to his servant and questioned him,
who said that Virgilius had gone away this seven-
night, he wist not whither, and would not let him
bear him company. The emperor deemed that the
fellow lied, and threatened him with death if he did


VIRGILIUS. 55
not tell him shortly where he was. The man said
that his master and he went together to the castle,
and when they came thither Virgilius entered, but
would in no wise suffer him so to do. The emperor
commanded him to go with him to the castle, and
when they were before the gate, they might not
enter for the flails; and the emperor enjoined him
to stay them, and if he did not so do, he should
die ; and the servant through the fear of death
stayed them, and they entered in.
The emperor made search everywhere about
the castle, and at length descended to the cellar,
where the lamp burned above the barrel, and in the
barrel lay the body of Virgilius hewn small; and
the emperor enraged cried, “What made thee so
hardy as to kill thy master 2" and drawing his sword
he smote off the head of the servant. Then, after
this had come to pass, the emperor and the folk
that were with him beheld a naked child, that ran
thrice round the barrel, saying these words, “Cursed
be the time that ye came ever here !” and so
vanished, and was no more seen.
So ended the life of Virgilius, for which the
emperor, and the town of Naples that he had
founded, and all the scholars of the same, and all
his kindred, long and sorely grieved.

ROBERT THE DEVIL.
[7%is singular fabulous compilation was origina//y
written in French, in Že ſifteen// century, and
relates to the Öir//, alleged misdeeds, reſentance, and
Ao/y end of one of the early dukes of AVormandy,
whom the romancisé aróżrari/y, and indeed erro-
neous/y, makes in order of Zimze anterior to Charle-
magne. 7%e hero of Że /egend Óefore us was rea/y
&/ºe younger son of A'ichard Že Good, /Juže of
AVormandy (996–1027) and //eſa//er of Wiſ/iam Z.
of Æng/and/, /e succeeded his Óroſſ/her, A'ichard ///.,
in IO28, and reigned £7// Io95. His wife is said to
Žave been the daughter of a Séinner or currier at
Aa/azse.
Prome the account it is easy to perceive //a/ //e
direction whic/, //e excesses of the duke took in ear/y
Æſe, during /is ſat/er's and brother's reigns (996–
1027), in the spo/iation of the Church, was matura/y
až to awa/en resentment in Z/e mind of the class
Žem most imſ/uentia/ in s/affing Zhe public estimate
of persons and events, and to 6/acáen the ſame of the
duke. AEut as /*e suffsequent/y reſented and made his
Žeace wit/, God, we are to understand that, after
a suitable process of Žumi/iation, he was readmitted
within Że sacred! /a/e and Žis offences condoned.
7%e C//7ch, it is to Öe offserved, ma/ºes its own
classification of monarchs into good and Öad, as they
have sacrificed the interests of their suðjects to

56
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 57
clerica/ rapacity, or the contrary. 7%is is on/y ſust
6eginning to Öe a//reciated, and wiſ/ invo/ve much
zewriting of history.
7%e Zegend / as assumed a variety of forms, and
Že same string of inventions / as served to 7//us/ra/e
incidents in Že /ives of severa/ rea/ or ſºcłitious ſer-
sonages, who were supposed to ſave transgressed in a
simi/ar manner against God and //e Church.
Aſ present, //e particulars given of Že /i/e and
fortunes of Æobert the Devil are chiefly valuable as
Żroofs of £/ºe Strange credu/ićy of former ages, and
at the same time as a serviceab/e and interesting pic-
£ure of meanners and thoughſ. Auf a certain interest
ałłaches itse/f £o / is name, by reason of Žis nearness
to the ſounder of our AVorman /ine of Áings.
7%e romance is divisióſe into three portions :
A'offerſ's biráž and period of sin, / is term of Žemance;
and /ºis restoration to spiritua/ Aea///, and accession
to #/.e duca/ ?/ºrone in IO28.
7%e clerica/s/irić is strong/y manifest &/ºroughout,
in the subordination of Żolitica/ to spiritua/ circumz-
stances, while Že distortion of historica/facts very
signa//y demonstrates Z/e writer's want of Ánow/edge,
or /ćis disrespect for £/ºat of others.]
-
I.
IT befell, in time passed, that there was a duke in
Normandy that was called Hubert, which duke was
passing rich in goods, and of virtuous life, and loved
and feared God above all things, and did great
alms-deeds, and exceeded all other in righteous-
ness and justice and in deeds of chivalry, and in
notable exploits.


58 SUPERNATURAL LEGENIDS.
Duke Hubert held his court at Naverne on the
Seine upon a Christmas Day, and thereto all the
nobles of Normandy resorted ; and because the
duke was unmarried, his lords besought him to take
unto him a wife, to the intent that his race might be
continued, and he might have an heir to enjoy his
estate and place after his decease. To whom the
duke graciously signified his readiness to do their
pleasure, if so that he might find a consort fitting
his condition ; and they commended unto him the
daughter of the Duke of Burgundy, which that
Duke Hubert sought and obtained in marriage
accordingly, and he brought her to Rouen in
Normandy, where he dwelled. -
But it came to pass that the duke and duchess
lived together for the space of eighteen years child-
less, albeit this duke prayed to God, so often as he
intermeddled with his lady, that they might be
blessed with a son, who should honour and serve
God, and fortify their lineage. But in no wise could
they compass their desire.
The duchess exhorted her husband to be patient,
and to submit himself to God's decrees; but he
sorely chafed at the lack of issue, and it happened
that, when he returned on a day from hunting,
moody and discontented, as though the devil had
possessed him, he came to the duchess, who was
in like manner vexed and moved, and embraced her,
saying his orisons in this wise following, “O Lord
Jesu, I beseech Thee that I may get a child at this
hour, by the which Thou mayest be honoured and
served.” But the lady, being angry, spake thus
foolishly: “In the devil's name be it, since God
ºf
ROBERT THE DEVIL. 59
hath not the power and if I conceive at this very
moment, I give the child to the devil, body and soul.”
The duchess suffered great travail, and had not
alms-deeds, good works, and penance been done for
her, she had surely died; and when the child, that
was a man child, was at length born into the light,
the sky wox so dark, and it thundered and
lightened, that men feared lest the heavens should
open, and the world should perish. For the winds
blew from all the four quarters, and the palace was
shaken, and a piece of it fell to the earth ; and there
were sundry other fearful signs and tokens.
But, as it pleased God, after a while the weather
was composed, and the child proceeded to his
christening, whom they christened by the name
of Robert ; and he wox so shrewd, that he bit off
the paps of the nurses that gave him suck, so that
they were fain to feed him through a horn, and
by such time as he was twelve months old he could
speak and walk better than other children of three
years; and he was shortly dreaded by all that sought
to play with him, for he brake their legs and arms,
and scratched their eyes out, wherein only he
found pleasure and delight; and the common people
gave him the name of Robert the Devil, which he
kept during his life, and will so long as the world
lasteth. -
II.
Anon Robert had by his father and mother
assigned unto him a schoolmaster to teach him good
learning ; but because this schoolmaster would have
chastised him for his cursed conditions, the boy gat






6O. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
a bodkin, and thrust it into the man's belly, that he
died ; and cast his book against the wall, saying,
“Now have I taught thee that never priest nor
clerk shall correct me, nor be my master.” And
from that time forward no man durst gainsay this
Robert, whatsoever he did ; and he followed no
manner of virtue nor grace, but mocked both God
and the holy Church.
For when he came to the church, and found the
priests and clerks singing God's service, he came
privily behind them, and threw ashes or dust in
their mouths in despite of God; and if he saw any
one in the church kneeling in prayer, he would
steal to them and give them a jerk, that they fell
on their faces. Nor did he eschew any sort of vice
and mischief.
The duke and duchess were marvellously aggrieved
that their son was of such a disposition, and the
duchess counselled her lord that, since he was now
of an age to bear arms, he should be made a knight,
to the end that he might be moved thereby to for-
sake his evil life; and at a high feast of Whitsuntide
his father accordingly made him a knight, and prayed
him to demean himself fitly in that estate and leave
his dishonest courses. And a tournament was pro-
claimed in honour of this Robert being so made,
whereat he by his strength and prowess overthrew
all that were opposed to him, and had no peer.
But, all this notwithstanding, Robert continued
steadfast in his former mischievous practices, and
went about his father's dominions slaying men,
ravishing women, and pillaging churches; and when
his father sent out soldiers to take him, and made

ROBERT THE DEVIL. 6 I
proclamation of outlawry against him, he defied him
and slew all that sought to arrest his body; nay, he
killed seven holy hermits that were virtuous and of
good living, and martyrs in the service of God, in a
great wood, crying: “I have found a nest of popish
rascals, and have shorn their crowns. They were
wont to kneel on their knees, and now they lie on
their backs | " A truly cursed deed and bloodshed
in scorn of God and holy Church. -
III.
Now when Robert the Devil had thus murthered
the virtuous hermits, he rode till he came to the
Château d'Arques, and all that saw him fled at his
approach. Some ran and shut themselves up in
their houses ; others took shelter in churches.
This Robert, when he perceived how the people
dreaded him, was touched with remorse and sighed.
“O mighty God ' " he cried, “how is it that every
man flieth me-from ? Now I see truly that I am the
most mischievousest and the most cursedest wretch
in the world, and seem rather to be a Jew or a
Saracen than a Christian man. Alas! I begin to
loathe my ungracious life.” And while he thus
meditated and spake to himself, he came to the
castle and lighted down from his horse.
But there was none there that would stay to hold
his horse for him, and he left it standing at the gate
and entered the castle, where, when his mother the
duchess espied him coming, she would have likewise
fled. Yet when he cried out to her piteously, say-
ing, “Sweet lady mother, stay till I can speak with
62 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
you," the duchess awaited him ; and when he came
to her he prayed her to let him know what it was
which made him so vicious and cursed, for that he
had such conditions either of her or of his father,
and besought her to acquaint him with the truth
thereof.
Then when the duchess signified to Robert how
she had given him to the devil, body and soul, at
his birth, he fell down to the ground in a swoon ;
and when he had somewhat recovered himself, he
spake in manner as follows: “The fiends of hell
use great diligence to have me to their own ; but
from this time forth I forsake and eschew them
and all their works, and will amend my life, quitting
my sins, and doing therefore holy penance. So, O
most reverent, holy mother mine, have me heartily
recommended to my father; for I will shortly take
the way to Rome, to be assoiled of my sins.”
Robert therefore straightway went to his com-
panions and reproved them for their misdeeds, and
shewed them how he and all of them had offended
in the sight of God by robbing churches and priests,
and by murthering great numbers of virtuous
people; and for that his followers would not con-
sent to leave their wickedness, and that one of them
mocked him, saying, “ Lo, the fox would turn
monkl" he wox wroth, and therewith slew them all.
As he rode along on his way to Rome, and was
not yet far from his father's castle, he came to an
abbey that he had (among many others) formerly
robbed, and when the abbot and the rest saw him
they fled. But when he shewed them by signs that
he would speak with them, they paused, and he ad-



ROBERT THE DEVIL. 63
dressed them so piteously and graciously that they
were no more afeard. Then he spake to the lord
abbot, shewing his lordship how he had repented
him of his acts, and praying him to have him recom-
mended to his father, the Duke of Normandy, who
would restore all that he had taken, which was stored
in a certain house, whereof his father had the key;
and he besought them to deliver back to every one
that which of right was his ; and he was about to
visit our holy father the pope, to plead to him for
remission of his trespass against God and holy
Church.
IV.
This Robert, which some called the Devil, arrived
in Rome on Shere Thursday at night; and the next
day, as the custom was, the pope himself celebrated
the Divine service in St. Peter's church. Robert
pressed through the throng to reach the pope, and
the more they pushed him back and smote him, the
more he was importunate ; and when he at length
got nigh the pope and fell down on his knees, cry-
ing, “Holy father, have mercy on me !” the people
would have still driven him away, but the pope,
seeing his great earnestness, took pity on him, and
suffered him to abide, to whom he said, “Good
friend, what is your desire? and what aileth you that
you make this stir P”
Then quoth Robert : “O holy father, I am the
greatest sinner that this world knoweth, and am
bound and laden with my offences against God, that,
as ye are he that giveth aid and comfort to such
as have need, I beseech you, for the passion of Our
64 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Lord Jesus Christ, to purge me of all my abomin-
able misdeeds, whereby I am deceived and defeated
of all the joys of heaven.”
The pope, hearing these words, mused within
himself whether this were that Robert the Devil of
whom he had heard such strange and heavy reports,
and axed him if he was that Robert that he had
heard so much speaking of, the which is of all men
the worst. -
Robert answered, “Yea.”
The pope said: “I will assoil you; but I conjure
you to do no man hurt.”
Robert gave him hearty thanks, and the pope
afterward took him apart, and shrove him, learning
how his mother at his conception had given him to
the devil, which caused the pope to be sore afeard.
Nevertheless he enjoined Robert to go three miles
away out of the city to a hermit, which was his
ghostly father, and to say to him that the pope sent
him, and the same would assoil him. -
When he came to the place where the holy hermit
dwelled, he let him know that our holy father the
pope had desired him to repair thither; and as soon
as the hermit had welcomed him, Robert confessed
all his sins to him, setting forth at large every each
thing that had happened to him since his birth, and
the evil conditions that he followed, till he repented
him ; and the hermit prayed him to rest there for
that night in a little chapel hard by, and on the
morrow he would speak with him again.
All that night the hermit prayed for Robert that
God might pardon his great sins against Him, and
as he slept the Lord sent an angel unto him, who

ROBERT THE DEVIL. 65
said unto him thus: “Holy father, take heed to the
commandment of God. If that Robert be willing
to be purged of all his trespasses, he must counter-
feit the ways of a fool, and feign dumbness, nor eat
no manner of meat, but he take it of the dogs; and
so he must continue till it please God to declare that
he hath forgiveness.” And whenso the hermit
awoke, he made Robert understand the matter; and
Robert was merry and glad at the thought of being
assoiled by God, and without more ado returned to
Rome to fulfil the ordinance of the angel, holding
it a light penance enough, when he viewed all the
abominable deeds of his whole life forepassed.
V.
Robert tarried in Rome a certain time, and dis-
sembled according to the command which he had
received from the angel of God, and ran about the
streets like a fool, at whom the children threw dirt
and stones, and the burghers of the city from their
windows laughed at him and mocked him.
Whence, after a while, he departed to the emperor's
court, and since the gate lay open, he entered into the
hall, and he hopped and jetted up and down, never
staying long in one place, till the emperor, marking
him as he thus played the fool, and seeing he was a
well-favoured young man, commanded one of his ser-
vants to give him to eat. But Robert spake not a
word, nor would eat, neither would he drink; yet pre-
sently, whenas the emperor cast one of his hounds
a bone, Robert rose and sought to take it from him,
and when he could not, he gnew one end and the
hound the other. At last he got the bone all alone,
A. L. F

º:56 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
and gnew it right hard, for he was sore a-hun-
gered. And the emperor cast a whole loaf at another
of the hounds, which Robert seized incontinently
and brake in twain, giving the hound half, and keep-
ing half, which made the emperor deem that he was
a natural fool and a very noddy ; and all present
laughed at him for being such an innocent. And
when he had eaten fully, he went to a fountain in
the garden and drank therein, and afterward smote
with his staff, as he wandered about, on stools and
benches, as he had been mad ; and at last, when it
was night, he lay down under a stair with the dogs,
and slept. -
Now a strange accident befell when Robert was
thus doing his penance in Rome; for the emperor
had a daughter which was born dumb, and had never
spoken since her birth ; and nevertheless, because
she was heir to her father after his death, the great
seneschal sought her in marriage, and when the
emperor denied him, he led a great host of Saracens
against Rome.
The emperor, assembling his lords, prayed them
of their counsel how he might withstand these
heathen dogs, and they advised him to muster all
his power and might and drive them away; and
when the emperor had made proclamation through
all his lands, and had assembled a great army, he
marched against those heathen caitiffs.
Robert remained at home, and was drinking at
the fountain in the garden on the same day on which
the emperor should give battle to the Saracens,
when a voice came down to him from heaven, say-
ing : “Robert, God commandeth you by me that

ROBERT THE DEVIL. 67
you put on this armour incontinently, and mount
upon this white horse that He hath sent you like-
wise, and ride as Swiftly as you may to rescue the
emperor and his people.”
Robert, hearing the commandment of God, which
he might not disobey, aroused himself, and leaping
into the saddle, took his way toward the emperor ;
and as he departed, the emperor's daughter beheld
him from a window, and would have spoken, but
might not, for that she was dumb. Robert spurred
his horse forward with all speed to the field, and
saw how the Christian host was being pressed on
each side by those cursed hounds the Saracens; and
suddenly throwing himself into their midst, he made
such havoc among them that it was a world to see
the ground strown with the limbs of the dead.
Those damned dogs were constrained to yield, and
the emperor returned joyously to Rome. But
Robert was there before him, and he had a scar in
his face, yet was otherwise whole.
The emperor was glad to see Robert again, for,
albeit he was a fool, he loved him well enough ; and
marking the wound on his face, he thought that
some had done him hurt through envy while he was
at the battle, and he straightway notified to all that
none should harm Robert, or he should rue it, as he
would make him an example to the rest.
Then the emperor began to axe among his
knights if it were so that any of them wist who the
knight upon the white horse was, that came privily
on the field. But they could not tell him ; and
thereupon the emperor's daughter pointed to Robert,
yet spake not. Her father sent for her governess,

68 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
and axed her what his daughter meant by her point-
ing. The governess answered and said: “Your
daughter means that ye have gotten the battle this
day through the help of your fool Robert, and the
scar that he hath on his face he hath gained it
on the field.” But the emperor rebuked her, and
advised that she should teach his daughter more
wisdom than to think so foolishly ; yet was it in truth
as the emperor's daughter signified. And a second
and a third time came the Saracens in greater
numbers than before to besiege and take the city,
and were discomfited only by the marvellous valour
of the knight on the white horse : nor none could
tell the emperor whence he came or whither he
went ; albeit, after the third battle, a certain knight,
that had lain in wait for Robert in a wood, wounded
him in the thigh with a spear, and left the spears
head there, yet nevertheless could not overtake him,
nor discover who he was.
º
VI.
But when Robert came again to the fountain, he
drew the spear-head out of his thigh, and hid the
same between two great stones there-by ; and he
dressed his wound with grease and moss, deeming
that none marked him. But the emperor's daughter
saw him do these things, as she stood at her
window ; and for that he seemed a fair and well-
favoured young knight, she began to nourish an
affection for him.
The knight who had wounded Robert, as is
aforesaid, counselled the emperor that he might
discover who the knight upon the white horse was,







ROBERT THE DEVIL. 69
if he published his proclamation that whoever had
been hurt in those battles against the heathens,
riding on a white horse, and should bring with
him the spear-head wherewith he was wounded in
the thigh, would receive in marriage the emperor's
daughter, and half the empire with her.
Whereupon the seneschal, weening that he might
by stratagem gain his desire, which was to espouse
the emperor's daughter, caused to be procured a
white horse and white armour, and wounded him-
Self in the thigh with a spear-head. The emperor,
to whom he presented himself, was at the first
loth to give ear to his tale ; but he persuaded
him, until he thought that, whereas he had judged
him to be a false and forsworn knight, he was a
wise and true One ; and consented to the marriage
of his daughter him-with.
After a while the seneschal set out to go to
Rome to espouse the emperor's daughter, of which
thing there had been proclamation and cry made,
and he took with him a goodly company; and at
the same time God sent an angel to command the
hermit thitherward to wend, in order to see Robert,
and make known unto him that his term of penance
was concluded. Whereat the hermit was exceeding
joyful, and accordingly went.
But when the emperor's daughter well understood
that she was appointed to wed the seneschal, she
was as she had been distracted and forlorn, and tore
her hair and rent her garments. But nought hereof
availed her ; and the day was named, and every-
thing held in readiness.

7O - SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
VII.
The emperor and his daughter that was born
dumb, as ye have afore heard, and the pope of
Rome his holiness, and their retinue, and the
Seneschal and his company, assembled in the
church, and the bride and bridegroom stood by the
altar, and the ministering priest would have begun
the service, when Our Lord did a fair miracle ; for
by the grace of God, the young maid, that had never
spoken since her birth, opened her mouth, and said
as follows: “Father, I hold you not wise, in that
you believe what this proud traitor telleth you,
whereas all that he saith is false; but here in
this city is a holy and steadfast one, for whose
Sake God hath bestowed on me this day my
speech ; and him I do love in my heart, and have
ever noted his valiance and devotion, yet when I
pointed only with my finger, no man would believe
me.” -
The emperor was in an ecstasy, when he heard
the voice of his daughter for the first time, and
he knew by the words which she delivered that the
seneschal had deceived him ; and the seneschal,
dreading his wrath, suddenly made out of the
church, and mounted his horse, and departed his
way with all his folk. -
Then the pope his holiness axed the maiden
who the man might be whereof she spake; and she
rose up, and led the pope his holiness and the
emperor her father to the fountain, where Robert
had been wont to arm and unarm him ; and there
she drew out from betwixt the two stones the spear-

ROBERT THE DEVIL. 7 I
head that Robert had hidden there, which, when
the spear was brought, the two joined together
point-device, and quoth the emperor's daughter:
“Thrice we have had the victory against the
Saracens by him, and thrice I have seen him arm
and unarm at this fountain, and when he had so
done, lie down again among the dogs. Yet who
brought him the white horse and the white armour,
that know I not. This is he, notwithstanding, that
hath given you, sir, the victory against the heathen ;
therefore, if ye will, we will even go together, and
have speech of him.”
So they went, and found Robert among the dogs,
and did him reverence, commanding him to speak;
but he answered no word, as he understood them
not, and played many strange pranks to make them
sport. Then the pope his holiness conjured him,
in the name of God who died on the cross for Our
redemption, that he would lift up his voice ; but
Robert only rose like a fool, and gave the pope his
blessing. -
But anon he espied behind him the hermit, that
at the bidding of God had set him his penance; and
when the hermit drew near to him, he cried unto
him : “My friend, hearken unto me. I know full
well that ye be Robert that men call the Devil; but,
lo! now ye be once again in grace with Almighty
God, and in place of that foul name ye shall be
termed the Servant of God. It is ye that have
delivered this land from the Saracens, and I bid ye
henceforward serve and worship God; for Our Lord
Sendeth me to you, commanding you to speak, and
no more to counterfeit a fool, since it is His will and
72 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
pleasure that all your trespasses shall be forgiven,
and your penance determined.”
When Robert heard these words of the holy
hermit, he fell on his knees, and lifted up his hands
toward heaven, giving praise unto God for His
infinite mercy. Yet albeit the emperor saw his
noble valiance and courtesy, and the emperor's
daughter loved him exceeding well, the hermit
would not at that time that Robert should marry
that lady, saying that if it was the will of God, it
would come to pass in due season ; and so each
departed to his own country.
In very sooth, ere Robert, that was no longer a
fool, but the high and puissant Duke of Normandy,
which kept his state at Rouen in France the Fair,
had long time returned home among his lieges,
who loved him well enough for the gentleness and
benignity of his rule through the grace of God, Our
Lord charged him to repair again to Rome, to the
intent that he should wed the emperor's daughter,
his dearly beloved mistress; which marriage was
royally kept, and the Romans, that were so behold-
ing to the White Knight on the White Horse, were
glad that it had so in the end fallen out. And when
Duke Robert brought his noble spouse, the emperor's
daughter, home to Rouen in Normandy, all the
people did her honour and reverence, and made her
many rich gifts.
The remainder of his life Duke Robert, that was
now named the Servant of Our Lord, spent in well-
governing his realm, and maintaining the same in
peace, so that he was beloved of every degree ; and
he had born unto him of that great lady, the emperor's

ROBERT THE DEVIL. 73
daughter, a son, who was called Richard, and who
did many and divers deeds of arms in the wars of
Charlemagne, king of France, and afterward reigned
in Normandy, and was beloved of all, as his father
Robert before him.



FRIAR BACON.
[7%e investiture of a scholar, whose works ſave
Öeen collected, and of whose true character and ałłain-
ments we are ał Żresent aff/e to take more correct
measurement, wiłż suffernatura/ attributes and asso-
ciations is //e customary incidence and /o/ of every
career cast in an iſ/iterate and priest-ridden epoch,
when an overwhelming majority of Žeo//e could not
com/re/end facuſ/ies and opinions franscending their
own, and Že Church discouraged and suppressed Öy
every means aſ its command a tendency to free in-
guiry and independent //ought. The circumstances
attendant on the mayážica/ 6iograft/y of Æoger Bacon
have a good dea/ of affinity with those which sur-
round and disguise the actua/ Faustus of history.
It was readily taken for granted that studies and
disc/osures so far removed beyond the genera/ ?each
must Öe under the auspices of some spiritua/ or
demonia.ca/ agency, and the clergy spared no pains to
throw discredit on a movement which they feſt to Öe
antagonistic to their own welfare and prestige.
At the same time, Bacon was, no doubá, fundamen-
ta//y a good Catholic, and credited many points of
àe/ief which such a man would now-a-days view wit/.
different eyes; and very possibly the motions which
74
FRIAR BACON. 75
were affiliated on him respecting /u/ian //e 4/ostate
were such as / e might ſave entertained, just as
tº would ſumſ wit/, / is academica/ /raining to put
ſai!/ in the submarine four of A/exander //e Great
zºnder //e auspices of Aristof/e, Z/ºe /asſ a proceeding
which is readily traceab/e to f/ie Änow/edge by the
ancients of Že science of diving.
An &/ºe case immedia/e/y before us, we ſhear Aow
the priest who taught him discerned Četimes the
7-eceſſive Zone of Bacon's infe//ec/, /ow / is father
desired to Æeeſ, Aim to the //ough, and how the boy
escaped from ſome to become a frominent figure
Žn &/ºe /iterary anna/s of his maſſive ſand. 7%e
grow//, of information / as ſong enab/ed us to read
such a story as that below between the ſines, and
Žo aródźrate between Bacon and //e ſeriod w/ic/.
Żroduced him. // was no consolation to such men,
#/hat we, coming so ſong after, g/ad/y and /ºroud/y
accord to them żeir rea/ ?/ace in the domain of
inte//ec/, and in the ranks of those who Zed #/he way
in Żromoting secular education ; yet it was somet/ºng
if they escaped the halter or the ſagot. Bacon
ſourished at a transitional period, and was fortunate
enough to inspire wonder, without incurring super-
stitious dread and Aatred.
Aortions of // is narrative are offvious/y Óorrowed
from earlier sources, such as the suffernatura/?ower
conferred on Miles's faāor, which is a loan from the
“A”iar and the Æoy” and the scene where rare
fruits are exhibited &efore the court out of season,
which is in Aſſoccaccio and in Painter’s “A”/ace of
A/easure,” and which recurs in the “AZistory of
Faustus "; and again the friar is invested, when

76 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
occasion serves, wit/, //e maischievous or tric/ºsome
ałłriðutes of Æoffin Good/e//ow.
Zł may be observed that f/e idea of presenting the
dancers Óefore //e Áing was probab/y suggested to 4/ke
compºſer Öy the antic-masques at court and elsewhere
w/ic/, Öecame so frequent and fashionaöſe during the
reign of /ames / /n fact, Bacon eachióited a masque
of Że Five Senses, and a second occurs as a seque/
to the marriage of Miſ/isanſ to her true/ove &y &/ºe
agency of Bacon. This was just such another per-
formance—an antic measyue of Apes. One or two
of the adventures narrated are from the jest-books;
and the story of “ How Friar Bacon did //e// a
Young Man ſo his Sweet/heart" reads /i/Ée an ama-
Zogue of Æočin Hood and A//en d /9a/e.
Z%e 2//ogica/ incongruity of the supernatura/
ſeaſures in this romance is common to near/y aſ!
narratives of the class. We have noticed it in
“ lºgi/ius,” and it is discernióſe in “A”-iar Aus/. "
azzaſ “Aa2/s/2/s.”
Miraculous circumstances and adventures consti-
ăuțed, of course, an attractive feature among readers
of our popular /iterature, and the confused motions of
sorcery and magic in the minds of the Załłer were not
unfrequent/y shared by the authors of the fictions,
who, Öesides, might Óe desirous of reconciſing the
oôſections of the most squeamish áy making the devil
and /ºis friend's come off second-öest at the Zast.
Z%e conſines of the norma/ and suffernatura/ are
necessarily unadjusted by any ſited or recognised ſaw,
and are at the mercy of any particular writez's fancy
or convenience ; and Že harmonious and effective
fusion of two distinct elements has always proved


FRIAR BACON. 77
Öeyond the reach of average ſiterary workers. Hence
arises the whimsica/ and verałious ſumóle which
Žese stories of encham/mem/ display.]
I.
THERE once lived in the west country a rich farmer,
who had an only son. The farmer's name was
Bacon, and his son was called Roger ; and, not
because his father looked to make him a holy clerk,
but for that he should get learning enough to enable
him to use his wealth wisely, this Roger was put with
the parson of the town where he was born, to learn
his letters and to become a scholar.
But the boy discovered so rare an aptitude and so
quick a wit, that his master could, after a short time,
teach him no more; and as he judged it to be pity
that young Bacon should lose what he had gained,
he went to the farmer, and exhorted him to suffer
Roger to go to Oxford, that he might shew, by
taking upon him that charge, his thankfulness to
God in having sent him such a son.
The father said little ; but as soon as Roger came
home, he asked for his books, and taking them and
locking them up, gave him a cart-whip in place
thereof, saying to him so :
“ Boy, I will have you no priest; you shall be no
better learned than I; you can tell, as it is, by the
almanac when it is best to sow wheat, when barley,
peas, and beans, and when the gelding season comes ;
and how to buy and sell I shall instruct thee anon,
for fairs and markets are to me what his mass and
Ave, Maria, are to Sir John. Take this whip ; it

78 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
will prove more useful to you than crabbed Latin.
Now do as I bid, or, by the mass, you will rue it.”
The young fellow thought this hard measure; but
he made no reply, and within a short space he gave
his father the slip, and entered himself in a cloister
some twenty miles off, where he was heartily enter-
tained, and continued his studies.
And ere many years had passed he made such
progress in all kinds of learning that he grew
famous, and was invited to go to the University
of Oxford, where he perfected himself in all the
sciences, and was known for a master of the secrets
of art and nature throughout Christendom.
Now the king of England, hearing of this learned
friar, and of the wonderful things which he was
able to perform and to answer, sent for him at such
time as he and the queen were sojourning in Oxford-
shire ; and he said to the king's messenger :
“I pray you thank his grace from me, and say
that I am at his grace's service ; but take heed lest
I be at the court two hours before thee.”
“Scholars, old men, and travellers,” answered the
messenger, “may lie with authority. Scarce can I
credit such a thing.”
“To convince you, I could tell you the name of
the wench you last lay with ; but I will do both
within four hours.”
The gentleman departed in haste; but, whether
he took the wrong road or not, the friar was there
before him.
The king warmly welcomed him, and told him,
from what great marvels he had heard of him, that
he had long desired to see him. The friar declared

FRIAR BACON. 79
that report had been too flattering, and that among
the sons of learning there were many worthier than
himself. The king prayed him not to be too modest,
and to afford him some taste of his skill; and he
said that he should be unworthy of possessing
either art or knowledge, did he grudge to make his
grace and the queen witnesses of his ability. So
he begged them to seat themselves.
Friar Bacon then waved his wand, and forthwith
there arose such ravishing music that all were
amazed.
“This is to please,” quoth he, “the Sense of
Hearing. All the other senses shall be gratified, ere
I have done.”
He waved his wand again, and the music waxed
louder; and, lo l five dancers entered, the first like a
court-laudress, the second like a footman, the third
like an usurer, the fourth like a prodigal, the fifth like
a fool. And when they had given great content
by their antics and positions, they vanished in the
order in which they came. This was the indulgence
of the second Sense, or the Sense of Sight.
He waved his wand the third time, and the music
was changed, and before them appeared a table
covered with all manner of delicious fruits, many not
to that season belonging; and when they had par-
taken fully thereof, they were suddenly removed
from view. And this was the Sense of Taste.
Then the wand once more moved, and the most
fragrant perfumes filled the air. And this was the
Sense of Smell. And presently for the fifth and last
time Friar Bacon exercised his mastery, and men
of divers nations, as Russians, Polanders, Indians,

8O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Armenians, were seen bearing the richest furs, which
they offered to the king and the queen to handle,
and for softness they surpassed all that had ever
been seen of that nature. And this was the Sense
of Touch.
When it happened that these wonders were at an
end, Friar Bacon demanded of his majesty if there
was any other thing in which he might do him
service ; and the king thanked him, and said no,
not for that time, and he took a costly jewel from
his neck, and gave it to the friar of his royal bounty.
And when the friar was about to take his leave of
the court, he cast his eyes round, and espied the
messenger hurrying in with all speed, covered with
mud, for he had ridden through quagmires and
ditches, through mistaking his way. -
“Be not wrath,” said the friar to him ; “I shall
now fulfil my word, that I pledged to thee.” And
he lifted the hangings, and there stood a kitchen-
maid, with her basting-ladle in her hand.
“I trow,” quoth the friar, “you have no great
store of money in your purse, and I will bear the
charges of your wench's journey home.” And at
his bidding she disappeared, and all laughed at
the gentleman's greasy sweetheart.
Now Friar Bacon had one servant to wait upon
him, and his name was Miles ; and he was none of
the wisest. So the friar being yet at Oxford in
residence with other scholars, all were wont to fast
on the Friday ; and none so devout as Miles, for
when his master offered him bread to eat, he would
refuse it, saying that it was holier and meeter not
to eat ought. But the friar, knowing his craft, and

FRIAR BACON. 8 I
*
that he secretly ate meat, served him well for his
deceit, and it was in this manner following.
On a certain Good Friday, when the friar was
accustomed to partake of bread only, he tendered
some to Miles; but Miles with a grave aspect
turned away from it, and desired leave to fast
altogether. Then he left his master, and went
where he had a delicate black-pudding, that he had
made the day before, and began to eat the same.
But the friar his master so contrived by his art, that
when his man had set the end of the pudding in his
mouth, he might in no wise remove it again; and
when he pulled and pulled, and it stirred not, he
cried out for help. The friar ran to him, and taking
the other end of the pudding, drew him to the hall,
where all the other scholars were, and shewed them
how Miles would not eat meat on Fridays for
conscience' sake; and he tied him by the pudding
for a while to one of the window-bars, where he
looked like a bear fastened by his nose to a stake.
II.
Friar Bacon now began to accomplish many
other strange and marvellous works. Whereof one
was the deliverance of a gentleman in Oxfordshire,
that had been a prodigal, and had brought his estate
to ruin. This gentleman scarce knew at the last
how to earn bread enough to keep him during the
rest of his miserable existence, and so he wandered
about here and there. Then came to him one day an
old penny-father, and besought him that he would
say why he was in this piteous case.
A. L. G
82 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
The Oxfordshire gentleman told the stranger
everything, and the other said that, if he would
fulfil certain conditions, he would furnish him with
money enough for all his creditors ; and when he
said that he would swear to return the money, the
old man rejoined that it was not oaths he would
have, but bonds.
So the gentleman met him the next morning in a
wood, as they had appointed, and he was attended
by two serving-men carrying money-bags. Then
he dictated to him the conditions on which he would
lend him what he needed ; and they were, that he
should discharge all his debts, and when he was no
longer indebted to any man, he should become at a
word the slave of the lender. -
That gentleman, in the plight in which he found
himself at that time, yielded to this treaty, and paid
all his mortgages and chief creditors, and became
richer than he had ever been before. But he was
secretly troubled in his mind when he remembered
how he had bound himself to the stranger, and had
consented to submit to his will ; and after a time the
old penny-father appeared, and claimed his bond,
saying, “Thou hast paid thy debts, now thou art
mine.” But he replied, “Nay, sir; I have not yet
discharged them all." And the usurer therefore
waxed wrath, and transformed himself into a horrible
shape, and cried, “Thou shalt not so deceive me;
I will come to-morrow morning and prove to thee
thy falsehood, till when I leave thee to despair.”
And he vanished, and the gentleman now knew
that it was the devil with whom he had made that
compact.


FRIAR BACON. 83
This caused him to be so sorrowful and downcast,
that he would have thrown himself on his sword, and
so ended his life, had not Friar Bacon happily inter-
posed, and comforted him ; and when he unfolded
to the friar what had passed between the devil and
himself, the friar said unto him so : “Sir, appoint to
meet the devil to-morrow in the wood, and for the
rest be content.”
So the Oxfordshire gentleman met the devil in
the wood, and the devil in sore anger upbraided
him with his falsity, and commanded him to tarry
no more, but to follow him. Then the gentleman
asked him whether he would suffer some one to be
judge in the case, and to deliver an award; and the
devil agreed thereto. Whereupon suddenly Friar
Bacon was seen by the gentleman walking near at
hand, and he called him, and set out how the matter
was. Friar Bacon considered, and asked the
gentleman whether he had ever paid anything to
the devil for all his great goodness to him, and he
answered that he had not. Then he told him, as
he valued his life, never so to do, for he was his
chief creditor; and thereupon the devil vanished with
a loud cry, and the Oxfordshire gentleman thanked
Friar Bacon for the great boon which he had con-
ferred upon him in so wisely judging between them.
III.
The next exploit which Friar Bacon sought to
achieve proved him a loyal subject to his prince and
a dear friend to England. For reflecting how often
England had been invaded by Saxon and Dane and

84 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.

Norwegian, he laboured with a project for surround-
ing the whole island with a wall of brass, and to the
intent that he might compass this, he first devised
a head of brass which should speak. And when he
could not for all his art arrive at this, he invited
another great scholar, Friar Bungay by name, to
aid him therein ; and they both together by great
study made a head of brass, yet wist not how to
give it motion and speech ; and at last they called
to their succour a Spirit, who directed them, but
gave them warning that, when the head began to
speak, if they heard it not ere it had finished, all
their labour would be lost.
So they did as the Spirit had enjoined them, and
were right weary; and bidding Miles to wake them
when the Head spake, they fell asleep.
Now Miles, because his master threatened him
if he should not make them aware when the head
spake, took his tabor and pipe, and sang ballads to
keep him from nodding, as, Cam'sć thou not from
AVewcast/e 2 /)ainty, come ſhow to me, and // was a
77c/, /ge?"c/a/2.É.-772&n.
Presently the Head spake, saying, TIME IS but
Miles went on playing and singing, for the words
seemed to him to import nought. Twice and thrice
the head said TIME IS / but Miles was loth to wake
his master and Friar Bungay for such a trifle; and
there, surely enough, came in one of his ditties,
/Jainty, come thou to me, and he began to sing, -
“Time is for some to eat;
Time is for some to sleep;
Time is for some to laugh ;
And time is for some to weep.

FRIAR BACON. 85
Time is for some to sing ;
Time is for some to pray;
Time is for some to creep
That have drunk all the day.”
At the end of half an hour the Head spake once
more, and delivered these two words, TIME WAS
And Miles made sport of them, as he had done
before. Then another half-hour passed, and the
head uttered this sentence, TIME IS PAST and fell
down amid flashes of fire and terrible noise; whereat
the two friars awoke, and found the room full of
smoke.
“Did not the Head speak P” asked Bacon.
“Yea, sir,” replied his man; “but it spake to no
purpose. I'd teach a parrot to talk better in half
the time.”
“Out on thee, villain l’ cried his master; “thou
hast undone us both. Hadst thou roused us, all
England would have been walled about with brass,
and we had won everlasting renown. What did it
say P”
“Very few words,” answered Miles, “and I have
heard wiser. It said, TIME IS / "
“Hadst thou called us then, we had been made
for ever.” -
“Then in half an hour it said, TIME was "
“And thou didst not wake us then l’ interposed
Bungay
“Alack, sir,” answered Miles, “I was expecting
him to begin some long tale, and then I would have
awakened you ; but anon he cried, TIME IS PAST!
and made such an uproar withal that he woke you
himself.”

86 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Friar Bacon was greatly incensed at what his
servant had done, and would have beaten, and may-
be slain him ; but Friar Bungay pleaded for the
fellow, and his master said, “Well, his punishment
shall be, that he shall be struck dumb for a month.”
So it was that England was not girded round
with a brazen wall, as had nearly come to pass.
IV.
Friar Bacon, this mishap notwithstanding, ever
grew more famous as time passed ; and it so
fortuned that, when the king of England proceeded
to his conquests in France, and could by no means
take a certain town, but, on the contrary, sustained
much loss before it, he wox angry, and offered ten
thousand crowns truly counted to any one who
should conquer this town and gain it for him.
So when proclamation had been made to such
effect, and no one came to essay to do what the
king desired, Friar Bacon, leaving his studies,
crossed over to France and sought admittance to
the king. To whom he recalled how his grace had
formerly shown him great courtesy in Oxfordshire,
and he was now ready to do his pleasure.
“Bacon,” said our lord the king, “alas ! it is not
art but arms that I now require."
“Your grace saith well,” returned the friar; “but
be pleased to remember that art doth oftentimes
accomplish more than force. And speaking of art
and nature, pure and simple, without any magical
property, consider how ships are made without oars,
and large vessels to cross the wide sea, and only

FRIAR BACON. 87
one man to guide them ; how chariots may be built
to move with incredible force without human help
to stir them ; and how one may fly in the air, and
turn an engine; or walk in the bottom of the sea
(as Alexander the Great did); and, which is more
pertinent at this time, how by means of a mirror you
may make one man wear the semblance of a whole
army, and what is far off seem near at hand, and
what is high, low, or the contrary. So Socrates did
detect the dragon that lurked in the mountains, and
destroyed all around. Then, as Aristotle instructed
Alexander, instruments may be contrived by which
venomous influences may be brought in contact with
a city, and infect its inhabitants every one, even the
poison of a basilisk lifted up upon the wall. These
things are worth a kingdom to a wise man.”
His grace gave leave to Friar Bacon to do as it
liked him, and he should name his reward; and the
friar caused an earthwork to be raised higher than
the city wall, and desiring his grace to be in readi-
ness the next morning to attack the town, when he
should wave a flag from the earthwork on the mor-
row, at nine of the clock the friar had, with certain
mathematical glasses, set fire to the town hall, and
while the people and the soldiers were busy in
extinguishing the flames, the flag was waved, and
the king took the place with little resistance.
He treated the inhabitants with such clemency,
that he won the love of his brother the king of
France, who, to divert him, summoned a servant of
his, a German named Vandermast, to shew conjuring
sleights before both their graces ; and the king of
England, understanding what the entertainment was

88 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
to be, privily sent for Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay
to come to him, that they might witness the same.
But he bad them keep their counsel.
When the banquet was over, Vandermast asked
the king of England if it was so that he would
choose to see the spirit of any man that had formerly
lived. The king said, “Yea; above all I would
see Pompey, who could brook no equal.” And
Vandermast made him appear as he was attired at
the battle of Pharsalia, whereat all were mightily
contented.
Then Friar Bacon, all without warning given,
raised the ghost of Julius Caesar, who could brook
no superior, and had beaten Pompey at Pharsalia;
and Vandermast, not knowing that Friar Bacon
was present, said that there was some one in
the hall who was skilled in magic. To whom
Bacon discovered himself, and declared that he
had brought Caesar to overthrow Pompey, as he
did erst; and therefore Caesar engaged Pompey,
and vanquished him. Which pleased all present
passing well, and then both disappeared.
The king of England said to the German
ambassador, that he thought his man had got the
better of Vandermast; but Vandermast said that he
would tell a different tale, ere all was done. “Ah !”
said Friar Bacon, “my companion, Friar Bungay,
shall deal with thee, sirrah ; and if thou canst worst
him, I will try what I may do, and not till then.”
Then Friar Bungay raised the Hesperian tree,
laden with golden apples, which were guarded by
a fiery dragon stretched beneath its branches.
Vandermast conjured up the ghost of Hercules, and

FRIAR BACON. 89
said, “This is Hercules, who in his lifetime gathered
the fruit of the tree, and made the dragon crouch at
his feet; and so shall he do again.”
But when Hercules offered to take the fruit,
Friar Bacon raised his wand, and Hercules desisted.
Vandermast threatened him, an' he picked it not :
but he said, “Vandermast, I cannot ; I am fearful ;
for here is great Bacon, that is more powerful than
thee." Vandermast cursed Hercules, and again
threatened him. But Bacon bad him not fret him-
self, for since he could not persuade Hercules to
do his bidding, he himself would cause him to per-
form some service; and he commanded Hercules to
take up Vandermast and carry him back straightway
into Germany.
“Alas!” cried the ambassador; “I would not
have lost Vandermast at any price.”
“Fear not, my lord,” answered Bacon; “he hath
but gone home to see his wife, and shall return to
you anon.”
V.
Shortly after, when Friar Bacon had come again
into England, a rich man of that country died, and
left his estate to that one among his three sons who
loved him best; and none could say how that was,
for each one avowed that it was he, by reason that
to him his father was most dear. So Friar Bacon
was asked of the king to aid him in this matter;
and that learned and famous man, when the three
brethren agreed to abide by his judgment, having
caused the body of the father to be taken from the
ground, and gotten ready three bows and three


90 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
arrows, summoned the sons to attend him, and said
unto them so : “Sirs, there appeared to be no
other method whereby this controversy might be
concluded; therefore I have brought hither the
dead body of your father, and whoever strikes him
nearest to his heart shall have all his goods and
lands.”
The two elder brothers shot one after the other,
and both hit the body, yet did not go near the
heart. But the youngest refused to shoot, saying
that he would liever lose his patrimony; and Friar
Bacon awarded him the estate, because he shewed
by his loyal act that he loved his father better than
the others : and all men commended the friar's
wisdom therein.
Now, albeit Friar Bacon had seldom indeed taken
any reward for all his great services to our lord the
king and many other, yet the report spread abroad
that in his house he kept a rich treasure; and cer-
tain thieves brake one night thereinat, and demanded
of Miles, who admitted them, and of the friar, what
money they had. The friar answered that he was
but poorly furnished with money; whereto they
replied, these three thieves, that they must have
whatso there was ; and the friar gave them one
hundred pounds each in a bag.
They heartily rejoiced at their good fortune; and
he said to them that they should have music to
boot, which still further contented them ; and Miles
took his tabor, and began to play thereon. Then
the three thieves rose and set to dancing, and
danced so lustily with their money-bags in their
hands that they grew weary, but could not cease,

FRIAR BACON. 9 I
for the friar had set a spell on them ; and Miles
went out of the door playing the while, and led the
thieves over the fields, and over hedge and ditch,
and through quagmire and pond, till they were wet
2 to the skin and weary to death. Then Miles
stayed his hand, and they lay down as they were
and slept ; and he took the money from them, and
returned home to his master.
Meanwhile Vandermast was plotting how he
could compass the death of Friar Bacon, to revenge
the dishonour which had been cast upon him in
France; and the friar, looking into his books, and
finding that a great danger would befall him in the
second week of the present month, unless he used
some means to prevent it, devised this sleight,
namely, while he read to hold a ball of brass in one
hand, and beneath it was a brass basin, and percase
he should fall asleep, the loosing of the ball from
his hand would wake him.
Now Vandermast had recently hired a Walloon
soldier to come over to England, and to kill Bacon,
and if he did so his reward was to be one hundred
crowns; and when he arrived at Bacon's house, this
Walloon soldier found Bacon dosing, yet the ball
of brass still in his hand ; but as he lifted his sword
to slay him, the ball dropped into the basin, and
Bacon woke.
“Who art thou ?” he demanded of the Walloon.
“I am a Walloon, and a soldier, and more than
that, a villain ; and I am come, hired by Vander-
mast, to kill thee.”
“What is thy religion ?”
“To go to an ale-house, to abstain from evil for
92 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
want of employment, and to do good against my
will.”
“A good profession for a devil! Dost thou
believe in hell ?”
“I believe in no such thing.”
Then Friar Bacon raised the spirit of Julian the
Apostate, with his body burning and full of wounds,
whereat the soldier was almost out of his wits for
fear. Friar Bacon asked the spirit wherefore he
was thus tormented ; and he answered, that he had
been happy if he had remained a Christian, but he
abjured the true faith, and now endured the doom
of all unbelieving wretches.
The Walloon soldier that had come to kill the
friar stood trembling all this time, and when the friar
dismissed the spirit, he begged him that he would
instruct him in a better course of life, which the
friar engaged to do ; and this Walloon became a
true Christian, and died in the Holy War.
VI.
It becomes time to relate how once Friar Bacon
had a strange adventure, and helped a young man
to his sweetheart that Friar Bungay would have
married to another.
An Oxfordshire gentleman had a daughter named
Millisant, who was courted by a youth whose love
she returned, and whose wife she desired to be ;
but her father was averse from that match, and
would have wedded her to a rich knight.
This knight, when he perceived how loth the
maiden was, went to Friar Bungay, and asked him
to get her for him, either by his counsel or art ;





FRIAR BACON. 93
and Bungay, for that he was something covetous,
promised, if he would take the lady for the air in
a coach, so to direct the horses that they should
bring them to an old chapel in the wood, where
they might be secretly married.
But meantime the gentleman had sought Friar
Bacon, and implored him to do what he might to
further his suit; and Bacon, knowing him to be
virtuous and deserving, brought out a beryl, where-
in he could see his best-beloved and the knight
in the chapel, though it was fifty miles thence, on
the eve of being joined together in holy matrimony
by Friar Bungay. The gentleman was over-
whelmed by grief; but Bacon bad him be of good
cheer, and seating him and himself in a chair, they
were presently at the chapel door. Friar Bungay
was about to join their hands, when Bacon struck
him dumb, and raising a mist in the chapel, no one
could see his way, but each mistook the other, and
amid their bewilderment Bacon led Millisant to the
poor gentleman, and they were married by him
in the chapel porch, and furnished with good store
of money for their journey; and while they went
their way joyfully together, the friar by his magic
detained the father and the knight in the chapel,
until they could not overtake them. And at a cer-
tain distance he prepared for them (albeit unseen) a
banquet, succeeded by an antic masque of apes with
music, wherein first entered three apes, and then
three more, dressed in quaint coats, and then six ;
and all danced in merry and strange wise together,
and then, when they had saluted the bridegroom
and the bride, vanished.


94. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
VII.
News had been brought to Vandermast, where
he sojourned in Germany, that at length Friar
Bacon was dead ; and accordingly he came over
once more into England, and met Friar Bungay
in Kent, whom-of he learned that Bacon yet lived.
Now he bare no goodwill to Bungay, for that he
was a friend to Bacon ; and when he rose in the
morning to leave his inn, he went to the stable where
Bungay's horse was, and took it, leaving a spirit in
its room. And when Bungay sought his horse to go
on his way, he wist not what Vandermast had done,
and mounted it, and in the middle of a stream it let
him go, so that he perforce returned to his inn, at
the door whereof he met the other, who asked him
if he had been in a swimming match, and Bungay
answered him again, that had he been so well
posted as he was when he went to Germany, this
would not have so fallen out. Vandermast bit his
lip, but said nought. And then Bungay, knowing
that this German loved a wench in the house, and
spared no pains to get her, shaped a spirit in her
likeness, which yielded unto his advances, that he
was enraptured ; and when he had gone to bed, the
sheet on which they lay was carried into the air,
and fell into a deep pond. When Bungay saw
him, he asked him how he liked the girl.
“Marry, I wish thee such another,” quoth he.
“Nay, the rules of my order forbid it,” he
replied.
So it came to pass that these two conjurors grew
more and more wroth each with other, until at last


FRIAR BACON. 95
the Devil wox impatient of not having received
from them the money for teaching them all their
knowledge, and slew them, so that they were
strangely scorched with fire amid a mighty storm
of wind and rain ; and the country people, finding
their bodies, bestowed on them Christian burial,
for that Bungay was a friar and Vandermast a
Stranger.

VIII.
You have heard that Friar Bacon, who thus
out-lived both Bungay and Vandermast, possessed
a wonderful glass, in which it was possible to see
what was happening some fifty miles away; and
this glass had been a source of great profit and
pleasure to many, whom Bacon had obliged with
pleas
the use thereof; till it happened that two youths,
whose fathers — being neighbours — were absent
from home, wished to know how they did, and
besought Bacon to suffer them to look in his glass.
But those gentlemen, since their departure, had
grown to be foes one to the other, and when their
sons looked, they saw that their fathers were on
the eve of fighting together, and as they fought
one killed the other; and this sight so fired one
of the youths whose father was thus slain, that he
began to quarrel with his friend, and they both
became so furious that they stabbed each other.
Which when Friar Bacon knew, hearing the noise,
he was so grieved, that he broke his mirror, the
like whereof the whole world could not shew ; and
then arrived the news of the deaths of Bungay and
96 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Vandermast, which further distressed him, so that
he kept his chamber three days.
He now began to repent his wicked and vain
life, spent in the service of the devil, and to turn
his thoughts to Divine studies: and calling together
many of his friends, he addressed them in these
words:
“My good friends and fellow-students, it is not
unknown to you how by my art I have attained
great credit with all, and have done many wonders,
as every one knows, both king and commons. I
have unlocked the secrets of nature, and have laid
them open to the view of man, whereas they had
been buried and lost since the days of Hermes the
philosopher. I have revealed the mysteries of the
stars and of every kind of life that is under the sun.
Yet all this my knowledge I value so lightly, that
I could wish I were ignorant ; for what hath it
availed me, save to keep me from the study of God,
and the care of my soul, which is the immortal part
of man. But I hasten to remove the cause of all
my error, gentlemen.” And, a fire burning in the
hearth, before they could prevent him, Friar Bacon
threw all his books therein, and consumed them
utterly.
Then he gave away all his goods to the poor,
and building himself a cell in the church wall, with-
drew from the world, and after two years' space
died a true, penitent sinner.

g
FAUST OR FAUSTU.S.
| 7%e materia/for judging //e Zrue character and
ałłriðuſes of Že remarkað/e individual who con-
stitutes //e suðject-maſter of Že newſ item in our
co//ec/ion is chiefly preserved in a German prose
ôook of 1587, when about /a/f a century Żad eſaſsed
since the deat/, of Faustus. AEeyond // is source of
Ánow/edge we have one or two acciden/a/ ??eces of
Žes/imony on Z/ºe / art of Żersons who either saw our
Aero or /ad /eard of Žim in Žis /i/e/ime; and on
// is information we have to found our estimate of
Že a/leged magician, for, as we sha// eaft/ain, the
dramatic creations of Marlowe and others, no ſess
//ian //e /o/u/ar theory, are, one and aſ/, more or
ſess unfaithful to reality. In the introductory re-
marés, we have ventured to suggest certain motions
about £/e inte//ectua/ /istory of Faustus, and what
succeeds is a care/u/ digest of the Æſizabethan version
of £/e legend, Żuð/is/hed on/y ſive years ſafer than £he
German origina/, compared with a second Æng/isſ,
feat a couple of years /a/er in date.
The second pseudo-àiography, which £70%07/s to Öe
Że zwork of an AEmg/isſ, student at Wiſłemberg some
fifty years after the time, takes serious exception to
Žás / redecessor; 6% iſ aft/ears to Öe, on 4/ºe whoſe, an
inſerior production, and to have been very Zoose/y and
clumsily compiled. It is neither a supplement to the
A. L. 97 H

98 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
earlier feará nor a revision of it, Öut a w/o//y distinct
assemblage of stories and advenſures, arranged wit/-
out any ostensióſe regard to propriety or se/uence.
7%e partia/ity and veneration for the supernatura/
and weird whic/, /ave constanțſy manifesſed //e/2-
se/ves in the professors of demono/ogy and witc/-
craft, as well as in 4/ose who have gained an indirect
Ánowledge of such studies Öy /earsay and guesswork,
readi/yeap/ain the estimate whic/, / is contemporaries
formed of Faust or Faustus, and the discrepancy
Öetween our present conclusions as to the nature of
his emp/oyments, his power, and his fate.
Zł was not fi// Faustus had been near/y /a/f a
century underground that the idea occurred to a
German romancist of utilizing all the current
popular may//s re/affing to him, and others of the same
Sta/, for Žižerary Żużoses, and //;ere aft/eared at
Aer/in in 1587 a volume professing to recount wit/.
fide/ity the transactions of that rather Örieſ and sti//
more offscure and unevená/u/ career. The 6004 was
ca/cu/aſſed to tick/e 4/ke /a/a/es of readers to whom
the very name of a retired student of a former
generation would be in many instances new, and of
whose character and achievements the author might
conſident/y propagate the wildest ſicéions and extra-
vagances with impunity and proft. ZDuring the
/a/se of fifty years al/ #40se who were acquainted
with the truž/, /ad died, and there was no schoo/
of ana/y/ica/ criticism to dissect and estimate a plaus-
ióſe tissue of chimerica/ or mischievous invenčions,
vamped up ſesús, and affi/iated matter of a// A inds.
C/nder the name of Æaustus we ſind at least four
impersonations: (1) the Faustus of real life, so far


FAUST OR FAUSTUS. 99
as we can make him out, the son of poor parents,
studying aſ ſirst for ſºo/y orders, Z/en diverſing into
Že occuſ/ sciences, and guestioning cardina/ points of
//eQ/ogical doctrine, a shy, sec/uded scholar, of whose
Żursuits and opinions few /ad any correct Ánow/edge ;
//ving aſnaosé in so/i/ude, and dying under conditions
w/ic/ ſavoured Z/e report Z/a/ / e /ad been s/rang/ed
ôy the devil. (2) 7%e Faustus of German prose fiction,
27, whom the natura/ course of things concentrated aſ/
the marve/s and prodigies current in oral tradition
from want of Čečer information, and to ſend an air
of freshness to a string of ſables and yests in circula-
Żion affou! /Zustace //ºe //omá and of/ºer ear/ier men
of similar fastes and endowments. (3) The Faustus
of Mar/owe. (4) 7%e Faustus of Goethe.
In order to be in a position to understand the
actual facts, which are few enough, we have to £73.
to forget that Faustus ever became a hero and centra/
ſigure of romance, a puppet, which each succeeding
age and school of ſiction ſe// at Zióerty to Zurn without
scruffle to its own account. We are dea/ing with a
ôiography, which seems to have extended from 149 I
Žo I 538. AEaustus died comparažive/y young, he is
made in the story to /ament his premature ſafe. He
was Óorn at Ánii/ſingen in Silesia, and Öreat/ed his
/ast aſ a viſ/age near Wittenberg. He could have
Öare/y reached his forty-eigh//, year.
The circumstances attending Zhe Öirč/. and educa-
Žion of this distinguished and em/g//ened man are
narrated wit/, /o/erað/e ſu/ness in the history of his
career. His relations were evident/y anacious that
Æe should go into the Church, and his you!//u/
studies were origina/y directed to such an offect.
-
-
- - -
--------
-
-



IOO SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
AEut the learning which he acquired in this manner
offerated in inspiring him aſ once wit/, a distaste for
Že ca//ºng, and a misgiving as ſo many /oints of
ze/igious Če/ie/, //e re/imguished ſhe project of
joining //e clerica/ 6ody, and / roceeded ſo devote
Aimse/f £o Z/ºe study of medicine, wit/, whicſ, aſ
that period astrology and alchemy were commonly
associated.
Of his rea/progress in / is new ſºrofession we know
next to noč/.ing, Özil it is said £/ał Że, /i/ºe many
oč/er //ysicians, became aſ one time a compiler of
a/manacés and frognostications; and a considerað/e
Žortion of one effocſ% of his /i/e was spenſ in foreign
Żrave/. Aſe visited, Óesides various parts of Germany,
France, /ſa/y, and //e /levaná, but Z/e extenſ of Ais
oôservations and eafteriences are, we suspecá, over-
stated 272 Öooks.
A/e was fond of //easure ; / is temperament was
vo/uptuous, and his imagination /ive/y and warm ;
and he met with many strange adventures, even cast-
Žng aside &/ºe apocry//a/ incidents whicſ, are vu/gar/y
coupled with his name.
We have to eatercise a good dea/ of mora/ se/f-
nestraint, if we desire to realize // is man to ourse/ves
as he probab/y was. 7%e first /ºint of any//ºing
approaching to so/id ground occurs in a conversation
of Me/anch//on respecting ſºme, reported by a third
party in a volume printed two years after the re-
former's deat/, //e/anchſ/on was Óorm at a viſ/age
not far from Ánjiž/ingen, and was the 7unior of
Pazºsé or Faustus ày severa/ years. Æſe is made to
zefer to his studies in magic, to which he had been
led áy attendance aſ ſºuð/ic lectures de/ºvered on that

FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IOI
Science, and he speaks of his ałłempt at l’enice to ſºy,
and of 4/ºe deviſ accompanying him in Z/ºe /i/eness of
a dog, Öztá he does not even g/ance aſ //e varied and
e/aborate eaſº/oi/s whic/ /*e performed, or aſ the come-
/act wiſ/, //e//, is/o//e/es. -
A/e/anch//on, as a Churchman, mere/y cherished,
/e7%afts, a Zoose persuasion //a/ / is contemporary was
a free//ºn/er, and so gua/i/ied himse/f for becoming
a Ziegeman of the deviſ /hereafter, and even a cor-
zes/ondent wit/, / im during /ī/e. Much of this
entered Z/en, as now, into common far/ance.
7%e festimony of //e/anchá/ºon is va/id, at any
7-aſe, to the extenſ of estaff/is/king the existence of
Arausſus and /ºis verićač/e //ace of nativity. AEuł że
was also persona//y Ánown to Parace/sus, Corne/ius
Agriffa, and Conrad Gessner, Z/ºree men of con-
genia/ ?ursuits, Zhough not sharing / is strong
Žassions and manifest proneness to sensua/ indu/gence.
7%e a/c/emists of Germany, in whom Faustus must
/ave taken a powerful interest, if he did not parti-
cipate in their researches, were of course men far in
advance of their time, and were, in fact, the ſounders
of Zhe modern AEuropean schoo/ of chemistry.
Z%e ignorance of //ysica/ /aws, ſ/he want of come-
municațion and of the means of diffusing accurate
inte//igence of events, com/riffuſed to accredit to the
deviſ any incident whicſ, passed the common com/re-
/*ension. Aſis majesty was /e:r-genera/ or remain-
der man to a/Z occurrences for which no Áey was
ſort/coming. Our early Ziferature is replete from the
first wit/, /rodigious accounts of his intercourse with
als and /ºis /…/e/y interest in our affairs. Zm 1641,
a Coventry musician of Żarsimonious disposition was





I O2 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
said to have made with him such another bargain
as Faustus, and to have come to a similar end, “to
the terror and amazement of the inhabitants." //e
made his presence sensióſe in a diversifted form to
innumerable persons, chiefly in humó/e /i/e, whose
account of the conference or vision was ſai///u//y
7 efforted in type, and you were referred to eye-
zwitnesses of undoubted credibility, if you wished to
Žnguire further.
The singular revelations, which Faustus was in-
wested with the faculty of conjuring up and making
subservient to his desires, may have owed their origin
to a vivid and umbrid/ed fancy, in Z/e same way as
the imaginative vagaries which we see in the pages
of Dante, Pol://ai/o, and our own /3/a/e, a/Z having
their prototypes in Virgi/ and //omer, as these had
again in the Heffrew and Cha/daan visionaries.
The descriptions of heaven and he//, in the ficture
before us, are evident/y elaborated dreams or reveries.
As far as the notes of foreign travel go, very pos-
sió/y Faustus may have seen certain Žoržions of the
Aatherland at different periods of his /iſe, óut the
7 est strikes us as Žure/y imaginary, and as the pro-
duct of hearsay or ?eading on the Žart of the com-
Žiler of the Özograft/y.
A habit of so/itude, whether in facá or in sym-
Žathy, is aftá áo Z/ºrozº, a man on his own interna/
zesources, and to ſavour #/ºe rea/İzation of spectra/
and of/ºer 7//usions, Že supposititious offects which
Åe embodies by inte//ectua/ incubation suff//y the place
of ordinary companions/ºi/ ; and where the memſa/
fabric is not sound, or where the process of solitary
contemplation is too continuous, insanity often accrues.


FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IO3
7%e seers and /roft/eſs of antiquity were men of
#/he same casſ as Fausſus, but wit/, a ſess Áeen reſis/.
for /i/e and a narrower insight and reach. They
zveze as imper/ec//y unders/ood óy &/ºeir contem-
Żoraries, Žer/afts, as /*e was by / is.
Zooking at the channeſs through which inſe//igence
of Faustus and his doings might have reached fos-
Zerity, we matura//y furn to his servant Wagner, ſo
whom he /eſ? / is books, and who must ſave enjoyed
a Öeffer offortunity of Ánowing Z/e extent of his
commerce with magic and Zhe 6/acá aré //ian any
one else. But it is tolerað/y //ain //a/ (wit/, one
exception) no use was made of this source and
materia/ in framzing 4/ºe accounſ, which was the super-
ſºcia/ /o/u/ar idea of the man, coloured by frejudice
and disſor/ed by time, and if we needed a furt/er
i//us/ration of the unscrupulous aft/ication of ſo/A-
/ore to Öiography and history, we might cite the
absurd attempt to palm on the Žuć/ic, about 1712, a
German compilation, pretending to describe the life
and actions of Wagner, who //ays #/he same fară în
//ºe Faustus story-book as /l/i/es does in “A”ar
Aacon.” -
A # 4/ºe same time, we have a/ways to reco//ec/ ?/ał
Že Schoo/ of Öiogra//y to whic/, //e o/d account of
Aales/us afteréains considered if a legitimate, or aſ
/east a safe and advantageous, ſeaſure in their woré
to /eighten #/he colour or Shadow of the Žor/raiture
z0/ic/, /ey fºresented to view &y a free use of
Öorrowed accessories, and some of the achievements
of the Ånii//ingen wizard are mere reproductions of
Žirteen//, and ſour/een// century German ſo/A-/ore.
7%e conception of the grandeur of Zucifer and

IO4 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Žis origina/ raná in heaven, as second on/y to God' in
Žower and g/ory, is wor// remarking, as one of Żose
him/s which may have assisted ſo form in Zhe mind
of //7//on an idea of Zhe deviſ aſ variance wit/, //e
Žof u/ar theory.
Jºžen the comic business and /orse-/7°icós were
inserted by way of attraction in Z/e ear/ies/ surviving
2-ecord, they had already Óecome maſter of Żradition ;
yeſ, notwithstanding, we are entitled to Öe/ieve //a/
Faustus permiſſed occasiona/ fres/assers on / is
Żrivacy and, 60//, aſ home and in his foreign trave/s,
mixed with al/ sorts of Żersonages, from crowned
/heads to good creaſures wis/h/hi/ to convert Aim, and
Æe graſſified some of these wiłż an eachiódźion of Ai’s
ski// in Zegerdemain, /a/mistry, and astrology. He
was even wil/ing to Öe interviewed by individua/s
who sought em/ightenment on some point of ordinary
science, and he rare/y sent #/eme away wit/out a
so/ution. Æuá /e did not, it is fresuma&/e, admit
any participator in his enjoyment of Že Öeauty of
A/e/en of 7 roy and other famous Aeroines : Z/ese
were //iantoms of his own seeſ/ºng &rain, creatures
of his dreams; and it is more than possióſe that we
are indeóżed for Žem to wiſ/u//y exaggerated entries
in manuscript diaries, which may ſave eacisted in
1587, when Z/e ſºrs/ /seudo-àiography came from the
press at Æer/in.
The accounts of the circumstances attending his
deat/, which are somewhat com/ic/ing, and whic/.
ôear the strong impress of clerica/ 67as and mani-
Żulation, represent ſºme as having been ſound with
As mecă Żwisted, or wit/, / is 67 aims dashed out and/
Aïs body mang/ed, 7%e ſºro&affi/ity seems to Öe that
FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IO5
Že commiſſed suicide in a ſić of des/ondency, and
fossib/y, as /is remains are described in one //ace
as Zying in Že cour/-yard, /e 4/7′ew / imse/f out of
an upper window. We see //a/ Christian buria/ is
72enſioned as a concession. Curious/y enough, in
1581, a drama ca//ed “ 7%e Com/ic/ of Conscience "
/ad been ſounded on 4/ke somew/a/ and/ogous case of
Aºrancesco Sfâra, an //a/ian converſ from Profes-
fan/ism, and in 1587 a 6a//ad was pub/ished on Zhe
same suffect. When the //ay appeared, Spira had
a/ready been dead about 4/7 ee and Žirty years, /av-
2ng ſeris/ed by / is own ſand, and it is said under
#/*e inſ/uence of despair. -
7%ere is no /egitimate room for asſoni's/menſ that
#/he mysterious /abours and fastes of Faustus should
/ave awa/Čened in Z/e minds of his Saxon neighöours
and German countrymen genera//y a sen/iment of
dread and awe, when we consider ſhow Żrevalent to
Žis day in mosé Žarts of the world sufferstićious
Žgnorance remains. 7%e demonological portion of
&/ºe narrative is of course a Żure invention, part/y
Öased on contemporary gossip, and part/y evolved
ſºom f/e ſer/i/e &rain of Že compiler of Že German
account in 1587. //a/f a century constituted a
sufficient inſerva/ for the stea///y grow//, of mayáž
7 ound his name and his career. 7%e very mature
of his researches compe//ed secrecy and straßagem in
such an age, and the inabi/ity to comprehend //e
Żrue character of his occupations and offects tended
to encourage ſa/ºt/ous reports.
We have on/y to remember f/a/ four and ſwenty .
years taken Öacé from the received date of his decease
(1538) &rings us to 1514, when he was four and

IO6 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
twenty years of age, a who//y improðað/e ſeriod of
/ife for the conception of such a treaty as he is a//eged.
to have contracted with Zucifer, and in our /7′esent
state of information and opinion, even if we in
Fmg/and are somewhat behind Germany in //i/o-
sophical analysis, it is a/most sufferſ'uous to pursue
the investigation further, where the corner-stone of
the indictment against Faustus is so transparen//y
compounded of idle and foolis/, /a/es, concocted by the
Church or under clerica/ auspices to throw discredit
on a 7-eader and f/him/her w/ºose àias was adverse to
ecclesiasticism, Öztá who discerned £/e necessity of
extreme caution in ven/i/aſing /e/erodox views, even
in the relative/y fo/eraná Father/and.
7%is may eaf/ain Z/he presence of Z/ºe jocular
episodes in Z/he history, and even //e mirac/e of Że
graftes. Faustus Aimse/f never froðað/y claimed
authority over superhuman powers; it was a meſ/od
adopted by others of accounting for //enomena whicſ,
they were unable to comprehend, and the attribute of
a fami/iar was mot/ºing more than a ſoam from Že
Zasz, when, wit/, an almost equa/ measure of incom-
sistency, the attendant genius executes command's
involving an universa/jurisdiction.
Zá is not very hard, after al/, to divine and under-
stand the re/a/ions/ºi/ befºveen Paustus and his com-
temporaries. Aſ this celeóraſed man /ad had to
zeckon on/y wit/, //e iſ/iterate majority immediate/y
around Aim, his faste for inquiry and scientific
zesearch would have froðað/y elicized from Že
neighöourhood a passing eaſºn-ession and sen/iment
of wonder and curiosity, and he would have been
7-egarded by posterity as /i/t/e more than /97. /9ee or


FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IO7
Zi//y Zhe asſro/oger. But Faustus entertained and
Żroc/aimed heretica/ ?/heories on re/igious subjects;
/*e //aced himse/f in antagonism to the clergy. Aſ a
Žeriod when the Church was beginning to suffer from
doctrina/ ru//ures and a gues/ioning spirit, such a
fersonage was Óound to become a marked object of
ecc/esiastical ſea/ousy and resentment, and in the
description which has been de/ºvered to us of the
Anii//ingen scholar, who feared neither God mor
devil, and accomplished a variety of surprising ſeats
ôy suffernatura/ eaſedients, we easily recognise the
familiar stratagem by which the clerica//arty has
a/ways reta/iaſed on its secular adversaries. Až al/
times, but more particularly in an age of prevaiſing
2//iteracy, the Church / as Óeem f/\e maker of popular
opinion. Faustus, as he is fourtrayed by the move/ist
and//aywright, is moſt £he Faustus of rea/ /i/e, Čuč a
masquerading caricature /i/ºe Guy Fawkes or Marino
Aa/iero ; and we are indebted for such a serious
distortion of the fruſh to the reports which were
circulated about him by those whose interest ſay in
discrediting his ſeculiar opinions.
Aaustus, in facá, was a // iſosoft/e7, whose precise
views z07// /roödö/y never Óe accurate/y Amozºn, as
#/ere is a certain amount of contradiction in Že
account of him, on which we have a/most etc/usive/y
to re/y for our acquaintance wit/, / is inte//ectata/
training and range. Zá is tolerað/y manifest, ſhow-
ever, Z/a/ /e was an unusua//y Áeen and attentive
oôserver, under grave educationa/ disadvantages, of
the laws and//rocesses of nature, and that he deduced
Žerefrom a fissue of theory and speculation a/7%e in
com/?ict with the orážodor sentiment of his day.]
IO6 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
twenty years of age, a who//y improbable period of
/ife for the conception of such a treaty as he is a//eged.
to have contracted with Zucifer, and in our fºresent
state of information and opinion, even if we in
Zngland are somewhat behind Germany in Ž/i/o-
soft/hica/ analysis, it is a/most sufferſ’uous to pursue
the investigation further, where the corner-stone of
Zhe indictment against Faustus is so transparen//y
compounded of idle and ſoo/ish fables, concocted by Zhe
Church or under clerica/ auspices to throw discredit
on a reader and // imäer w/ºose àias was adverse to
ecclesiasticism, but who discerned the necessity of
extreme caution in ven/i/a/ing heterodox views, even
in the relative/y fo/eraná Fatherland.
7%is may eaf/ain Z/ºe / resence of Že jocular
effisodes in the history, and even the mirac/e of Że
graftes. Faustus Aimse/f never froðað/y claimed
authority over superhuman powers; it was a meſ/od
adopted by others of accounting for //enomena which
they were unable to comprehend, and the attribute of
a fami/iar was nothing more than a ſoam from //e
Zast, when, with an aſnaost equa/ measure of incom-
sistency, the attendant genºus executes command's
involving an universa/7urisdiction.
Zá is not very hard, after al/, to divine and under-
stand the re/a/ions/ºff Öeſween Faustus and Žis com-
temporaries. Aſ this ce/eórated man ſºad /ad to
7-acáon on/y wit/, //e iſ/iterate majority immedia/e/y
around him, his faste for inquiry and scientific
zesearch would have froðað/y elicited from Že
neighöour/tood a passing eaſºn-ession and sen/iment
of wonder and curiosity, and he would have been
7-egarded by posterity as /ittle more than /97. /)ee or


FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IO7
/...//y Zhe asſro/oger. But Faustus entertained and
Żroc/aimed Aere/ica/ ?/heories on re/igious subjects :
/*e //aced himself in antagonism to the clergy. At a
Žeriod when the Church was beginning to suffer from
doctrina/ 77%/ures and a gues/ioning spirit, such a
Žersonage was Óound to Čecome a marked offect of
ecc/esiastical ſea/ousy and resentment, and in the
description which has been delivered to us of the
Anii//ingen scholar, who feared neither God mor
devil, and accom//ished a variety of surprising ſeats
ôy suffernatura/ eaftedients, we easily recognise the
/amiliar stratagem by which the clerica//arty has
a/ways reta/iaſed on its secular adversaries. Až al/
times, but more particularly in an age of prevailing
2//iteracy, the Church has been the maker of Żopular
opinion. Faustus, as he is fourtrayed by the move/ist
and//aywright, is not the Faustus of rea/ /i/e, Čuč a
masſ/uerading caricature /i/ºe Guy Fawkes or /l/arino
Aa/iero ; and we are indebted for such a serious
distortion of the truſh to the reports which were
circulated about him by those whose interest ſay in
discrediting his ſeculiar opinions.
Arausſus, in facá, was a // iſosoft/Mez, whose precise
views will ſºroſač/y never Óe accurately £nown, as
#/ere is a certain amount of contradiction in Že
account of him, on which we have a/most etc/usive/y
to re/y for our acquaintance wit/, / is inte//ec/ºta/
training and range. Zł is tolerað/y manifest, ſhow-
ever, Z/a/ /e was an unusua//y Áeen and ałżenſive
oôserver, under grave educationa/ disadvantages, of
the laws and/ºrocesses of nature, and that he deduced
#/.exe/rom a tissue of theory and speculation a/7%e in
com/?ict with the orážodor sen/iment of his day.]

IO8 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
I.
JOHN FAUSTUS was the son of a poor husbandman
that dwelled at a little town of Weimar in Germany
named Knütlingen ; and his father not being able
well to bring him up, he went, as soon as he had
passed childhood, to an uncle at Wittenberg, that
was something richer than his father, and had no
issue of his own. This uncle put Faustus to the
study of divinity at the University of Wittenberg;
and he read the Holy Scriptures, and farthered him-
self in theological learning, to the intent, as his uncle
desired, that he should be a labourer in the ministry.
But Faustus, because he was of a different bent,
and in no wise inclined to such a life, engaged by
little and little in other exercises, to the great sorrow
of his uncle, who reproved him for so neglecting the
service of Almighty God, and the fitting himself for
a preacher. Yet, while this youth disliked divinity,
it was not by reason that he applied himself not
thereto ; for after he had sojourned at the university
a certain space, being straitly examined therein by
the masters and rectors, he was found to be deeply
versed in all that referred to the Scriptures, and was
accordingly admitted to his degree of doctor in that
faculty.
At the same time, he commonly passed among
his fellow students under the name of the Speculator,
because he was ever propounding to them strange
opinions, and frequented heretical books in the
Chaldaean, Hebrew, Arabian, and Greek tongues,
that treated of sundry infernal arts, as soothsaying,
witchcraft, necromancy, conjuration, and other. Nor

FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. IO9
brooked he well the title of doctor of divinity, but
chose rather to be called an astrologer, a mathe-
matician, and a physician ; and he began to be
known for a worker of notable cures, and for a man
learned in the secrets of nature.
Faustus severed himself ere long from his theo-
logical studies, and entered on a most unchristian
life, fearing neither God nor devil; and he gave his
time to the mastery of the black art, so that he
might gain power and sovereignty over the whole
world and all things therein.
Now after a while there went a report in Witten-
berg that Faustus had seen the devil or his deputy
in a wood near at hand, called the Spisser Holt;
and sometimes in his cups he related to his neigh-
bours how he did that the devil might not have the
better of him, which were by making a circle in the
dust at the crossway, and writing thereon certain
characters and signs ; and men surmised that he,
Faustus, had entered into articles with the devil
through his servant, that was named Mephistopheles,
but what the treaty imported none as yet knew.
For Faustus kept his meetings with Mephisto-
pheles secret, and no man wist how he had stood
at first in the Spisser Holt, and endured long the
fearful tokens and portents, as thunder and lightning,
and roaring as of a thousand lions, that went before
the appearance of the Spirit to him, who came with
a horrible noise, and ran round the circle that he had
made like a thousand waggons on a paved way, and
a second time in the shape of a mighty dragon, that
from his mouth shot a flame as bright and rapid as
lightning.

I IO SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
But at length Faustus, through his craft, reduced
Mephistopheles, that was the devil's name and a
servant to Lucifer, prince of devils, to his will, and
made a treaty with him, written with his blood on
warm ashes, that he should at all times answer to
his summons, and do his pleasure, nor tell him
ought that was untrue, from that hour forward to
the time of his death, provided that Faustus on his
own behalf consented to deliver up his soul at the
end of four and twenty years to the aforesaid
Mephistopheles, servant to Lucifer, by whom all
these articles were confirmed. For in hell, as on
earth, all things are ordered in obedience to the
command of the prince. And when Faustus had
made an end of the writing, he kept one copy for
himself, and the other he delivered to Mephisto-
pheles, who thus, with the assent of Lucifer, became
the servant of Faustus in all things, at all times, his
life during.
II.
Now Faustus had a boy with him in his house
at Wittenberg to serve and wait upon him, whose
name was Christopher Wagner. This boy Faustus
loved well, and taught him his own arts, that he
might grow up to be a necromancer such as he was ;
and they lived together in the house at Wittenberg
which had belonged to the uncle of Faustus, and was
now his by inheritance. They both fared exceeding
well, and went in sumptuous raiment; for Mephis-
topheles brought whatever Faustus commanded him
from the cellars of great lords and from merchants
dwelling in that country, who lost their wine, and

FAUST OR FAUSTUS. III
victual, and fine cloth, and all manner of rich goods,
and divined not whither they were taken : which
were carried by Mephistopheles to Wittenberg to
, the house of Faustus, his master, secretly; and
Faustus waxed so cunning in his science, that he
learned to conjure the birds of the air into his hands,
as they flew over his dwelling, and of the dantiest.
But when Faustus desired to enter into wedlock
with a fair lady, the Spirit forbad him, saying that he
could not serve two masters, for that, whereas he
had given his soul to the devil, marriage was a holy
institution, ordained of God ; which made Faustus
heavy at heart. Then Mephistopheles brought him
a book, in which he might look and find the means
of doing all things that he lusted, which occasioned
Faustus to demand of him how it chanced that
Lucifer had so great a fall.
Mephistopheles thereupon answered and said that
his prince had been, next to God, the highest and
most puissant in heaven, above Michael and
Gabriel, that were named Angels of God's
Wonders, as they were, again, above the lower
degree of angels; and because he was so high and
great, he aspired to put God from His throne, and
was cast down, never to return, unless it be so that
God summon him ; and Faustus thanked the Spirit,
for that he made him aware of these things, and
Mephistopheles vanished, as was his wont.
Faustus thereupon came to dream of hell, and
he questioned the Spirit further upon the same, as
how many kingdoms were therein, and what were
the several rulers' names, and especially concerning
Lucifer; of whom Mephistopheles satisfied him in all

I I2 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
points, shewing how he once far exceeded all the other
creatures of God for worthiness, pomp, authority,
and shape, and surpassed the very sun in splendour
and brightness, and was for ever before God's
throne, but therefore waxed proud and presump-
tuous, and was banished from the sight of God, and
was thrown down into the fire which no water may
quench. “Alas! alas!” thought Faustus, “and am
I not likewise a creature of God's making 2 and shall
I suffer a like doom P. Ah woe is me that ever I
was born " And the wretched Faustus grieved
that he should have forsaken the faith of Christ,
and bound himself to Satan, that he might in no
wise escape from SO damnable an end.
Nor he could not now give his thought to any-
thing but hell, of which he thirsted to know more
and more, and could not bear to turn his eyes
upward, for there he beheld the sun and the moon
and the stars, and everything which spake to him
of God; and when Mephistopheles had yet more
fully enlarged upon the nature of hell, and what
was seen there, and how the souls of the damned
lived there in everlasting torment, Faustus asked if
a man that went to hell, and afterward repented,
might be saved. But Mephistopheles shewed him
how this could never be, and that a damned soul
could look for no mercy, no matter if it were soul of
emperor, king, duke, or other whomsoever. Even
Lucifer himself could never be recalled to the
presence of God, albeit he, as they all, had long
cherished a hope of forgiveness and redemption.
And when Faustus heard the Spirit so speak, he
became pensive and sorrowful, and threw himself on
FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. II 3
his bed. But he remained not long in this mood,
but mixed with his friends, and amidst the pleasures
of the world forgot his sad case and fortune.
Yet when he was alone, and began to reflect on
his wicked estate, once more he called Mephisto-
pheles before him, and said to him, “Now, if thou
wast a man, as I am, what wouldst thou have done
to please God P” And the Spirit replied to him,
smiling, that if he had been as he once was,
endowed by God with all the gifts of nature, he
should have humbled himself before His majesty,
and taken all pains possible to understand aright
His will and pleasure. But in lieu thereof he had
denied and defied his Maker, and had sold himself
to the devil; and so detestable were his sins in the
sight of God, that he could never hope to win back
His grace.
III.
Faustus, when he had done with questioning his
Spirit on these and like matters pertaining to his
future state, fell to the study of astronomy and mathe-
matics, so that among all the men of that age he
passed for the most expert in the courses of the Sun,
moon, and stars, and in the changes of the weather,
which he calculated more exactly than had been
heretofore practised of any. And he not only fell to
be an almanack-maker, but wrote books thereupon,
which he dedicated and sent to sundry great lords,
who regarded him as a man of excellent learning,
seeing that if a plague, famine, mortality, or war
were about to happen, he foretold the same, to the
astonishment and rare content of all.
A. L. I


II.4 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
These marvels he accomplished with the aid of
his Spirit, which taught him all the hidden works of
God, save the day of doom, and how God made the
world, and why He made man in His own likeness;
and he promised Faustus that ere long he should be
able to do all the things which the devils of hell
could do, and have all the elements at his bidding.
But by reason that it appeared to Lucifer that
Faustus demanded of Mephistopheles more than
was fit and in his treaty set out, he, with certain
other devils, visited him in his chamber, so that
Faustus deemed that at length they were come to
fetch him away.
They sat by Faustus all on a row. Lucifer, like
a brown hairy man with a tail turned upward in a
manner of a squirrel's : Belial like a bear, with curly
black hair reaching to the ground, was standing
straight up, and all within as red as blood, and
flaming, his teeth a foot long and white as Snow,
and his tail three ells; and he had wings, one behind
each shoulder. Next to him, Beelzebub, his hair of
the colour of horse-flesh, and curled, his head like
a bull's, with mighty horns, his ears sweeping down
to the ground, his tail like a cow's, and behind his
back two wings horned and fiery.
Then there was Astaroth, in form of a worm; and
Cannagosta, with the head of an ass and the tail of
a cat, and hoofs like those of an ox, an ell broad ;
and Anubis, dog-headed, in shape resembling a hog,
but with two feet only, one beneath his throat, the
other at his tail; and he was four ells long, with
hanging ears like a bloodhound. Dithican seemed
a huge bird with shining feathers and four feet, and

FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. II 5
-
Brachus was of the shape and colour of a hedgehog,
his back brown, his belly flame-blue, and his tail like
a monkey's. The rest wore the semblance of divers
other beasts; and each, as he came into the hall
of Faustus, made his obeisance to Lucifer, and then
took his place. When anon there came a prodi-
gious thunderclap, which shook the whole house,
and every devil had a muck-fork in his hand, and
pointed it with one accord at Faustus, who recol-
lected the words of Mephistopheles, saying that the
damned souls in hell were cast from devil to devil
with such forks.
Lucifer noted his disquiet, and said to him : “We
cannot change our devilish forms, Faustus mine ;
but we can make men believe that we are angels or
men by deceit and enchantment.”
Faustus said to him : “I like not so many of you
together.”
So Lucifer commanded them to depart, except the
Seven principal, which gave Faustus better courage,
and he said: “Where is my servant Mephisto-
pheles P Let me see if he can do the like.”
Then presently appeared a fiery dragon flying
round about the house, till he approached Lucifer,
and saluting him changed himself into a friar, who
said, “Faustus, what wilt thou ?”
“I will,” quoth Faustus, “that thou teach me to
transform myself in such manner as thou and the
rest have done.”
Then Lucifer put forth his paw, and gave him
a book, saying, “ Hold, do what thou wilt"; and
straightway he was changed into a hog, into a
worm, and into a dragon—which liked him well.
I I 6 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
“How is it 2" said he to Lucifer, “that so many
unclean forms are in the world P."
“They are sent of God to plague men,” answered
Lucifer, “and so shalt thou be plagued.”
The place was then filled with all manner of
stinging insects, which stang Faustus, that he cried
to Mephistopheles for help. But Mephistopheles
came not at his call, and in a moment all had
vanished, and he heard the sweetest music that ever
fell on mortal ear, which ravished him with delight.
Yet it repented him that he had seen no more than
he did of that strange company.
IV.
But Faustus did not forbear to ponder in his
mind over what had passed before his eyes ; and
since he had beheld the chief governors of hell,
under Lucifer their prince, it entered into his
thought that he would procure, if so he might,
liberty to view hell itself. Whereunto through his
Spirit he was straightway borne on a chair of beaten
gold by Beelzebub, in the likeness of a huge, rugged,
curly bear; and only this condition was laid upon
him, that, whatever he saw, he should keep silence.
And, first of all, Beelzebub carried him into a lake,
where Faustus fell asleep, and when he woke again
he was in a place full of fire and brimstone, yet he
received no more hurt than from the rays of the sun
in May ; and music was heard in the air, albeit the
players were invisible. Other devils presently came
to meet Beelzebub, and then ran before him to
clear the way, and anon an exceeding great hart,


FAUST OR FAUSTUS. II 7
which would have thrust Faustus out of his seat, but
was put to the repulse. Next he espied a multitude
of snakes, unto which came storks and swallowed
them, leaving not one. Whereat Faustus marvelled,
but, as he had been straitly charged, said nought.
Next out of an hollow cleft issued a monstrous
flying bull, which rushed at Faustus, and overset his
chair, that he rolled on the ground, and deeming
that his end was at hand, exclaimed, “Woe is me
that ever I came here !" But a great ape drew
near, and bad him not be afeard ; and when the
fog that had arisen with the coming of the bull
cleared, Faustus saw a waggon drawn by two mighty
dragons, and thereinto the ape mounted and lifted
Faustus up beside him. The chariot rose into the
air, and entered an exceeding dark cloud, where
nought could be seen, but the cries of tormented
souls were continually heard, with thunder and
lightning, till Faustus quaked for dread; and after
they came to a stinking lake, into which they
plunged, chariot and all, and Faustus lost sight of
the ape and the dragons and the chariot, and sank
and sank, till he stood on the top of a high rock,
where the waters parted, and left him dry; and the
rock was as high from the bottom as the heaven
is from the earth ; and Faustus wist not what he
should do, till he espied a small hole in the rock,
whence flashed fire; and he thought that he must
either sit there in despair, or fall to the bottom, or
perish in the flame.
Then suddenly, choosing his course, he leapt into
the hole, and albeit he was in the midst of fire, it
burned him not; but for the noise that smote his

II 8 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
ear, the like of it he had never heard. And as he
descended lower down into the rock, he came upon
a fire, wherein were many noble personages, as
emperors, kings, and the like, and hard by a clear,
cool water, into which they ran when the heat
wox too great to bear ; but they quickly returned
again, for that the water froze them. And so they
spent their days. And Faustus beheld one that
he thought that he knew, and would have spoken
with him, as he sprang out of the fire, horribly
shrieking; but he remembered that it was forbidden
unto him.
At length Beelzebub appeared, and said that it
was time to depart, and Faustus seated himself once
more in his golden chair, and was conveyed home
asleep, where his boy Wagner was overjoyed to see
him ; and he felt within himself as though he had
been in a dark dungeon, nor knew certainly if he
had seen hell or no.
V.
It followed nevertheless, that such a man as
Faustus, when he had thus beheld the place where
the devil dwells, and where the souls of the damned
lie in durance for ever, craved to know more of
other things, and moved his Spirit to be gracious
unto him, so that he might view the whole world.
Whereupon he ascended in a waggon drawn by four
dragons straight into the air forty-seven leagues in
height, and looked down on the earth, and all the
kingdoms and countries thereof. And his Spirit
shewed him, when they were above Hungary,
Prussia, Poland, and the rest, and how on their right
FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. II 9
hand lay Spain and Portugal, France, England, and
Scotland. Soon they flew over Wittenberg, and
Vienna in Austria, and Constantinople : Tripoli and
Jerusalem, and the frozen zone. And they looked
on ships in battle-array, and on some places where
it rained and hailed, on other where the sun shone
exceeding bright and hot, and on other, once more,
where there were mountains clothed with ever-
lasting snow.
But when Faustus gazed upward, and his eyes
rested on the heavens, the light was so great that,
had not Mephistopheles covered him with a cloud,
he had been burnt outright ; and the sun seemed as
big as the world by reason of the circumference of
its rays, that spread to the uttermost corners of the
world. And Faustus felt assured that, whereas men
commonly hold that the sun moves round the world,
it is indeed contrariwise, and it was the heavens that
moved on their axis.
Eight days Faustus spent in his voyage through
the air, and was restored to his own home at Wit-
tenberg, as he slept, in like manner as before.
Now, having outrun fifteen years of the four and
twenty that were allotted to him by his treaty with
Lucifer, he coveted a better acquaintance with the
famous cities of the world, and commanded Mephis-
topheles to carry him, wherever he listed, visible or
invisible, as it might please him, till he had seen the
most notable places in the whole earth.
So his Spirit, that was bound to obey him,
likened himself to a winged horse, whereon Faustus
mounted, and visited by turn every state, Scotland
and England included, and each town of repute.


I 20 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
At Trent he tarried, having long desired to see
that city, but found nought save two fair palaces of
the bishop, a mighty large castle, and a church that
had sumptuous marble tombs of Simon and the
Bishop of Popo. And at Naples he viewed the
tomb of Virgil, with the road that he cut through
the hill a mile long; the windmill and castle in the
water, and the burning mountain called Vesuvius.
Thence he repaired to Venice, and wondered at
many things which he noted there—the water flow-
ing through every street, the beauty of St. Mark's
Place, and the good-cheapness of victual, albeit
nothing grew near-hand ; and from Venice he pro-
ceeded to Padua, for once in four and twenty hours
a boat passed from one city to the other; and from
Padua to Rome. -
There he had under his eyes much to make him
marvel, and not least of all the richness of the
pope's court and the luxury of his table ; and when
he entered invisible, while they sat at meat, he
thought that they seemed such other as himself,
proud, wilful, gluttonous, evil-doers in every sort,
adulterers, whoremongers, drunkards. “Fie!” he
said to himself, “why should not the devil have
made me pope P’ And he said to Mephistopheles,
“I thought I had been alone a hog of the devil's :
but he must bear with me a little longer, for these
hogs of Rome are ready-fatted ; and he would do
right well to spit them all, and summon the nuns to
turn the spits, for as none but the friar may confess
the nun, so none should turn him save her, while
he roasts.”
Three days Faustus sojourned in Rome, and
FAUST OR FAUSTUS. I 2 I
during that space came the Cardinal of Pavia ; and
there was a great feast, whereat the pope kept
blessing and crossing himself, till Faustus could
suffer it no longer, and smote the pope in the
face, yet no man saw who did it, for he was in-
visible, and the pope gave out that it was some
damned soul, and commanded that mass should
be said to deliver it out of purgatory.
Then when the pope would have tasted of a
dainty dish that was set before him, Faustus cried,
“That is mine !” and snatched it away, and flew
to the Capitol, where he bad Mephistopheles pro-
cure him some wine of the best from the pope's
table, and the very cup whence his holiness drank;
and he had good cheer. -
Leaving Rome, he visited many other places in
Italy, Germany, Switzerland, and the Low Countries,
especially the famous city of Nürnberg, where,
among many other wonders, were relics of Christ
and Charles the Great, and Ravensburgh on the
Danube, where Faustus went into the cellar of an
innholder, and emptied all his beer and wine that
were therein. But, above all, at Prague he marked
the sepulchre of a renowned conjuror that had lived
there, and that had so bewitched his burial-place,
that no man might set foot in it, and yet die in his
bed ; and he thought of himself, and whether this
wizard were not such another as he was.
Then he ascended into the air, scarce knowing
whither to go ; and below him anon he distinguished
a fair city, which was Breslau in Silesia, and so
clean and comely were the streets that the place
seemed to him a sort of paradise ; and below the

I 2.2 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
bridge over the river he saw the brazen virgin,
which embraced no man to his good.
Now Faustus, having observed all these strange
things, betook himself to Constantinople, where he
visited the harem of the Great Turk, and compared
his service at table with the pope's. He was some-
thing discontented that one man should have so
many wives; but it angered him more that in his
eating and drinking the Turk exceeded so far all
those princes whom he had ever known ; and while
he sat at meat, Faustus hurled flames of fire about
the chamber in such sort that all fled save the Grand
Signior himself, whom he charmed, and taking the
form of the Pope of Rome, he spake to him in
manner as follows:
“All hail, emperor! Now art thou honoured,
that I appear before thee as thy Mahomet was
erstwhile wont to do.”
And the chamber was filled with dazzling light,
and as Faustus vanished, the thunder shook the
palace, and those about the Sultan persuaded him
that it was Mahomet himself whom they had seen.
Whereupon he enjoined them to fall down upon
their knees, and give the Prophet thanks for having
done them so great an honour.
But Faustus, attended by Mephistopheles, went
the next day to the seraglio, where he looked with
much pity on those ladies that consume their youth
and beauty in giving pleasure to one only man,
and were served by such men as were eunuchs.
Then his Spirit said to him: “Why, Faustus, shouldst
thou not lie with these fair ladies as soon as the
Great Turk himself? Do as thy lust prompteth

FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. I 23
herein, and I will aid thee.” And he presented
himself among the ladies in the guise of Mahomet,
who, when they beheld him, kneeled down and
worshipped him ; and he took the fairest by the
hand, and led her to a chamber, where he lay with
her; and during six nights he did likewise, and so
encompassed that part of the palace where the
Sultan was with a thick fog, that none could see
the way out nor the way in. And it happened on
the seventh day, when Faustus had accomplished
his ends, that he rose again into the air in the like-
ness of the pope, and the fog disappeared.
Then the Great Turk went to his seraglio, and
questioned those ladies concerning the matter,
who said that the Prophet had lain with them ;
and he, hearing these glad tidings, fell on his knees,
and tendered Mahomet thanks for that he had so
honoured him, giving strait charge that those ladies
whom he had lain withal might be watched, for he
was assured that of the seed of Mahomet should
spring a mighty race.
Faustus, when he had thus had good sport among
the ladies of the Grand Signior, departed, and by
way of Hungary, Lubeck, Magdeburg, Erfurt, and
other places, returned home to Wittenberg; and he
had been absent thence a year and a half, and had
witnessed by the help of his Spirit stranger and
more marvellous sights than ever it fell to him to
do before. - -
Yet it fortuned, as it is commonly wont, when a
man has seen certain countries, it moves him to an
increased desire of travel; and Faustus departed
from home a second time, and visited most part of
-



I 24 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Europe, Africa, and Asia, with the Holy Land and
the island of Britain. In the fair waters, warm
baths, and metals of the last he took great delight;
and when he came to the Orkneys he beheld the
tree whose ripe fruit falleth into the water, and
there begetteth the barnacle-goose.
Then from the Caucasus he surveyed all the
lands and kingdoms round about, and toward the
east he became aware of a mighty stream of fire
stretching from heaven to earth, even as if it had
been one of the beams of the sun. Hard by, four
prodigious waters had their springs, one flowing
toward India, one toward Egypt, the other two
toward Armenia. But he wist not what they were,
and he demanded of Mephistopheles, who answered,
saying: “It is Paradise that lieth so far in the east,
the garden that God Himself planted with all man-
ner of pleasant fruit; and the fiery streams are its
wall, and the clear light that thou seest stretch from
heaven to earth is the fiery sword of the angel that
guardeth it; and albeit thou conceivest that thou
art hard by, thou art indeed farther therefrom than
ever thou hast been. The four great waters are
called Ganges, Gihon," Tigris, and Euphrates; and
the angel is called Michael, that with his flaming
sword keeps the tree of life. But such as I and
thou, Faustus, are forbidden to enter therein, or to
come nearer than we now be.”
1 The Nile.

FAUST OR FAUSTUS. I 25
VI.
When Faustus had returned from his travels the
second and last time, and had gotten a high name
among all the folks of that country where he
dwelled for a man of great learning and wisdom,
many resorted unto him, and put questions on
astronomy and like things ; and he quickly resolved
them, to their wonder and content. -
Among the rest, he was prayed to say how it was
that those spirits which vexed men vexed them so
greatly more by night than by day. And he replied,
that it was because those spirits are of God for-
bidden the light; and their dwelling is in darkness,
so that the clearer the sun shineth, the farther is
their abode from it; but as the darkness waxeth,
they draw nigher and nigher to men, and have
their familiarity with them, in like manner as by
day we see not the stars, though they be equally
there, but by night they are visible to all.
The fame and report of Faustus meanwhile
grew in such sort, that many great princes coveted
the sight of him, and among others, the emperor
Charles' prayed him to come to his court, that he
might have converse with him. -
His imperial majesty greeted Faustus heartily
well, and said that he had heard marvellous tales of
his skill in necromancy, and that he had a familiar
spirit, which did all his bidding. Now this high
and mighty prince desired that Faustus should shew
him some tokens of his art and experience ; and
1 Charles V.
I 26 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
when the emperor was asked what above all other
things would do him pleasure, he required Faustus
to make appear straightway before him Alexander
the Great in visage and habit as he lived.
Then Faustus opened the privy-chamber door,
where he had audience, and presently entered a
strong, thick-set man, of middle stature, with black
hair that was thick and curly, both over the head and
beard, red cheeks, a broad face, and eyes like a
basilisk, and he was clad in rich armour. He made
obeisance to Charles, who would have saluted him,
had not Faustus held him back ; and as he left
the room came in Roxana, clothed in blue velvet
embroidered with pearls and gold. She was fair,
tall, and slender, with a face round as an apple, and
the emperor, turning to Faustus, said thus:
“Now have I seen the two persons whom of all
the world I most affected; yet lest the Spirit should
have deceived me, like the woman who raised the
prophet Samuel, I would satisfy myself that she
hath the great wart behind her neck, which they say
that Alexander's living concubine had.”
And taking the hand of Faustus, the emperor
went to her, and when she bowed down her neck,
he espied the wart to his mighty liking ; and then
she and Alexander went out.
Faustus, about this time, exercised himself,
through the help of his Spirit, in many strange and
witty jests, to make sport for noble personages or
other. As, for example, when he saw a knight
leaning Out of one of the windows of the palace,
and asleep, he conjured on his head a huge pair of
hart's horns, so that the knight, when he awoke,

FAUST OR FAUSTUS. I 27
might not draw his head in again until Faustus
did the horns away; and when it was so that
the same knight would have been revenged on
Faustus, and met him in a wood, and charged at
him with his horse, Faustus changed the bushes
into riders, who surrounded the knight, and for
punishment he and his men had to wear for a
month each of them a pair of goat's horns, and
each of their palfreys a pair of ox's horns.
Another time, he transported three young dukes,
that were at the University of Wittenberg, to see
the same, to München in Bavaria privily, to be
witnesses of the Duke of Bavaria his son's wedding;
and he did it after this manner. He laid his large
cloak on the ground, and begged the dukes to sit
with him thereon, and they should be in München
speedily, and back in Wittenberg the same night.
But he enjoined them silence, whatever fortuned.
Then a mighty wind rose, and bore the cloak
upward into the air ; and all fell out as Faustus
had said. But when they would wash, ere they
came away, one said to the other, out of courtesy,
that he should wash first ; and when they sat on
the cloak to return home, he that spake, when the
cloak rose into the air, fell off; but the other two,
with Faustus, arrived safely at Wittenberg. The
young duke that remained behind was cast into
prison, for that they knew not who he was, and
he would not speak, lest he should his brethren
betray, so that the Duke of Bavaria gave order
that he should be racked. However, his brethren
besought Faustus that he would deliver him, and he
repaired thither where he was, and loosed him out


I 28 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
of prison, and brought him away, for which he was
richly rewarded.
Faustus was making merry with some students
at an inn, when there came among others to get
entertainment certain Jews, and of one of them he
borrowed for sport threescore dollars for a month.
But when the time arrived, and the Jew sought him,
he had no money, nor meant to have any ; but he
said to the Jew that he might have his leg for a
pledge on condition that, when he paid the debt, he
should have his leg again, and the Jew should set it
on as it was before. The Jew, that was to Chris-
tians nothing friendly, consented, and Faustus cut
off his leg and delivered to him the same.
But the Jew, doubting that the leg, if he took it
home, would grow corrupt and stink, mused with
himself what an ass this Faustus was to offer so
great a security for so small a matter, and as he
went along he cast the leg into a ditch. Within
three days after Faustus sent for him, and asked for
his leg, for that his money was ready. But the Jew
avouched that the pawn was not profitable or of any
worth, and he had thrown it away. Then Faustus
said that he must have it again, or the Jew must
give him one of his own in lieu ; and the Jew
was constrained to appease him by paying him yet
another sixty dollars for his leg, nor saw that it
was all deceit.
VII.
Faustus visited, among other puissant lords of
that country where he lived, the Duke of Anhalt,
whose lady being great with child coveted grapes

FAUST OR FAUSTUS. I 29
in the month of January, whereas none were to be
anywhere gotten ; but Faustus, knowing her grace's
mind, set a plate at one of the casements, and
incontinently it was filled with all manner of fruit,
as red and white grapes, pears, and apples, and he
presented the same to the duchess, saying that they
had come from a far place, where the summer was
not yet ended : which caused the duke her husband
to question Faustus concerning the difference of the
seasons in various kingdoms, and was by his replies
greatly contented and entertained.
And another time he raised for the same duke
and duchess a strong castle, encompassed round
with water on every side, and great rooms, in which
guests sat at table with every sort of dainty dish
and choice wine; and in the courtyard were all
kinds of strange beasts and land-fowl; and Wagner,
who was his servant, attended him, and laid the
dishes and the cates; and when the duke and
duchess had admired all, suddenly the castle was
wrapped in flames and consumed. -
But when he was once more at Wittenberg, and
had feasted all the students right nobly, he brought
holly-wands, as many wands as there were students,
and they all mounted thereon, and so to the Bishop
of Salzburg's cellar, where they drank of his richest
wines till the butler came, and they took their wands
and vanished; and Faustus caught the butler by the
hair as he went, and carried him to the top of a
high tower, where he left him.
These and other sundry pastimes Faustus played,
and it grew to be the nineteenth year ; and as he
wox melancholy, thinking of the short time that
A. L. K

I 3O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
remained to him, an old man, his neighbour, tried to
persuade him to amend his life, and to repent his
sins. To whom Faustus lent a not unwilling ear,
and promised to consider his counsel.
But Lucifer sent Mephistopheles straightway to
keep him in memory of his pledge, and made him
sign again with his blood a scroll, which the Spirit
bore away with him, and delivered it to Lucifer
his master, which caused Faustus to forget the
exhortations of his neighbour, and to fall back into
his wicked course, and proceed therein more than
before; and that he might have greater pleasure
during such time as was left to him, he bad his Spirit
find him some of the fairest women in the whole
world to be his concubines : and Mephistopheles did
accordingly ; and there were two Netherlanders, one
Hungarian, one Scot, two Walloon, and one Frank;
and they continued to sojourn with Faustus to the
very last. Who at other sundry times had the fair
Helena of Greece to be his paramour; and once he
shewed her to the students at Wittenberg ; and she
was attired in a most rich gown of purple velvet with
costly embroidery; her hair like the beaten gold
hanging down to her hams, with amorous, coal-black
eyes, a sweet and pleasant round face, cherry lips,
a small mouth, and a neck like a swan; and she
gazed round her at the students while she stayed,
and made them all so enamoured of her, that they
prayed Faustus to let them see her again the next
day. But he denied them.
FAUST OR FAUSTU.S. I 3 I
- --
VIII.
At length the four and twentieth year drew near
to completion, and the Spirit appeared to Faustus,
to command him to make preparation, for that
against a certain day appointed the Devil his master
would fetch him away. When he had departed,
Faustus wox exceeding sorrowful, and sighed
heavily, nor slept a wink. Whereupon Mephisto-
pheles returned, and comforted him, saying:
“Faustus, have better courage; for although thou
partest with thy body, it is long unto the day of
judgment ; and even if thou shouldst live many
thousand years, thou must die in the end. The
Turks, the Jews, and many an unchristian emperor
are in the same plight with thee; therefore be
reassured ; for the Devil, my master and theirs,
hath promised that thou shalt not suffer the pains
of the damned.”
The Spirit lied, and spake not according to the
Holy Scripture, nor did Faustus right entirely put
trust in his words; and on the same day he sum-
moned together the students of Wittenberg, his
very friends and comrades, and addressed them at
large on his wicked course of life, and how he had
sold his body and soul to the Devil, and the hour
drew near when he would be taken away from them.
For four and twenty years he had yielded himself
up to the lusts of his body, and had followed his
stiff-necked and rebellious will ; and now the close
of all was at hand : that very night his hour-glass
ran out. He prayed them all to forgive him any
trespass he had committed against them, and to



I 32 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
live hereafter in the sight of God, beseeching Him
to deliver them from the temptation and deceit of
the Devil; and he shewed them how he, miserable
sinner that he was! had fallen from God, had denied
baptism, the sacrament, and all righteousness; and
how it was for them to war and strive continually
against the Devil by the grace of God and Jesus
Christ. Lastly, he solicited them to go to rest, and
not to fear if they should be aware of any noises in
the night; and when he was no more with them,
they would find among his papers a record of all
things respecting his history, fully and truly
written.
One of the students hereupon said: “What led
you, friend Faustus, to conceal this matter from us
so long For we might, by the help of good
divines and the grace of God, have brought you
out of these toils, and freed you from the bondage
of Satan.”
Faustus replied that he had often laboured to
return to the ways of truth and light, but that the
persuasion of the Devil was too potent, and “he
threatened me that, if I left his allegiance, he would
destroy me altogether, as this night he is like to do.”
Then they entreated him not to give way too
much, and sought to teach him to pray, as thus:
“O Lord, have mercy on me, a miserable sinner
And though I must give my body to the Devil,
yet preserve my soul to Thy service and honour !”
But he maintained that his sins were greater than
God could ever forgive ; and so they left him to go
to their chambers, but Faustus tarried in the hall
hard by. The students could not compose them-
FAUST OR FAUSTUS. I 33
selves to sleep, and lay awake, listening and fear-
ful; and presently, the hall door flying open, he
was heard to cry in a smothered voice, Murther /
meur//her / and all was still.
But when, at daylight, the students went back
into the hall, they found not Faustus, but his shat-
tered and bloody remains scattered about, for the
devil had dashed him against the walls; and at last
in the courtyard, on some horse-dung, they saw his
body lying, fearfully and wonderfully mangled ;
whereupon the masters and students who had
witnessed these things obtained so much, that he
was buried in the village near at hand.
Some went shortly after to his house, where they
found his servant Wagner very heavy at heart; and
there was the whole History written by the hand
of Faustus himself, as he had declared in his life.
And the same night he appeared to Wagner, and
disclosed to him many secrets, and where he had
hidden much treasure.

FRIAR RUSH.
[7%is is another of the stories founded on suffer-
natura/ belief and agency, and was current in
Zngland in the ear/y part of the reign of E/izabet/.
At is mentioned in “Gammer Gurton's AWeed/e,” a
ce/eórated comedy Żerformed in 1566, in the ſo//ow-
ing terms (Act 3, scene 2)—
** HODGE. Saw ye never Friar Āush
Painted on a cloth with a side-long cow's tail,
And crooked cloven feeſ, and many a hooked nai/?
For all the world (if / should judge) / should reckon him his
brother: º
Zook, even what Friar Rush had, the devil had such another.”
Scot al/udes to ZČus/ in / is “A)iscovery of Witch-
craft,” 1584, and refers us to 4/ºe narrative itse/f or
to Wierus “De Praestigii's Daemomum.”
Zá will be readily observed in the oftening section
of this romance that it differs materia//y in its
structure and//oč from the others which occur in Z/he
present coſ/ection, and 4%at it personifies in Aus/, a
spirit of immora/ity and corruption diffused among
the Æomis/ clergy abroad to procure their downſa//
Por this narrative is clearly of continenſa/ derivation,
and its scenes are ſaid in that monastic /ife w/ic/.
Žad become toward //e c/ose of the sixteen// century
a/most a matter of tradition among our own ancesſors.
Yet the Zegend in its AEmg/is/, /a/ if / as become


I34
FRIAR RUSH. I 35
naturalized here, nor did the early reader stay to
inyuire too nice/y into the country of origin, where
the particulars were of so popular a cast at once
from their anti-ſa/a/ Zenor and their diverſing and
/icentious com/ſeation.
7%e work is of course a compilation, and exhibits
matter common to other fictions, including an episode
in “Priar Bacon” and the “Aſistory of the Three
Ariars of Berwick,” where the woman discourages
visitors to prevent the discovery of her amour with a
mzomá.
7%e vision of deviſs, which the farmer Öe/ho/a's Öy
stea/t/, and which ſeads to the dismissa/ of Æus/.
from the priory after a process of exorcism, marks
a certain undramatic and unreſecting inconsistency
àn the fa/e, and Žer/afts impairs the genera/ effect.
Aut these critica/ minutiae were not much studied by
the authors of ancient romantic compositions, whether
for the stage or the closet.
“A”iar Aus/4,” aſthough it aftertains to the same
necromantic cycle, is easily and Öroad/y distinguis/-
aff/e from “Friar Bacon" in its feature and mora/.
While the Załłer is the product of the stea/#/.) growth
of mayáž round a rea/ individual, Aus/ is a poetica/
or ſanciful embodiment of an idea or Żrinciple,
drawn into a connected narrative Shaffe ày the incor-
Żoration of apposite incidents, many of which are
ãorrowed. - -
Zá may be unnecessary to point out the inconsistency
of the story, as it stands, the imperfect offservance of
the attributes of the leading characters, and the want
of dramatic /armony in the sequence of incidents.
AVo one can ſaid to Öe strucé and amused by the




I 36 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
simplicity of the circumstances which attend the
dismissa/ of Æush from the priory and his meeting
with Zucifer; and there is a s/i/ in the construction
of the story, where Aus/, seeks service with the
husbandman or farmer, and his surprising ce/erity
Örings home the master ear/ier žhan ever.
ZŽ seems to be a series of anecdotes strung Zogether
without much regard to order, fitness, or proportion.
7%e investiture of the prior with the faculty of
commanding the suffernatura/ gifts of Æush, and at
the same time of disarming and coercing Aim, and of
casting the evil spirit out of the body of the young
woman, forms a singu/ar Žicture of Že uncrifica/
c/aim of the Church to contro/ //ºrough prayer over
the principle of evil as personifted in Zucifer and
Aus/4, even while it both profits and suffers by their
miraculous endowments.]
I.
HERE is a pleasant history, how a devil named Rush
came to a house of religious men to seek service
there.
There was formerly, on the skirts of a great
forest, a certain house and cloister of religion, which
had been founded and built to maintain the service
of Almighty God, and to pray daily for the souls of
their benefactors and their own.
Which place, by reason of the great number of
well-disposed persons who bestowed upon it their
goods at their death for their souls' sake, grew
mighty rich, and had gold and silver at will, so that
the holy men that therein dedicated their lives to
God lent themselves to riotous living and wanton
FRIAR RUSH. I 37
ness, and omitted the services of the Church, spend-
ing their hours like beasts without reason, haunting
harlots, and the goods which charitable people had
given them wasting in unthriftiness and ribaldry, so
| that when the prince of devils and those who do
| his bidding and are his chief officers viewed and
considered this misrule and abuse, they were well
content, and sought to keep that holy brotherhood
in the same course, which was to damnation.
Now of all these devils, the principal and most
potent were Lucifer, Prince of Gluttony, Asmodeus,
Prince of Lechery, and Beelzebub, Prince of Envy;
who, with many other, assembled together, and
after due conference chose one of their number to
go and dwell among these religious men to promote
their disorder, and keep them staunch in their
wickedness and ungracious living.
So this devil assumed the likeness of an earthly
creature, and went and placed himself at the gate
of the house as a young man that sought service,
and he wore a heavy countenance, betokening his
poor estate and need of employment; and when the
prior was coming out to go abroad he espied this --
young man, and asked him what he sought. The
young man reverently answered and said: “I am a
poor youth, that is out of service, and I stand in
want of a master. And if so it be that you take me
to be your servant, my lord, I will prove diligent,
that all your convent shall be fain to keep me, and
will do my uttermost to obtain your love and
favour.”
When the prior heard these words, he was moved
with pity for the youth, and said to him ; “Go into:



I 38 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
the kitchen to the cook, and acquaint him that I
have sent thee; for my intent is that thou shalt
there remain to do what thou canst, till something
better befall.”
Rush made lowly obeisance to the prior, and
proceeded forth into the kitchen, where he in lowly
manner greeted the master-cook, who, when he
understood the matter, welcomed him kindly, and
set him to do somewhat.
Then this devil, when he thus became under-cook
in that house of religious men, rejoiced within him-
self, thinking of the part he should play among
them, and of the discord and trouble he should
breed in their midst.
In a few days' space came the prior into the kitchen,
and found the young man there, to whom he said:
“Where wast thou born ? and what is thy name 2"
The young man replied so : “I was born far -
hence, and my name is Rush.”
The prior said, drawing him aside : “Rush, Canst
thou couple hounds together 2"
“Yea, my lord,” quoth he, “and more than that
can I do ; for I can couple men and women
together, which is a rarer mystery; and, my lord, if
your lordship so commanded, I could convey a fair
young woman into your chamber, and bring her
away in the morning, and no man should be privy
thereto. And all your counsels I would keep.”
The prior, when he heard Rush speak after this
wise, was a right glad man, and he said to him :
“Rush, thou wilt become one of the most trusty of
my servants. Anon it may be that I shall find thee
a message, the which thou canst do for me.”



FRIAR RUSH. I 39
|s ſº-
And after supper his lordship sent for Rush, and
desired him to go on an errand for him to a fair
gentlewoman, and to pray her to come to him.
“Let me alone, my lord,” answered Rush; “I
shall discharge this task to your full content.”
Then he repaired to the gentlewoman's house,
and with humble salutations greeted her, saying
that he was sent by his master, the prior of a
religious house there-by, to beseech her to shew
kindness to him, and to go to him that very night,
for that otherwise he should stand in peril of his
life. And when the lady, whom Rush found sitting
all alone, was apprised hereof, she declared that it
were great pity indeed that my lord should die for
her sake, and she would wait upon him incon-
tinently, to do him what courtesy she could. So
she and Rush departed together, and Rush brought
her secretly to his master's chamber, where there
was a table spread with choice viands and rich
wine; and Rush did attendance upon the prior and
the lady, whom after the repast he left, and the lady
saved the Lord Prior's life. -
The prior was overjoyed that he had such a goo
servant, and soon the other holy men, when they
perceived that he was a fellow of such close counsel,
gave him like commissions; and Rush laughed in
his sleeve, seeing that they were so blind as not
to know what he was, and thus to love and cherish
him. -
II.
It so chanced that Rush had occasion to stay
abroad very late one night, and when he returned
---


I4O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
the master-cook chid him and beat him ; and Rush
wox wrath, and seizing the master-cook in his
arms cast him into a kettle of boiling water that was
upon the fire, and so left him there, while he went
to fetch the gentlewoman for the prior from the
town next adjoining. -
When he returned certain of the friars came to
him, and said how they had gone into the kitchen,
and had found nobody stirring, and as they stood in
debate by the fireside, one looked into the kettle,
where he saw the master-cook seething, to his great
wonderment. Rush said that he had doubtless
fallen into the kettle, and it was pity; and they all
agreed to say no more of the master-cook, but to
put Rush in his place. So he acquitted himself
therein marvellously well, and dressed their meat
to their hearty content, mingling bacon with their
pottage in Lent and Advent and on fast-days, so
that it was exceeding savoury; and Rush proved a
better cook than the one who cast himself into the
kettle, and served these holy men seven years.
When the seventh year had come and passed, the
prior called all the friars before him, and they held
a council, and the prior said: “Rush has served us
steadfastly a long time, and if it be your wills we
will not remove him from the office which he now
holdeth, but will advance him to be one of our-
selves.” And they were well pleased, and so it was
done. The prior placed on Rush's shoulders a
gown proper to his new estate, and Rush thanked
him. Yet he still remained master-cook of that
house.
-
º
|




FRIAR RUSH. - I4 I
III.
But as he had fuller leisure than before, he
occupied himself now and again, when his labour
in the kitchen was ended for the day, with other
affairs; and anon he set to making Oaken truncheons,
as many as there were brethren in the priory, and
he sat at the gate fashioning them. Then when
the other friars beheld him so do they marvelled
in their minds, and demanded of him wherefore he
made such.
To whom he answered : “Fair sirs, I get them
ready putcase thieves should break into our house
and seek to rob us, that we may have weapons to
defend us withal; and if ye will come to me, when
need is, ye shall have one each of you.” And they
heartily thanked him for his brotherly forethought.
Not long after it happened that a discord arose
betwixt the prior and the sub-prior touching a
certain harlot, whom both affected, and these two
would have fought, but were abashed ; and never-
theless the report got abroad that there was this
difference, and some of the friars were for one, and
others for the other ; and they all wox strangely
wrath, and went secretly, one by one, to Friar Rush
their brother, and begged of him to let them have
staves, each religious man one. Whereby it came to
pass that the whole priory was provided therewith.
Friar Rush rejoiced inwardly, when he saw how
the thing went, for he assured himself that there
would be ere long a fray; and at the next midnight
service, when they were all gathered in the church,
and the prior arrived, as he was wont, last of all,
his lordship saw the sub-prior, and his spirit was




I42 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
stirred up against him. So he sprang toward him
suddenly, and dealt him a buffet, and the sub-prior
struck him again ; and the rest thereupon took sides,
as their bent was, and out with their truncheons,
and basted each other lustily with the same, till
Some were slain outright, and many were severely
wounded and maimed. And Friar Rush, as soon as
he perceived how the sport prospered, blew out the
candles, and left them to grope about in the dark;
and presently he brought out of the choir a heavy
desk, and threw it in among them, to their further
undoing and discomfiture.
Then, when he judged good, Friar Rush entered
the church with a lighted candle in his hand, and
cried : “Alack | sirs, how did you happen to fall out
so among yourselves * Verily I see well that you
do not regard your fair name nor the honour of your
house. All folk hereabout will begin to say that
ye be no honest, religious men, which I should be
loth to hear; for I would not, if it were possible,
suffer our holy place to come into such ill repute.
Wherefore I pray you to let me intercede with you,
and to do what best I may to make you friends
together once again.”
The friars thanked Friar Rush for his great
charity and love, and shewed to him their bruises
and wounds, for the which he expressed marvellous
sorrow ; and all their staves they brought back to
him, which he assured them they could at any
season have at need and commandment. To whom
they shewed their indebtedness; and for a length of
time none went abroad for shame's sake, for their
sores were unhealed, and many were privily buried.



FRIAR RUSH. I43
Friar Rush thought that he had done passing
well during such space as he had been among those
religious men, and he said to himself, “I will yet
achieve more in the way of making them worthy of
eternal fire; and my name shall be famous at the
end of a thousand years.”
IV.
My lord the prior, having a journey to make into
the country on some business of his, begged Rush
to get ready against the next morning one of his
waggons, and to see that the wheels and the axle-
tree were well greased. But Rush, feigning that
he so understood his master, took a great vessel of
tar, and tarred the waggon completely over ; and
when the prior would have mounted the waggon,
his clothes were all besmeared, and he demanded of -
Rush what such a thing meant ; whereupon Rush
innocently told him that he thought those were his
commands; and when the prior, seeing no remedy,
caused another waggon to be brought, and travelled
with Rush and the rest till they came to their inn
in the evening, the prior supped of the best, and
called for the best wine, but left none for Rush.
So Rush prayed the hostess to fill a bottle for
him and his fellows, and to put it in the reckoning,
and then a second, and a third ; and when the prior
asked for his reckoning, and saw the wine, Rush
told him that he and the others his servants had
drunk one bottle, and the second and third bottle
the horses had, for that they were so weary : and
the prior, albeit angry enough, said little, but Rush


I44. SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
never again accompanied his master after so be-
guiling him the second time.
But the prior then appointed Rush to be sexton
of the church, and it was his charge to ring the bell,
light the candles, and call the friars to prayers;
and his master enjoined him to count them, and to
note any that were absent. Now it happened in
no great space of time that they were all severally
presented to the prior, and they were very sore
and disdainful against Rush; but he heeded them
not, and he devised a sleight still further to bring
them into discredit. For, taking away the stairs of
the Dorter, he presently rang to matins, and the
friars hurried from their cells, and making for the
stairs, fell down one on the top of the other, and
one of them, that had a mighty big paunch, fared
the worst of all; and as they so fell, Rush, who sat
near the foot of the stairs, counted them, one, two,
three, four, and so on. They were aching in every
limb, especially the one with the great belly; but
they crawled into the church, and stayed there all
night, for they could not come to their cells again,
by reason that the stair was away. And when this
accident came to the knowledge of the prior, he
called Rush, and begged him to satisfy him touching
the same. To whom Rush shewed how the friars
had made such great haste to get to the chancel,
that their weight had broken the stair, and he that
had the greatest belly had the hardest fall. But
the prior shook his head, as though he questioned
Rush ; and in effect he removed him from the
office of sexton from that time, and sent him back
to the kitchen.


















FRIAR RUSH. I 45
V.
Friar Rush had oftentimes much leisure, and was
wont to walk abroad at such seasons as his presence
in the kitchen was not asked for, to divert himself,
and make merry with pleasant company. One day
he came to a village two or three miles away from
the priory, and looking about him on each side
he espied an ale-house, where sundry persons sat
drinking and playing at cards. Rush made Obei-
sance to them, and sat down among these good
fellows, and drank with the rest, and anon joined
them in their play.
He noted not the time as it passed, and at length
it drew toward night. Then he remembered that
there was nought provided for supper at home;
and he rose suddenly, and paid for his drink, and
departed. On his way back to the priory he saw
a fat cow grazing in a field, and dividing it in twain,
he left one half in the field, and the other he laid
on his shoulder, and bore it to the house.
He quickly dressed the meat in two or three
ways, and made thereof marvellously good broth,
and all was ready at the appointed hour ; and for
that they all wist how late he had come home, and
how a little before there was no fire in the kitchen,
they gave him great praise for his despatch.
But the poor farmer, whose the cow was, going
to seek it when it returned not home in the evening,
found only half of it there, and the other clean gone,
and so parted therefrom that he imagined not who
could have done such a thing; for it was sundered
as neither man nor beast could have sundered it.
A. L.



I46 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
The farmer, returning home, lost his way, and
darkness overtook him, so that he crept into a
hollow tree, there to lie till the morning. He had
not been there long, ere a strange company assem-
bled near at hand, and began to enter into confer-
ence; and as he listened, he found to his amazement
that they were devils who thus consulted together;
and it seemed that the chief among them was called
Lucifer, who summoned each of the others, that
were his servants, one by one, to tell him what they
had done for him and the good cause.
Then first Of all Beelzebub said unto him : “Sir,
I have sown dissension between two brothers, so
that one hath slain the other.”
“That is well done,” quoth Lucifer; “thou shalt
be well requited for thy travail.”
Next he demanded of one named Incubus, what
report he had to make of his good works.
“Sir,” said he, “I have bred a war between two
great lords; and they have met in battle, and many
of their men have fallen in the fray.”
“I commend thee heartily for thy loyalty to me,”
returned the master-devil; “ thou shalt be well
remembered. Norpell, what hast thou to say ”
“Master,” he answered, “I have consorted with
dicers and card-players, and have caused them to
swear many great oaths; and I have parted man
and wife, and made strife betwixt them, till the wife
hath cut her husband's throat.”
“Bravely done, Norpell,” cried Lucifer; “thou
art a trusty servant, and shalt have goodly recom-
pense.”
Next followed one called Rush, who recounted

FRIAR RUSH. I 47
to Lucifer all that he had achieved during such
time as he had been in a certain priory; and when
he shewed him the greatness and rarity of his zeal,
his master said to him : “Rush, if thou hast all
these laudable acts truly accomplished, thou hast
deserved of me better than any other. Now go,
you and the rest, and prosper in your worthy
enterprizes.” And as the day began to break, the
assembly vanished, and the farmer in the hollow
tree, that had been nigh dead with fear, left his
place and went home, resolving with himself the
next morning to seek the Lord Prior, and apprise
him of what he had seen and heard.
VI.
So accordingly he waited on the prior, this
farmer, and desired to be admitted to his presence,
for that he had a weighty errand.
“Sir,” he said, when he saw the prior, “there
hath happened to me this last night passed a great
adventure.” -
“How so?” inquired the prior.
“Sir,” continued the farmer, “I had walked forth
in the evening in quest of a cow, which returned
not, as she was wont, after the day, and I found but
one half of her, the other clean gone; and then, as
I set out on my way homeward, I missed the track,
and took shelter in a hollow tree till the day should
dawn. Lo! ere I had lain long therein, there
appeared to my vision a strange Concourse of
creatures, whom I found to be devils, and of whom








I48 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
the rest, and last of all with Rush, who acquainted
him how he ruled you and your holy brethren, and
made divisions among you, and so ordered your
inclinations, that you might be damned, both body
and soul.”
When the husbandman had gone, the prior fell
into a sad and contrite mood, and thought how he
and the rest of that religious house had misdone in
the sight of the Lord ; and he called together his
brethren, and opened to them the whole matter,
telling them that this Rush was in verity a devil,
and no earthly creature: whereat they were all
grievously abashed and astonished, being heartily
sorry that they had sinned in such manner against
Almighty God by the motion and counsel of Rush,
and they sank down on their knees and implored
the Divine grace and pardon.
Then, at the prior's commandment, they as-
sembled in the church, and went to prayer, and
besought the Lord of His mercy; and in the midst
of the prayers the Lord Prior went out, and to
the kitchen, where he found Rush exceeding busy,
whom he commanded to stand still, and conjuring
him in the name of Almighty God and all the
company of heaven, bad him transform himself into
the likeness of a horse, and to abide at the gate,
even at the very place where he first sought service,
during his lordship's pleasure.
When the service was finished, they went to the
gate, and found Rush there in the likeness of a
horse; and they asked him wherefore he had at the
beginning come to them and had tarried with them
so long. To whom he replied, that he was sent

FRIAR RUSH. I49
thither to work them all the harm he might, and
had he remained yet a while longer they would all
have been damned.
Then they lifted up their hands and praised God
that he had delivered them out of this peril; and
when Rush prayed to be suffered to go, and pro-
mised not to come among them again, the prior
gave him leave, and he disappeared ; and ever
after those religious men lived to the pleasure of
Almighty God, and only to do Him honour.
VII.
His master Lucifer was troubled, because Rush
was thus discharged from that house of religion;
but he comforted him, saying, that he would anon
surely meet with another service. And it happened
that, as he walked in the country, he saw a husband-
man, who worked in the fields, and he offered
himself to his employment.
The husbandman told him that he should be fain
to take him, but that he would fare ill with the
goodwife, who brooked no man save him in the
house. Rush answered, “Sir, let me alone ; I
shall see that thy dame is pleased with me.” And
so the husbandman took Rush home with him after
the day's work done. -
The goodwife scolded and fretted when she saw
Rush, and understood the case; for she said that
her husband was well able to compass alone all that
he had to do, and they could not spare the charges
of another. But Rush softened her anger, shewing
that his hire was only for a time, and if so it was






I 50 SUPERNATURAL LEGENIDS.
that his service was not welcome, he would depart.
The woman said nothing more at that time, and
spread supper ; and the goodman told Rush that he
must be up betimes in the morning, for there was a
long day's work before them.
But Rush rose early, and went to the field, and
when his master came, bringing him his breakfast,
there was nought left to do.
So they both returned, and when the goodwife
saw what a profitable servant Rush was, she looked
more pleasantly upon him. For the next day the
farmer appointed twice as much for his man to
fulfil, and Rush had come to the end of it all ere
his master arrived with his breakfast; whereat his
master greatly marvelled.
Now the goodwife loved well the parish priest,
and as soon as her husband had departed the second
time, this priest came to the house, and was well
and lovingly entertained, so that one who had been
by might have seen those two very busy, while the
victual was making ready on the fire.
when he was with his master in the field, he said
to him : “Sir, why be not your shoes better greased 2
Is it not so that you have another pair lying under
a great chest in your chamber 2"
“Yea, even so,” answered the farmer.
“Then let me go home straightway that I may
grease them for you against to-morrow.” -
So Rush returned to the house, merrily singing
by the way ; and the goodwife, hearing the noise,
looked out of the casement, and when she spied
Rush, “Sir," quoth she to the parish priest, “it is
Rush, because he was a devil, knew hereof, and












FRIAR RUSH. I5 I
so that you must hide yourself under the great chest
among the old shoon, and I will cover you up, for
Our Servant approacheth.”
Rush entered the door, and went up into the
chamber, saying to the goodwife, “My master bad
me grease his old shoon by to-morrow”; and with-
out more ado he put his hand in there, where the
shoon lay, and felt the priest, whom he pulled forth
by the heels, saying, “What doest thou here, thou
rogue 2 " But the priest cried him mercy, and he
let him go that time.
The husbandman and his servant went day by
day to the field to work, and they both returned
too early for the goodwife and her secret paramour.
But one day, when the priest had again ventured
to pay her a visit, Rush was seen coming, and she
said, “Go into the stable, sir, even beneath the
manger, and I shall lay a truss of straw upon thee.”
But Rush, when she met him, demanding why
he was back at home so soon again, would not be
stayed, but declared that he must do his master's
bidding, and clean out the stable. Which put that
goodwife Sorely in dread lest he should find the
priest.
Rush took a fork, and shook the straw, and threw
it about, till he came to the part where the priest
lay, and because it was more weighty, he made a
great ado, and raised it up with the fork, and carried
it out of the stable, and cast it on the midden.
Then, looking upon it, he espied the priest's gown,
and feigned astonishment, and turned the heap over
again, when out fell the priest. “What!" cried he,
“art thou here a second time P Methinks I will

I 52 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
make an end of thee, false priest that thou art l”
But the religious man begged him to spare his life,
and let him go ; and Rush consented, forasmuch
as the priest said that, if he found him there there-
after, he might do with him whatso he listed.
Nevertheless, so it fortuned that that priest,
because he loved the farmer's wife over-well, could
not restrain himself from seeking her company; and
at such time as the farmer and his man were abroad
he came once more, and they had not been in Sweet
converse together very long when Rush appeared
suddenly, and the goodwife, wringing her hands,
scarce knew what to do.
But she presently bad that religious man haste
up into her upper chamber, and get into the cheese-
basket, which hung from the window.
“I am come, mistress,” said Rush, “with my
master's privity to scour out your cheese-basket,
that is full of hairs, and very foul.” And ascending
to the room above, he took a knife, and severed
the rope which held the cheese-basket, so that the
basket fell into a great pool of water beneath the
window. Then Rush fetched a horse out of the
stable, and tying the rope that had held the cheese-
basket to the horse's tail, drew it thrice or more
through the pond, and thus about the town, making
the folk wonder ; and all this time he made as if he
wist nought of the priest being within, till he sud-
denly looked round, and, espying the priest, almost
dead with fright and sousing, cried out with a loud
voice, “Thou shalt not escape me now ; lo! thy life
is lost.” But the priest joined his hands together
in supplication, and offered Rush one hundred gold


FRIAR RUSH. - I 53
pieces to release him : which Rush did, and giving
half to his master, bad him farewell, by reason that
he desired another service.
VIII.
Rush travelled far and wide, and passed from
one place to another, ere he could settle in any new
employment. But at length he came to a gentle-
man's house, where the master stood outside his
gate, and to him Rush said, vailing his bonnet, “Sir,
I am a poor young man, that has journeyed up and
down in quest of service, and none by any means
can I find.”
“What canst thou do P” asked the gentleman ;
“ and what is thy name P”
“I can do,” the young man answered, “whatever
you bid me, and Rush I am called.”
Then said the gentleman that he might tarry with
him ; and when he had been in that employment a
certain season, his master shewed him how he had,
above all things, in his mind how one might conjure
a spirit out of a woman's body. -
“Why seek you, sir, so to do *" his servant
demanded. -
“I have a daughter,” he replied, “who is a fair
young gentlewoman ; but she is sorely vexed in her
spirit, wherefore I conjecture that she hath a devil
within her.” º
“I counsel you, sir,” Rush answered him, “to
proceed to a house of religion which is fifty miles
hence, wherein I was once a servant; and the prior
thereof is a man very cunning in these things.”


I 54 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDs.
And the gentleman hearing these words, and
because he was a person of great worship in that
country, in place of going to the priory, prayed the
Lord Prior of his goodness to repair unto him, to
confer on a business which he had.
And when the Lord Prior understood the purpose
of the gentleman, he made ready and went thither ;
and as soon as they had drunk and refreshed them-
selves together, the gentleman acquainted the prior
with his great trouble. Then the prior asked him
who had counselled him herein, and the gentleman
said that it was a servant that he had, who was
named Rush.
The prior commanded all to kneel down on their
knees, and when they had so done he prayed to
Almighty God to deliver that maiden from her
vexation ; and straightway a great devil flew out of
her mouth, and she was whole. Her father was a
glad man, and would have given the Lord Prior
much gold for that he had done ; but he refused it,
saying : “Sir, I have a new church in building,
and there sorely needeth lead for the roof thereof.
I understand that this country is rich in lead ; and if
you will give me as much as will cover my church,
my poor brethren and I will be your daily beads-
men for ever.”
“But how shall the carriage be done P’ asked
the gentleman. -
“Easily enough,” answered the prior.
Then the gentleman brought him to a great heap
of lead, and said to him, “Take whatever you need”;
and the prior called to him Rush, charging him to
carry enough for the roof of his church, who, once


FRIAR RUSH. 155
more taking the likeness of a horse, laid it on his
neck, and was there in a quarter of an hour.
Then the prior transformed Rush into his own
shape, and banished him for ever to a castle far
away in the forest, whence he has not returned to
this day.


FORTUNATUS.
[The prevaiſing com/ſerion of this rather weſ/
Ánown fiction resembles that of several others which
we have frinted, as if ſo//ows the generic Zines of a//
romantic /iterature of the same cast, and emóraces
adventures in the east of Europe and the rather
indistinct/y marked dominions of the Soldan. But
in two leading respects, the Purse of P/enty and the
Wishing Caft, “Aartunatus” has a specia/ c/aim to
our affenſion, and possesses ſeculiar characteristics
or features. 7%ese ideas are evident/y oriental in-
ventions, and are in their spirić perfect/y and/ogous
to the numerous suffernatura/ devices which form
the sa/ient and centra/ element in the “Arabian
AWights” and other popular story-books. -
/n “Portunatus,” however, we readily discern a
further move/y, and that is the inheritance by a
second generation of the magica/virtues of the Purse.
Zá was a fairy grant for two /ives. The Wishing
Caft was acquired under different conditions, and
was simp/y a £a/isman at #/he command of Że zwearer
for the time being, ſºrovided that he had the Áey.
Zł is rather curious, in commeAxiom zwit/, //e zyższł
zwhich the Aero is made to ſay in this version at least
to St. Patricſº's Purgatory, that an account of that
shrine was ſuff/ished 7ust about the same time as the
copy of “A”zºunaſſus" which we have employed, that
156
FORTUNATUs. I 57
ôoč/. are apparent/y unique, and that Öoth want the
whoſe of the prefatory matter and the title-page.
Whether these two vo/umes proceeded from the same
ſand, we cannot say, the Britis/, //useum Cała/ogue
describes the “Fortunatus” as a trams/ation from the
ZJutch.
7%e introduction of the King of England's
daughter, who bears the rather uninsular name of
Agriftina, into the second portion of the romance as
a prominent character fo//ows the customary indif.
ſerence on the part of ear/y writers of fiction to
Aistorica/verisimi/itude. 7%e disſºgurement of a /air
and /ºg/?-óorn dame with goat's horns was a crue/
and unga/ant reprisa/; but the wizard is not aſ ways
to be reasoned wit/a/. We are remainded of a scene
Žn the “Merry Wives of Windsor”; but them
Aa/staff was not a you///u//rincess.]
I.
IN the island of Cyprus there once lived a rich
merchant, named Theodorus, who was a man of
noble blood, and had inherited from his father a
fair estate. But as he was rulingly addicted to the
pleasures and vanities of the world, and spent his
days in hunting, hawking, gaming, and costly enter-
tainments, his good in no long time diminished, that
he was reduced to great distress. Which his friends
perceiving, they devised how his affairs might be
brought back again to a flourishing condition, and
likewise how his licentious manner of life might
be restrained ; and when they had fully conferred
together, they resolved to counsel him to take a
wife to himself. a


I 58 SUPERNATURAL LEGENIDS.
Who gladly thereto assented, and they found the
daughter of another wealthy merchant, Gratiana by
name, to whom he opened his suit; and these two
were married in due time, and had a son, whom they
baptized under the name of Fortunatus.
But his father, when he had espoused the daugh-
ter of this rich neighbour, and received in dowry
much treasure, returned to his former course of
living, and had quickly spent and wasted the whole
of his wife's substance ; and when it was so that
Fortunatus had grown up a comely youth, Theo-
dorus, for that he had once more sunk into penury,
in lieu of being gladdened by the thought of having
such a child and heir, looked sorrowfully upon him,
and even wept, when he was in his sight. Whereat
Fortunatus was astonished and Sorely grieved, be-
cause he deemed that he had offended his father.
But Theodorus said nay, and told him that he
had displeased him in nothing, and that it was his
poverty, which had ensued from his extravagances,
which made him doubt that he should not be able
to maintain him ; and Fortunatus therefore begged
him not to be downcast on his behalf, for that he
would take means to be no longer chargeable upon
him.
One day the youth went to the sea-side, with his
staff in his hand, and had not stood there long
when the galley of the Earl of Flanders, who was
returning from Jerusalem, put on shore for pro-
visions ; and ere it departed, Fortunatus sought
service at the earl's hands, and embarked with him
on the ship for Venice.
The earl had been some time contracted to the

FORTUNATUS. I 59
daughter of the Duke of Cleves, and was appointed
to wed her on his return ; and at Venice he bought
rich jewels and embroideries for his lady, wherein
Fortunatus, knowing the language of the merchants,
stood him in great stead, and mightily rose in the
earl's favour; so that, when he landed in his own
country and bought horses for the wedding, he gave
the stranger next to his own the finest and most
Sumptuous.
The kindness of the earl toward Fortunatus bred
great envy and despite in the minds of all the other
servants; but he heeded them not, and in the jousts,
which were ordained to celebrate the nuptials of that
great lord, the Italian won one of the two jewels that
had been set apart for prizes for the two foremost in
the tilting, and one called Timothy gained the other.
Then the servants said that those two should enter
the barriers together, and both jewels to be to the
victor : who hoped that Timothy might overthrow
the stranger youth ; but it was far otherwise, for
Fortunatus won the day, to the great applause of
the spectators and admiration of his master, who
made him his chief chamberlain of his court.
The jealousy of the other servants lost all bounds,
when they saw how Fortunatus prospered, that had
so newly come among them ; and One of them at
length feigned a tale, how the earl, intending to
make war on another great lord, had a secret pur-
pose to order it with all his officers whom he left
behind, that they might not wrong him by doing
violence to his young and beauteous lady ; and this
fellow persuaded Fortunatus that he was among
those who should be made eunuchs, and named

I 6O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
him who should do the work. Which so terrified
the young man that, without seeking further, or
staying to consider the likelihood of such a story,
he took leave, and fled from that land, to the great
sorrow of the same earl, when he was advised of
his departure. Nor wist the cause.
II.
Fortunatus made all the haste he could to escape
from Flanders, and came to Calais, where he found
an English ship bound for London, and sailed in it
thither. Knowing none, after a while he hired him-
self to a Florentine merchant in Lombard Street,
and by his diligence and pleasant manners gained
the love of his master and his whole household ; but
by reason of a robbery and murder which were com-
mitted in his master's house by another, he was like
to have been executed, had not some ladies, that
saw how comely a youth he was, interceded for him
with the king of England. Fortunatus therefore
left that country, and moved again over to France,
where he met with many strange and wonderful
adventures, and often went in peril of his life.
But that which was worthiest of note above all
was what happened to him as he was travelling from
Orleans to Paris. For he was passing through a
huge forest, when he suddenly became aware on
his right hand of a beautiful creature in female
habit, seated under a wide-spreading beech tree,
with a veil over her countenance. Who, when she
perceived his approach, rose, and stood in his path,
to his great content, since he had thought that in
that place had been nought but wild beasts.









FORTUNATUS. I 6 I
He gazed steadfastly upon her, and mused in his
mind whether she was a fairy or some phantom.
But she, taking his hand, gently asked him whither
he was going, and he told her, praying her of her
company out of the wood. Whereupon she said,
that she might in no wise accompany him, but
that she would do more for him than any on earth
could do.
“My name," quoth she, “is Fortune, and I hold
commission from Him who made all things, and to
whom by consequence all things are subject, to dis-
tribute six gifts, according as the stars from time
to time direct and give leave ; which are Wisdom,
Health, Long Life, Beauty, Strength, and Riches.
Now, even now, is the moment when you must
choose, or the opportunity will be lost for an age.”
Fortunatus was greatly astonished at these words,
and secretly rejoiced at the happy tidings which
Dame Fortune brake unto him ; and when he con-
sidered his great poverty and need of money, he
chose of those six gifts the last. The lady there-
fore presented to him a Purse, which, in whatever
country he was, would ever be filled with the money
used there, both during his own life and the life of
his sons, but no longer. And when he thanked her,
she rebuked him, saying that it was her place to dis-
tribute these things, and that she was veiled, in that
she might not see to whom she gave them; but of
the riches which he now possessed she exhorted him
to lend some part to the poor. -
Fortunatus heartily agreed to perform all that
Dame Fortune enjoined unto him, and she led him
out of the wood, and commanding him not to look
A. L. M

I 62 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
back, vanished. Then he came to a road, and after
to an inn, where he had noble refreshment, and his
Purse answered all calls. For he espied in a stable
rich trappings appurtenant to a horse and horse-
man, and asked of the landlord for whom they there
waited; and when he answered that they were there
for any one who would buy them at fifty gold
crowns, Fortunatus laid the money down, to the
landlord's amazement, seeing his mean apparel, and
took them away with him.
Presently he came to a place where an innkeeper
had three fine horses to sell, and he said that they
belonged to a merchant, and had been brought there
in hope to dispose of them for five hundred crowns
at the wedding of the Duke of Orleans to the
daughter of the king of Aragon, and the Earl Ro-
dolph had bidden three hundred, but would give no
more. “No matter for the price,” quoth Fortunatus;
“let me see them.” And they took him where they
were, and he paid the money, and carried them
away.
Anon came the servants of Earl Rodolph, and
brought the 500 crowns; but they were told that a
stranger had bought them, and when the earl heard
this, he caused Fortunatus to be apprehended, and
brought before him. To whom Fortunatus, ques-
tioned of him, replied that he had come honestly by
the money, and when the earl put him to the rack,
made confession that he had found 62o crowns in a
purse in a certain forest, and had cast away the
purse. The earl asked him if he knew not that
the forest was his, and all that was therein ; and he
would have put him to death on the morrow, had

FORTUNATUS. I63
not many begged his life, and the countess's gentle-
woman, who saw how well-favoured he was, in par-
ticular. And the earl at last sent him away, giving
him two crowns out to help him on his way.
Fortunatus hastened to leave that great lord's
jurisdiction, and was exceeding glad that he had still
his Purse with him ; and he next came to the city
of Angers, where a marriage was to be solemnized
betwixt the Duke of Brittany's daughter and the
Prince of Saxony; and albeit he had good cause to
be wary in buying of horses, yet he presently pur-
chased three others, with a costly equipage, and
hired two servants, and betook himself to the best
inn, where he abided the coming nuptials.
And when he had taken part in all the sports
and pastimes and masques and shows that were
| arranged to do honour to the duke's daughter, and
had surprised all by his generosity and riches, For-
tunatus, accompanied by a certain Irish gentleman
of his acquaintance, took ship for England once
more, and thence to Scotland and Ireland, where
the Irish gentleman Sorely longed to see his family;
and they visited St. Patrick's Purgatory, where
Fortunatus was well-nigh lost, his Purse notwith-
standing : for that the Irish gentleman and he
penetrated into the cave, and could in no manner
find a passage out again by reason of the labyrinth,
till the abbot procured a guide; and Fortunatus
richly requited the same, and the priests likewise,
and, so departing, they both sailed for Venice and
Constantinople. -
In the city of the Great Turk, where festivities
were being held at that time, they put up at an
















I64 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
inn ; and when the host called for a reckoning,
Fortunatus kept his Purse under the table, lest any
should see it, and delivered the money to his friend,
who gave it to the landlord; and Fortunatus, re-
membering his vow, demanded of him if it was
so that he knew any virgin who was marriageable,
and he was content to give her a portion.
Now the landlord was in his heart a thief, and
when he understood how great a store of money
the two gentlemen had, he came privily to their
chamber in the night, while they slept, and from
the purse of the Irish gentleman took fifty crowns;
but because in the Purse of Fortunatus there
appeared to be nought, he cast it angrily under the
bed, where Fortunatus afterward found it, to his
mighty content. And ere long he met with a virgin,
upon whom at her marriage he bestowed four hun-
dred gold crowns, and made all marvel at his riches;
and his host once more applied himself to dis-
cover where these two gentlemen kept their money.
Whom, as he stole into their chamber in the dark-
ness to tumble the clothes and see where the money
lay, the Irish gentleman, suddenly seizing his sword,
slew ; and the body they caused the servants, while
it was yet night, to carry into the court-yard, and
throw it into the well, saying that they had found
a thief in their chamber ; and in the early morning
they called for their horses, and paid their reckon-
ing, and gave to each of the servants two ducats,
saying that they were sorry not to bid farewell to
the host, but would return shortly and thank him
for his courtesy. And because it was in the night-
time, they knew not that it was their master whom
FORTUNATUS. I65
they had cast into the well, but rejoiced at the
bounty of the two gentlemen, who then set out,
and after visiting many countries, and buying the
richest merchandise and jewels wherever they came,
at last embarked for Famagosta, where Fortunatus
desired to see his parents.
He found that his father and mother were dead ;
but he erected to them a noble monument, and
built for himself a fair house, where he hired ser-
vants, bought a coach, and furnished himself with
every necessary ; till the whole country began to
wonder whence he got such vast sums of money,
seeing that he left Cyprus so exceeding poor, and
lived by no calling.
III.
Ere Fortunatus had dwelled long in Cyprus, he
bought back the greatest part of his patrimony,
which had been sold, and built a church and chantry,
with houses and endowments for twelve priests,
and he caused to be laid out gardens, parks, foun-
tains, and fishponds; and notwithstanding that he
exercised no employment, he had jewels worth
IOO,OOO crowns of gold, and seemed in no way
poorer whatsoever he spent.
The king, seeing these things, and how all the
nobles of the land vied with each other in doing
honour to Fortunatus, thought that it was time
that he sought a wife in marriage; and he chose by
the king's command one of the daughters of a great
lord of his court, and she was called Cassandra, and
she was the youngest.
Her two elder sisters felt much chagrin that


I 66 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
Fortunatus should have over-passed them ; but he
quieted them by giving them some of the jewels
which he had bought at Venice and other places,
and the remainder he distributed among the court,
and offered some to the king and to the queen.
And it came to pass, when the king would have the
marriage celebrated in the court, that Fortunatus
prayed his majesty to suffer it to be solemnized at
his own house in Famagosta ; and that for the cost
thereof, with all the jousts and feasts and games
and merriments, which his majesty might be pleased
to command, he would be answerable, and in the
lists would essay to shew his prowess before the
king and the queen.
Fortunatus sent 2,000 crowns of gold by the Irish
gentleman to Famagosta, and had all things pre-
pared for the espousal ; and he settled 8,000 on his
wife, wherewith was bought to her use and dowry
the county of Leghorn ; and when the solemnities
of the marriage were concluded, all the chief citi-
zens of Famagosta were entertained for nine days
together at the cost of Fortunatus, who, moreover,
for the love which he bare to the Irish gentleman
his many years' companion, gave him provision for
his life in Cyprus. Who sent for his wife and
family; but it unhappily fortuned so that, ere they
could come to him, he died, being full in years. -
IV.
Now when Fortunatus and Cassandra had been
wedded for a certain space of time, and God did
not bless them with offspring, they prayed to Him


ForTUNATUs. 167
that they might have children as pledges of their
affection ; and God heard their voice, and sent them
two sons, who were baptized under the names of
Ampedo and Andalosia.
Then, after a while, it entered into the thought
of Fortunatus that he would once again travel
abroad; and when he had conquered the objections
of his lady, who wept at the idea of losing his
company so long, and who was all the more afraid
that he resolved to go into heathen countries, where
Christians were misliked and oftentimes slain, he
hired a ship, and promising to return speedily to
his wife, and giving her Io,000 crowns of gold for
her expenses during his absence, he embarked with
two servants and his Purse for Egypt.
Upon his arrival thither, he made a present to
the Soldan twenty times richer than any had ever
made before that time; and the Soldan was marvel-
lously well pleased, so that he greatly befriended
him, and at his departure offered him letters to
Other kings, through whose lands he purposed to
pass. And at length he reached the court of
Prester John, who had sixty-two kings subject
him-to, and dwelled in a palace which glittered like
gold.
Fortunatus, appearing to be a gentleman, was
admitted by the officers at the gates, and was
brought into the presence of Prester John, unto
whom he gave more rich jewels, which the emperor
gladly accepted, and caused Fortunatus to see all
the treasures of his palace, of which he had never
before beheld the like. The walls were cased with
silver, whereon were engraven stories of knights


I68 SUPERNATURAL LEGENIDS.
and battles, and the achievements of former em-
perors; and the pillars which supported the hall
were of gilt cedar-wood. At dinner Fortunatus sat
with the officers, for none but the princes of the
blood might sit with the emperor ; and when all
were placed at the table, the bottles and glasses
began to dance; and when they ceased, presently
a tree full of fair oranges arose, and sundry black
men approached and gathered the fruit, whereupon
the tree vanished. Next a stag, followed by a pack
of hounds in full cry, rushed in, and ran round the
wall twice or thrice, and disappeared ; and then
several women in strange attire entered and played
upon the lute. All which caused Fortunatus to
muse how it came to pass ; and one near him
whispered him in the ear that the emperor kept
necromancers, who performed these things for his
pleasure.
It came to the knowledge of these necromancers
that Fortunatus possessed a great store of gold,
and they raised their familiars by means of certain
charms to tell them who he was, and what was the
cause of his exceeding riches. But the familiars
only knew that the stranger was a merchant of
Cyprus that had a secret mine, which could not be
exhausted during his whole life, and which they
were forbidden to reveal. Then the necromancers
essayed through their wives, who were witches, to
visit the lodging of the stranger by night and bring
away such treasure as they might there find. But
as they entered by the casement Fortunatus awoke,
by reason of the noise which they made, and wound-
ing one of them with his sword, the rest fled.

FORTUNATUS. I69
Yet he was so ill-contented with these and other
arts to do him wrong and gain his Purse by sleight,
that he suddenly left that place, and when he had
visited the Holy Land, returned to Alexandria,
where he was again nobly entertained by the
Soldan.
Now, growing anxious to see his wife according
to the promise which he had made to her ere his
departure, he distributed largess among the ser-
vants, and then demanded of the Soldan permission
to depart. But the Soldan, seeing what great
riches Fortunatus owned, was loth that he should
take ship before he had looked upon the treasures
which himself possessed, lest in his own country he
might vaunt that he exceeded in wealth the Soldan,
that was the king of kings.
So he led him into his treasury, where in the first
room were set out cloths of gold and rich tissues,
jewels, rings, huge pearls, and other; and in the
second an infinite store of money, whereof Fortuna-
tus deemed that he had never beheld the like ; and
thus he said to him : “I have yet another thing to
shew you, which is more wonderful than all these ";
and he brought him, musing all the while what it
could be, into a farther chamber, and pointed to an
old Hat. “This,” quoth he, “is the jewel which
surpasses all others that I have.”
Whereupon Fortunatus smiled, and said again to
him, “Why, it is an old hat, and may be had for a
small matter.”
“Yea,” answered him the Soldan ; “if it were an
old hat only, indeed, then were it not much. But if
I should lose all my jewels, I might them renew ; yet
I7O SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
an' I lost this Hat, such another the world affords
not.”
Fortunatus wox anxious to know what the
secret was of that rare jewel, and the Soldan
continued : -
“Since you are my friend, I will impart to you
where its singular worth lies. Whoever puts on
the Hat, which you here see, has but to wish, and
he is forthwith in what place it pleaseth him to be.
If I would join my nobles on hunting, I am with
them in an instant, and back in my palace, as swift
as thought. If I desire to be at the head of my
armies, a hundred leagues away, it is the same.
Therefore you perceive why I regard this above all
my possessions as the most precious.”
Fortunatus, when he heard this strange report,
stood amazed, and privily considered how he might
come by the Hat. “ For,” he pondered, “that and
my Purse together were enough for the richest
emperor in the world.” And presently he inquired,
if, looking at its rare properties, it were not weightier
than any other. But the Soldan told him that, on
the contrary, it was lighter ; “and,” quoth he, “that
you may satisfy yourself in this, set it on your head.”
Fortunatus asked for nothing better, and putting
on the Hat, wished himself aboard his ship in the
harbour, and was there in an instant, and command-
ing his men to put on all sail, safely landed in
Famagosta. -
The Soldan was mightily discomfited by the loss
of his wishing Hat, and despatched his fastest galley
after the thief; but it was of no avail. He vowed
by all his gods that if he caught the spoiler, he

FORTUNATUS. I7 I
would put him to the cruellest death that ever man
died ; but the merchants of that place rejoiced in
their hearts, for that they knew that Fortunatus
would come no more to Alexandria to hurt their
traffic. -
V.
Fortunatus was thus the master of infinite riches
and power, insomuch that the king of Cyprus
chose rather to go to war with the Soldan than to
deliver him up to him, or compel him to restore the
wishing Hat ; and he was happy in the enjoyment
of a faithful wife, and of two sons, now grown to
man's estate.
But as in this world no one is perfectly contented,
Fortunatus began, as he grew old, and he was
toward threescore years, to reflect on the vanity of
wealth, and even to wish that he had chosen, when
his good fairy tendered him the choice, wisdom
sooner than money. For he knew that his life was
continually in peril, in case any should discover the
secret, whether of the Purse or the Hat; and to his
wife, marking his melancholy and waning health, he
opened the frame of his mind, and foretold the near-
ness of his end.
Then the father, being in his bed, sent for his two
sons, and telling them how the case stood, blessed
them ; and when he had so done, he revealed to
them the extraordinary virtues of the Purse and the
Hat, exhorting them in no wise to make known the
same to any. And presently after he yielded up his
spirit, and within a short while his wife died like-


I 72 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
wise; so that their two sons, Ampedo and Andalocia,
were left alone.
Now, a sharp dispute arose between these two
brothers concerning the estate which their father
had left them. Ampedo wished to keep it entire;
but Andalocia coveted the Purse ; and after many
quarrelsome passages, that there might be no suit
between them, imperilling the discovery of their
secret, it was resolved that Andalocia should give
his brother from the Purse so many bags full of
money, with all the palaces and merchandize, and
other goods, and, to boot, the Hat ; and that he
should take the Purse for his share, returning to
his brother in six years' time, and returning it to
him, if he so willed it.
VI.
Andalocia shortly set out on his travels, and visited
the courts of many great kings and princes, of whom
all marvelled that he had such abundance of riches,
seeing how he was neither a king nor had any
employment in merchandize; and some thought he
was a sorcerer or a priest disguised.
And it chanced, when Andalocia had come to
London, and had sumptuously entertained the king
and queen and their daughter, that Andalocia con-
ceived a passion for that princess; and the king
her father, wondering in his mind whence Andalocia
obtained all his money, set her to draw from him the
secret through the love which he bare to that maiden.
So the princess cozened him, to his great chagrin,
of his Purse, and he departed from that country in a
heavy mood.
-


FORTUNATUS. I 73
His brother, when he returned home, upbraided
him with his folly, and said that it was a judgment
upon him for disobeying his father's command. But
he fell in anon with a certain hermit, who taught him
the virtue of the apples which grew in the Holy
Garden, and stealing from his brother the wishing
Hat, transported himself again into England, where
the princess, the king of England's daughter, by eat-
ing of the apples, gat mighty horns, to the great
sorrow and amazement of all.
Hereupon Andalocia, disguising himself as a
physician, proposed to rid that great lady of this
strange enchantment, if she would be at the cost of
the remedy ; and while he administered to her cer-
tain drugs, and they remained in a chamber alone,
he took occasion to search for the Hat, which he
found under the bed, and the Purse near at hand ;
and, putting on the Hat, he bare her away from the
palace to a distant land, where he discovered him-
self, and reproached her with her perfidy.
He threatened to kill the princess; but she im-
plored his clemency, and he contented himself with
immuring her in a nunnery. Then he proceeded to
Cyprus with his Hat and Purse, and was kindly wel-
comed by the king and by Ampedo ; and the king,
inflamed by the news that he had heard of the beauty
of the king of England's daughter, and knowing
that the horns came from enchantment, sent ambas-
sadors to London to ask her in marriage, praying
Andalocia to remove the horns. Whereto he agreed;
and they were wedded, the king of Cyprus and the
princess Agrippina.
The vast riches of Andalocia, which seemed to
I 74 SUPERNATURAL LEGENDS.
have no end, and the more he spent to wax the
greater, moved certain of the nobles about the court
of Cyprus to envy. Who wist not the property of
that gift which he had, and hoped, if they should
gain possession of all his goods, to be as he was ;
and accordingly two of them, bolder than the rest,
murthered him ; and his brother Ampedo, learning
that he was dead, burned the Hat.
So the Purse, which was only to Fortunatus and
his next heirs, parted with its virtue; and the Hat,
for which the Soldan of Babylon would have given
untold gold to win it back, viewing it as the fair-
est jewel of his crown, perished for ever.

º
FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.





HEREWARD THE SAXON.
[Hereward the Saron, the exile, or (as Kingsley
Żułs it) //e Wake, son of Zeofric, a mythica/ Far/
of Chester and Mercia, by Godiva, the Aeroine of
the Coventry story, was undoubtedly an actual per-
sonage, and at the period immediate/y succeeding the
AVorman Conquest in IO66 doub//ess achieved some,
at least, of the ſeats of Öravery and strength ascribed
| to him in the fo//owing monastic Zegend.
We have on/y to reflect on the genera/ com//exion
of ancient Aistorica/ records which are not strict/y
documentary to become satisfied that a good dea/ of
invention entered into the accounts of a// such heroes
of adventure, and we ought to be the ſess su/rised
that, as such fabulous materia/ accumu/aſed in the
ſands of compilers, Óiograft/ºes or series of ea/Zoiás
were amp/i/ied at Ž/easure, without much regard
either to truth or propriety; and in these mediæval
compositions we often find the prima stamina of inci-
dents introduced into works of Mater origin. At the
same time, the reality and transactions of Hereward
are established by severa/ writers of early date and
tolerable ſide/ity; and a chronic/e of the twelfth cen-
tury is indeed exc/usive/y devoted to a commemora-
tion of this //id/and hero and Saxon champion.
A. L. I77 N


178 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
7%e move/ em/#/ed. “Aſerezward! //e WaAe,” in
which Charles Aïngs/ey has embodied Z/e career of
this extraordinary man, ſiſ/ing up the out/ine suff-
//ied by the chronic/es from his own imagination, is
neither beſter nor worse than the genera/ity of Sztc/
Żroductions from an instructive point of view, and
as a work of ará is recommended by the insight
and culture of the author. Such outputs of Žiterary
/abour and skill are perhaps in a twofold asſect
beneficial, since they inspire with a higher and purer
faste many who would not be fempted to study Zhe
true feat, and may lead a few here and there to
inquire further.
Making al/a//owances for exaggerations and ſa&/e,
#/ese ancient “Gests,” of which our coſ/ection emóraces
a few frominent eacamp/es, have &/ºeir distinct value
and function as coſ/afera/ /g/.4s and indices, and
cannot be ignored w/ien the history of ear/ier Æng-
/and sha/Z be ſºna//y written in the Zimze to come.
One sa/ient feature must strike everybody, and //;at
is the utter want of political consolidation at the
Žeriod /o//owing the AVorman conguest.
Aor the formation of a correct estimate of /afer
fictions, a study and Ánowledge of such parent pro-
ductions as the fºresent and #/.ose which immediate/y
succeed are absolute/y necessary; from the dear//, of
rea/ incidents or adventures to ſi/Z 2% an out/ine, or
suft/y the semblance of a biography, the romancist
matura/y went to traditions, ora/ and otherwise,
a/ready in existence, and furnished his characters
with eaft/oiás ſºrofferſy belonging to other and ante-
cedent heroes. For instance, Æočin Hood was un-
doubted/y a rea/ individua/; yet many of his recorded

HEREWARD THE SAXON. I 79
eafteriences are more /i/e/y than not to have been
varied and /oca/ized versions of stories current before
/*is, or aſ al/ events before //e narrator's, Zimze.
A/ereward was not &/ºe Zast of Z/e English, as
Aºngs/ey//ºrases it, but may be considered one of Z/e
/asſ of Zhe Saxon remonstrants in arms against &/ºe
AVorman inter/oper, and we may fake exception,
perhaps, to the term “Wake.”]
I.
WOULD you hear the marvellous adventures and
glorious history of Hereward the Last of the Saxons,
who was the son of Leofric, Earl of Chester and
Mercia, and Lord of Coventry, by his wife the Lady
Godiva P
From his boyhood Hereward outshone all his
fellows in spirit and strength, albeit in stature he was
low. But he was stout of limb and broad at the
shoulder and athwart the chest; and knew no fear.
Round him, as he waxed somewhat in years
toward manhood, he gathered companions like him-
self, wild, active, dauntless; and his father the earl's
rents and tolls he perforce collected to furnish him-
self and his friends with money; and from many
a dire peril his kinsfolk delivered the youth, who
counted not his foes nor thought on the way out
of danger and death.
At length, it happened that his father the earl
shewed Edward the king how he could no longer
brook the sojourn of Hereward in that country :
and the king commanded that he should depart the
realm, who had only at this time eighteen years ;
and there attended upon him in exile one of his







I8O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
father's serfs, namely, Martin with the Light Foot,
and no other than he.
He repaired at first to the Scotish border, to the
house of Gisebert of Ghent, his godfather; but
because through his prowess in slaying a huge
Norwegian bear, which none of the noble youths
of the court of Gisebert durst engage, he drew
upon him the envy of all, and went in hazard of
his life, therefore he quitted that place, and reached
the dominions of Alef of Cornwall.
This chieftain had a beautiful and only daughter,
who secretly loved the son of the king of Ireland;
but she was betrothed to a Cornish lord, one of her
father's lieges, rather from dread, for that he was
a man of might and following, than from inclination
toward him on the part of Alef the chieftain.
That fair damsel discovered to Hereward her
true mind, and leaned upon his counsel and comfort;
and the Cornish lord, who looked upon the stranger
with a mistrusting eye, lay in ambush for him,
where he might chastise his insolence. But Here-
ward overcame and slew him, and because the
Cornish men rose up against him, the Saxon fled,
carrying letters from the lady to her lover the prince
of Ireland; and he entered the service of the king,
that prince's father, and performed many notable
deeds of valour in his behoof.
But the daughter of Alef, that should have wedded
the Cornish lord, was sought in marriage by another
of that same country; and when the prince of
Ireland sent messengers to Cornwall to ask her
hand, they were cast into prison, and the nuptials
were appointed to be shortly solemnized.

HEREWARD THE SAXON. I8 I
At the marriage feast the bride in her bridal array
went round, attended by her maidens and a harper;
and the harper sang to the strains of his harp, while
one of the maidens served the cup in the name of
the bride. And all joyfully took the cup from the
maiden after the minstrel's song, save one who sat
at the lowest table, with two or three his com-
panions, that uncourteously refused it, and turned
from the harper sternly away.
The bride approached the stranger, and tendered
him the goblet with her own hand, and he took it,
and gently saluted her ; and as she went from him
she threw a ring into his bosom unseen of any, and
lifted her voice, praying all present to excuse the
discourtesy of one unacquainted with their customs.
For she, albeit his hair and visage were disguised,
knew it to be Hereward who sat there; and tears
trickled down her cheeks.
But the minstrel brawled nevertheless at the
unknown guest, in that he had wronged his holy
profession ; until the visitor arose, and seizing the
harp began to play upon it with the hand of a
master, to the amazement of every one, while his
companions joined him in chorus.
The new players were applauded by the whole
party, and Alef the chieftain was content that one
of such skill should have such reward as he might
name, saving only his wife and his lands. But he
was privily advised that the strangers were, may-
be, Saxon spies; and all the doors were suddenly
guarded, that none might pass out unchallenged.
Nevertheless Hereward and those that were with
him had been forewarned by the princess their ally,


I 82 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
and had taken their way where they might lie in
wait for the wedding procession, as it wound along
the road, with the Irish messengers hand-bound, to
the castle of the bridegroom; and at a convenient
opportunity they fell upon the Cornishmen, and slew
them, setting free the princess and the messengers.
Then he shewed unto the princess how he had
crossed the sea for her sake, and had stained his
skin and his hair, and how he had made a vow to
the king of Ireland, on the eve of his departure,
that he would accept nothing at a lady's hand, unless
it were offered by the princess herself. And she, on
her part, let him understand that at the feast she
at first surmised that it was he, and anon, ere she
threw him the ring, had it of certain knowledge.
Which noble lady was incontinently joined in
wedlock to her truelove, the prince of Ireland;
and Hereward, when he had assisted at that aus-
picious ceremony, took his leave of them all, to
return to his own land. Unto whom tidings had
been brought of the death of his father, Earl
Leofric, and grievous harm done thereby to his
heritage and kindred.
II.
But the ships which were assigned by the king
of Ireland to convey Hereward, that was now Earl,
to England, were driven from their course by con-
trary winds, and made the coast of Flanders, where
the Englishmen were joyfully welcomed by the earl
of that province, for that they might by their valour
be helpful to him in his wars; and when Hereward



HEREWARD THE SAXON. 183
had fought under the standard of the Earl of Flan-
ders, and gained high renown, it chanced that he
met with a fair Flemish maiden, named Torfrid, and
presently wedded the same.
Yet, because he longed to set his foot again on
his native soil, and was loth to put the life of that
gentle lady in jeopardy, he prayed her to suffer him
to take ship alone, and to abide patiently his return
or news of his fortune. But she, as it was meet,
demurred and wept ; and in the end, accompanied
by her and the two Siwards, the Red and the White,
that were his kinsmen, and his servant Martin with
the Light Foot, and other Saxons his sworn friends,
he embarked for England, and landed in Lincoln-
shire, where, leaving his young wife in charge of
the Siwards, he made all haste to gain his manor of
Brunne. He arrived there on a calm evening with
a single attendant; and both were lightly armed, for
they had journeyed far afoot.
The strangers stopped before the entrance of a
house in the village where dwelled a Saxon, one of
Earl Leofric's dependents, and solicited shelter for
the night. They were kindly received; but the
faces of the inmates were sad and downcast, and
to Hereward asking the occasion for their sorrow
they replied that their lord, the Earl Leofric, was
lately dead, and his estate had been given to a
Norman, who was about to enter into possession.
“Even yesterday,” quoth they, “the invaders seized
upon the house; and because Earl Leofric's young
son slew two who would have dishonoured his
mother, they killed the boy, and set his head over
the doorway. O, that his elder brother, that is
184 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
a wanderer in distant lands, were here, and these
wretches would have their due !”
Hereward bit his lip, and said nothing; and when
he and the other had partaken of the evening meal,
all went to rest. But Hereward lay on his couch
thoughtful and angry ; and presently there burst on
his ear the sounds of revelry and music in the near
distance.
He sprang from his bed, roused one of the house-
hold, and found that it was the feast which was
being held in his father's house to celebrate the
succession of the Norman to the boy whom they
had murdered. Arming himself, and bidding his
companion do likewise, they cast long black cloaks
about them, and hastened to the scene of noise and
riot. First of all, Hereward took down his brother's
head, reverently kissed it, and wrapped it in a cloth;
and then the two placed themselves in the dark
porch of the mansion, where they could oversee all
that passed in the hall. -
The Normans were scattered about round a
blazing fire, stupefied with drink, and reclining on
the bosoms of their women, while a minstrel was
singing songs in reproach of the Saxon, One of
the women prayed them to recollect that the boy
who was dead had a brother, and if he were there,
they might find things mightily different. The new
Norman lord lifted his head when he heard these
bold words, and approved what the minstrel had
done, saying that Hereward durst not shew his face
in England for fear of the gallows.
The minstrel thereupon wox louder in his scorn
of the house of Earl Leofric, as his master's


HEREWARD THE SAXON. I85
speech had given him warrant, and his insolence
passed all bound, when a figure leaped out of the
darkness, a Saxon sword gleamed for an instant in
the air, and he dropped lifeless to the ground, cloven
to the shoulder. Hereward rushed upon the merry-
makers; and those who escaped from the hall were
despatched at the door by Martin with the Light
Foot. Not one remained alive ; and the heads of
the Norman seigneur and his fourteen associates
were suspended over the doorway instead of that of
their victim. . - -
The Saxons kindled torches and set on fire the
brushwood on the Brunnerwold as a signal to their
adherents, and numbers flocked to Hereward's side;
and amongst the rest Leofric the Mower, Leofric
the Cunning, Widric the Black, and Widric the
Heron, and the monks of Ely, with Thurstan their
abbot, made cause with him against the invader.
The Earl of Warren with all his men was on the
borders of the Marshes, and the Saxons withdrew
into Ely. But an arrow from a Saxon bow laid
the earl senseless on the ground, and he was taken
away for dead ; and because William the Norman
chose his own countryman Thorold to be abbot of
Peterborough, Hereward laid waste that town and
burned it, all save the abbey-church, which he
stripped of its treasures. For the Saxons and their
Danish comrades, saith the story, going into the
sacred building, clomb to the Holy Rood, and took
thence the crown on Our Lord's head and the foot-
stool that was at His feet, both of pure gold, and
fetched down from the steeple the mantle that was
of gold and silver, and two gold shrines, and of

I 86 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
silver nine. Likewise they got at that time fifteen
great crosses, some of gold and some of silver, and
so much gold and silver besides, and money and
rich raiment, and books, that no man could reckon
their worth ; and the walls they left behind to
Thorold the Norman.
The Saxons and Danes, who had taken part in
this work to have security of the church, as they
said, shared all those things betwixt them ; and the
Danes thereupon departed out of England to their
Own Country. -
The Earl of Warren, for that Hereward had
slain one of his blood, and had of late wounded the
same earl nigh unto death, bitterly grudged at these
passages of happy fortune for one on whom he only
looked as a thief and a homicide; and he moved
the king, that was William the Norman, to put his
royal power in movement to destroy that insolent
rebel.
Unto whom the king at length assenting, siege
was laid to the Isle of Ely, and the Normans in-
vested it on all sides ; and to the intent that their
horsemen and other might pass over the marshes
to the citadel and the town, William commanded
that a causeway of timber should be made to carry
across the soldiers on horse and on foot.
But because the ground was not steadfast and
firm, and the horsemen in their armour pressed
heavily on the timber-work, the causeway yielded
midway, and well-nigh all the soldiers on horse and
on foot perished in the marshes. -
Whereat William the king was greatly abashed
and disheartened, and retired from the endeavour;



HEREWARD THE SAXON. 187
all. But food waxed scant alike in the royal camp
and years passed before the fishermen ceased to
drag up the horsemen in their rusted armour that
fell at that season in seeking to reach Ely and take
the Saxon abbot and his staunch ally Hereward,
the ready and the strong.
Nay, William the Norman leaned to a peace with
Hereward, whenas he saw how manful he was, and
how good a friend so dread a foe might become;
but he was restrained and dissuaded by the Earl of
Warren and by Ivo Taillebois, Lord of Spalding,
and other more.
Yet again the king essayed to make himself
master of that stronghold in the marshes, and at
another place, which was called by name Alreheche,
he gathered together all the fishermen of that
country, with their boats and tools, and built a
second earth and timber dyke, whereby he might
with his army gain the island, and prevail over the
Saxons.
But among those who obeyed the call of our
lord the king was one who laboured with the rest
and earned his wage, and staying behind when all
was done and ready till nightfall, set fire to the
timber, that all was consumed ; and it was Here-
ward that this accomplished ; and thus our lord the
king lost his pains and his hire.
III.
Meanwhile, the enemy environed Ely, and the
king kept his court at Brandon, whence he could
command the water-ways and be within reach of


I 88 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
and with those shut up in Ely, albeit the fishermen
conveyed to the Saxons in their boats by stealth not
a little ; and since the Saxons wist not what the
king proposed, or how he fared, Hereward and the
other chiefs assembling in council, it was resolved
that a spy be sent to the court to learn what tidings
he might; and after conference had Hereward him-
self elected to go. - -
He cut his hair and beard short, and stained his
features, and mounting Swallow his mare, a lean,
ill-favoured beast, yet as swift as the winged
creature whose name she bare, he set out unarmed
and in mean attire. ---
He shortly met a potter, with whom when h
had had a parley, and had taught him a lesson in
courtesy with a stroke of his own staff, he bartered
his wares for a penny, and made an exchange of
clothes with the same, shewing him that, an' he
should repair to Ely, my lord abbot would bestow
upon him yet another penny in reward of his news.
Then proceeded the feigned potter to Brandon,
and offered his merchandise to whomso would buy,
and took his lodging as night drew on at the house
of an ancient crone that was a Norman and dwelled
therein with a companion. Whom the potter, that
lay near them, listening heard discourse of what the
lord of Spalding was next about to do ; for, seeing
that no human force appeared to avail them against
Hereward, the king and those about him had taken
into their service a certain wise woman of Brandon
and her associate, and were preparing to erect in
the fens before the island a scaffold, whereon this
wise woman and her attendant might upon the
º



HEREWARD THE SAXON. 189
Saxons exercise their skill in necromancy and witch-
craft. Which was shortly to come to pass; and
those whom-with Hereward lodged were indeed
they who should practise such arts on the enemy;
and only for that they deemed the potter ignorant
of the Norman tongue, wherein they held debate,
they let him, as he gave greater ear, understand
the whole process.
Then, when he had heard all this matter to his
singular content, the potter went forward to Bran-
don, and cried his pots in the precincts of the king's
court ; but the king was absent on hunting. The
reeve came in on his affairs, and marking the
stranger, sware that he had never yet seen a man
who in his feature and bearing so favoured Here-
ward the exile ; and thereupon many thronged
round that they might judge what so famous a
man was like, and they led him into the hall
where the knights and gentlemen were. Of whom
one asked him if he knew Hereward 2 “Alas!”
cried the potter, “only too well, lord. O, would
that he were here, that I might be revenged upon
him for he has robbed me of late of a cow and
four sheep that were all my having in the world
save my poor mare and these few pots to sustain a
wife and two children.
When the hour for the evening meal approached,
the potter shared the kitchen-men's table, and they
ate, drank, and jested, till one offered to shave the
potter's crown and make him monk. Which set
the Saxon blood on fire, and the Norman was
stretched on the earth. All fell upon the potter,
and led him to the guard-room, where they brought
º

IQO FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
cords to bind him. But he seized a sword in the
hands of a soldier, and slew all that stood in his
path ; and hastening where he had left his mare, he
leaped into the saddle and was gone. For Swallow
flew as the wind, and he outstripped all his pursuers
save one, that followed his track even to Somer-
sham, which was in his own country. Where the
potter accordingly drew rein, and turning the head
of his mare, disarmed the Norman, and bad him
play the part of messenger from Hereward the
Saxon to them at Brandon.
Hereward returned hastily to Ely, and shewed
what the policy of the king at present was ; and it
fell out as he had to the abbot and others made
report. When the scaffold was raised amid the
marshes in front of the town, the wise woman and
her companion were set upon it on high, whence
they might be within view of the abbey and island;
and the Normans lay hidden among the reeds and
underwood in parties, ready at command to advance
to the attack. The king was in presence to hearten
them, and their numbers surpassed those that had
fought twice before against the outlaw.
The wise woman did her part according to her
cunning, and delivered curses upon Hereward and
the abbot, and all that were assisting to them, and
uttered spells and made strange gestures. And once
she pronounced her sorceries, and twice: but ere
she could fulfil the enchantment which was at the
third time, the grass and thickets that surrounded
her and hid the Normans burst into flames at every
point; the witch leaped from her seat and was
killed; and Hereward and his men, springing from


HEREWARD THE SAXON. I 9 I
ambush, first with their bows, and then with their
swords, made that day more rueful for the besiegers
than any before, so that the king, William the
Norman, whose armour was pierced by a Saxon
arrow, raised his camp, and concluded that if he
could not take Ely by force of arms or by hunger,
neverthemore could he by magic.
IV.
But it happened in the year of grace IO72, and
in an unhappy hour for the Saxon cause, when
the abbot and his monks began to grow weary of
their too long enduring harass and incertitude, and
doubted that their lands and treasure might be
forfeited in the end to our lord the king by con-
tumacy, that the abbot secretly treated with William
the Norman, and admitted him into Ely. Where-
by he hoped to have taken the person of Hereward.
But Hereward had timely advice hereof, and with
six trusty and stout comrades left the town and
made for the Brunnerwold. Whereunto he came,
and through each town and hamlet that he passed,
drawing nearer to his own country and paternal
inheritance, many joined him, till seven hundred
armed men were under his banner. Our lord the
king was an angry and a sad man when he thus
saw his royal authority checked and disdained ; and,
understanding that the yielding up of Ely profited
him but little, and that Hereward and his men were
laying waste the lands of his Norman lieges and
putting them to the Sword, he made proclamation
that the entire levies of the six Fenshires should

I 92 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
be called out on service under the Abbot of Peter-
borough and Ivo Taillebois, Lord of Spalding.
But Hereward, through his acquaintance with the
ground, and because he was secretly aided by the
common people, eluded every effort to draw him
into a general engagement, and at length in a sharp
skirmish in a wood, when the Saxons had thrown
the enemy off their guard by a feigned retreat,
Abbot Thorold and many other of the wealthy
Norman leaders were taken prisoners, and a great
number of the common folk slain.
Heavy ransoms were exacted from the abbot
and other chiefs. Thirty thousand marks of silver
Thorold had to find ; and because he declared his
resolution to be revenged, and even offered the
goods of his church to any who should join him,
Hereward advanced to Peterborough, whence the
abbot fled at his approach, burned the town, and
despoiled the church of all its riches.
He took away all the gold and silver, and the
holy vessels, and the sacred garments, Hereward
the Saxon. But, lo l a vision appeared unto him
in a dream, commanding him to make restitution
of the same under pain of the displeasure of God
and the Holy Virgin; and he restored those things,
as to do it was in him behoveful.
A generous enemy Hereward; for he surprised
the good town of Stamford, coming upon it in the
night ; and the saying went that a great white
wolf, and spirits of the wood bearing enchanted
lights visible only to the Saxons, guided them on
their way. But Hereward set the men of Stam-
ford at freedom, and played toward their lord, Ivo


HEREWARD THE SAXON. I 93
Taillebois, a noble part, and taught a lesson of
forgiveness. -
But, alas ! when William the Norman saw how
dread an enemy he was, and would be at one with
him, and have him safeguarded to the court, Here-
ward forgot the duty which he owed to the sweet
and brave lady, the Lady Torfrida, on whose wise
and loyal counsel he had leaned in the hour of his
adversity and trouble, and looked upon another one,
the Lady Elfrida, beautiful, proud, rich of purse,
and mistress of the ear of the court.
So in an evil moment Hereward put away Tor-
frida, the wife of his youth, and wedded that other,
namely, the Norman widow Elfrida; and in verity
he never prospered after. For whereas he had
hoped to gain repose from his incessant watching
and warfare, he had now neither quiet at home nor
abroad.
For his enemies at the court of the Norman
persuaded the king that Hereward meditated
treason and high crimes against the peace of his
grace and the realm ; and it was so that he was
delivered over to one Robert de Herepole, who
conveyed him to the castle of Bedford, and threw
him into chains, where he lay a whole year ; but
Robert de Herepole proved no unkind keeper,
and those that nourished hatred toward Hereward
grudged the gentleness of his captivity. So tidings
came to the men of the marsh and the forest, who
loved Hereward, and reverenced his estate, that he
was about to be transported in charge of Robert
de Herepole to the castle of Buckingham, where
he might be more strictly kept by the Lord of
A. L. O
- I 92 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
be called out on service under the Abbot of Peter-
borough and Ivo Taillebois, Lord of Spalding.
But Hereward, through his acquaintance with the
ground, and because he was secretly aided by the
common people, eluded every effort to draw him
into a general engagement, and at length in a sharp
skirmish in a wood, when the Saxons had thrown
the enemy off their guard by a feigned retreat,
Abbot Thorold and many other of the wealthy
Norman leaders were taken prisoners, and a great
number of the common folk slain.
Heavy ransoms were exacted from the abbot
and other chiefs. Thirty thousand marks of silver
Thorold had to find ; and because he declared his
resolution to be revenged, and even offered the
goods of his church to any who should join him,
Hereward advanced to Peterborough, whence the
abbot fled at his approach, burned the town, and
despoiled the church of all its riches.
He took away all the gold and silver, and the
holy vessels, and the sacred garments, Hereward
the Saxon. But, lo a vision appeared unto him
in a dream, commanding him to make restitution
of the same under pain of the displeasure of God
and the Holy Virgin; and he restored those things,
as to do it was in him behoveful. -
A generous enemy Hereward; for he surprised
the good town of Stamford, coming upon it in the
night ; and the saying went that a great white
wolf, and spirits of the wood bearing enchanted
lights visible only to the Saxons, guided them on
their way. But Hereward set the men of Stam-
ford at freedom, and played toward their lord, Ivo


HEREWARD THE SAXON. I 93
Taillebois, a noble part, and taught a lesson of
forgiveness. -
But, alas ! when William the Norman saw how
dread an enemy he was, and would be at one with
him, and have him safeguarded to the court, Here-
ward forgot the duty which he owed to the sweet
and brave lady, the Lady Torfrida, on whose wise
and loyal counsel he had leaned in the hour of his
adversity and trouble, and looked upon another one,
the Lady Elfrida, beautiful, proud, rich of purse,
and mistress of the ear of the court.
So in an evil moment Hereward put away Tor-
frida, the wife of his youth, and wedded that other,
namely, the Norman widow Elfrida; and in verity
he never prospered after. For whereas he had
hoped to gain repose from his incessant watching
and warfare, he had now neither quiet at home nor
abroad.
For his enemies at the court of the Norman
persuaded the king that Hereward meditated
treason and high crimes against the peace of his
grace and the realm ; and it was so that he was
delivered over to one Robert de Herepole, who
conveyed him to the castle of Bedford, and threw
him into chains, where he lay a whole year; but
Robert de Herepole proved no unkind keeper,
and those that nourished hatred toward Hereward
grudged the gentleness of his captivity. So tidings
came to the men of the marsh and the forest, who
loved Hereward, and reverenced his estate, that he
was about to be transported in charge of Robert
de Herepole to the castle of Buckingham, where
he might be more strictly kept by the Lord of
A. L. O
I94 FEUIDAIL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Spalding, his very foe; and the Saxons lay in wait
for the guard that was appointed to attend Robert
and his prisoner from Bedford to Buckingham,
and rescued their beloved chieftain. Who, when
Hereward upheld him as one that had been good
master unto him, was spared, and was shortly
sent to William the Norman to plead truly for
Hereward, and set forth his case as it was.
Then William the Norman again admitted Here-
ward to his peace and restored unto him his lands.
Nevertheless, the peace of our lord the king
shielded not the Saxon chieftain from the treachery
of his enemies, and he had not Torfrida to advise
and to comfort him, nor had he at his side the
knights and others that had formerly fought and
conquered under his banner in many a glorious
fight.
The Normans assailed him on his very threshold,
and hovered round his dwelling ; and one day his
chaplain, whom he had set as watch while he ate,
to give warning of the approach of peril, feigned
slumber, and a force of Normans and Bretons sur-
rounded the house and fell upon Hereward.
He seized a lance, a sword, and a shield, that
were by good fortune at hand, and faced his foes
like a wild boar. Fifteen of them lay at his feet;
but his lance and sword were broken, and he had
nought but his shield for a weapon.
Four knights came behind him and buried their
spears in his back. Hereward dropped upon his
knees, but as he fell, he hurled his shield at Ralph
de Dol, a Breton knight, that advanced to despatch
him, and brought him lifeless to the ground.


HEREWARD THE SAXON. I 95
Then he could no more accomplish, and sank
never to rise again.
The noblest and most fearless spirit, and the
strongest arm that were in the land were laid to rest
for ever.
Four such men as Hereward the Saxon, and the
Norman sway would have been overthrown.

FU LKE FITZWARIN.
[/t is hardly disrespectful to the general reader to
affirm that, while he has probably a very fair, if not
a very accurate, Ánowledge of Æočin Hood, he has
mone whatever of the personage whose name stand's
at the head of the present article. Yet it is not
àn the /east degree Zoo much to claim for Fu/Åe
Fitzwarin Zhat in many leading respects his tra-
ditiona/ ſame and exploiás ſurmished #/he materia/
from which the story of the Barnsdale Aero was āuilt
ap; and it is curious and noteworthy Zhat Fitz-
warin was rea/y a man of moč/e &/ood and eac/ensive
possessions during the period common/y assigned to
A'offin, name/y, the reigns of Zenzºy //, /ćichard /.,
John, and Henry /// (I 160–1220).
The founder of the noöſe and ancient family of
Aºzzwarren, or A'itzzwarin, was Warin de //e/g,
cousin of the Duke of Brittany, who by his marriage
with Melette of the White Zaund, younger daughter
of William Peveril of the Peak, and Lady of
Whittington (Öy her father's surrender) and Aſa'er-
bury, co. Sa/o/, acquired those extensive and valuable
possessions. By this ſadly he had several children,
Žncluding Fu/ke his /eir, the hero of our legend,
and the Wine was carried down from him by a series
of successors to a Fulke Fitz Warine, who, dying in





196
FULKE FITZWARIN. 197
1429 without issue, left his sister E/izabeth his heir.
Aſer daughter 7%0masine, by her husband A'ichard
Aſaucáford, married 7% omas Plantageneſ, Duke of
G/oucester, six// son of Áing Ædward ///. and, the
duće having mo surviving issue, William Bourchier,
//ird son of Wiſ/iam AEarl of Æwe by Ann Plan-
tageneſ, his daughter, succeeded to the title, and was
summoned to Par/iament 1449–69 as William Bour-
chier, Ánight, Baron of Fitzwarin. The Bourchiers
/e/a/ ?/ is honour /i// 1636, when Ædward Bourchier,
Zarſ of Æa//, dying without ma/e issue, his titles
ſe// into abeyance Četween his £Aree daughters and
co/eirs. 7%e Čarony is ał Żresent in two moieties.
Auá besides // is dignity, we find that in 1342
Wi//iam Fitzwarin, le Frère, of the same stock,
was summoned to Parliament as “ Wi//ie/mus ſi/ius
Warini,” and that he was a Knight of the Garter.
A/e survived £7// 1361, and left issue, yet neither he
nor his representatives received a further summons.
Fitzwarin, of whose romantic and surprising
adventures //ere is a near/y coeval account, entitled
6, its proximity to the events to a more implicit cre-
dence //ian the “Zięż/e Gest,” was unquestionab/y the
origina/ 4%e of 4/ki's class of Aero and Zegend, and
we therefore ſe// ?/ºat our vo/umee would be very in-
zomplete without a feat of the interesting narrative.
Mr. Mºright, it is proper to note, has pointed out
that the prose story among the Æoya/ /l/SS. in the
British /l/useum is in a///robability itse/f one degree
removed from Že Aonour of being £4e origina/ work ;
ºnal f/a/ /earned gen//eman considers that it is a
ara/Arase of an Anglo-A/orman Żoem, no ſonger
town, on Zºe suffect, ZZ is, however, aft/arent/y So


198 FEUI)AL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
true to its metrical source, that for our purpose it is
equally serviceable.
It is also necessary to be aware that, although it
7s not so stated in the MS., Sir Fu/ke Fitzwarin,
according to Mr. Wright, actual/y took up arms
against Áing /o/m in support of //e baronial cause
subsequently to the facification of 1203 menſioned in
the text, and was not fina//y reconciled to the Crown
till the fourth Henry ///. But, on the other hand,
Žn Courthope’s “Peerage,” his death is //aced ante
I IQ5.
The expression in the MS., “Ż/ura ficta, prae-
cipue de Fulcome 7uodam,” may seem to impugn
the historica/ veracity of the account in some far-
ticulars; and we have gone so far as to abstain from
entering into a// the details of foreign adventure
which have certainly strucé me as not unfrequent/y
being of the ben trovato type.
In many particulars of their /ives and careers the
two outlaws had /ü//e or nothing in common, and
Žndeed the disſoyalty and depredations of Fu/Åe were
/imited to his personal animosity against his schoo/.
and //ayſeſ/ow King /o/m. But at the same time
he set the precedent followed by Æoffin a century of
so later of he/ping and protecting the poor. Perhaps,
in one /eading respect, as Öeing a fair/y trustworáž,
zeffort of the eafteriences of an old Zmg/isſ, Čaron,
who spent the greater part of his life under the 6a,
of the law, and who owed his impunity in Żart tº
his own prowess and in part to the co//usion of others
the story is unique; and there is a/so a suðsidia,
feature here which deserves to Če noticed, name/
that his reputation was sufficient to Zemº an adve


FULKE FITZWARIN. - I99
47 cr in the ſtorſ/ to personate Aim, and commit
outrages in Žis name of zwhich he was neit/her guilty
nor capable, 7%e passage where this fact is recorded
is remarkað/y melodramatic and picturesque.
7%e “Aſistory of Fu/Åe Fitzwarin,” which has
Öeen prim/ed entire in the old French, has tended to
Areserve a £nowledge of f/his famous character and
his relations/ºi/ to his age : &ltſ in his case we have,
So far as is aſ present ascertained, no series of
Żopular diſties analogous to those which celebrate the
achievements of Robin. 7%is fact is chiefly signi-
ſicant of the meg/ecá and off/ivion into which the
strugg/e maintained by the S/ºrofsſºre Óaron against
#e Crown ſe// after his decease ; w/ºi/e 4/ºe reputa-
tion of the Yorkshire and AVotting/ams/ºire Aero was
Żerºetuated by an espousal of popular rights and
Z070729 S. -
A'o6 in Aſood was a man of f/\e people, s/rung fromé
them, and indisso/uð/y identifted with their wants
and grievances. Fitzwarin, by far the greater man
and more distinguished actor, merely carried on a
species of guerilla warfare against /o/m in a Sºrić
of revenge and self-defence. A'offin Żad no ſame?/y
Žies ; Fitzzwarin Zwas one of five Óroſſers zºnized
together in arms by the alleged offtression of their
SOJe?'ezg?!.
7%e Aread of the singular and eventful story wil/
Žer/afts suffice to unfold the origin of Fitzwarin
and //e circumstances whic/, /ed to his proscription.
Zäe /čoffin, ſhe was u//imaže/y received Čacá into
zoya/ ſavour; and in point of fact his connexioms were
so powerful, and Že roya/ authority so comparative/y
wea/, //at Ae wit/stood //e Crown under singu/ar
2OO FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
º
advantages, and offtained aſ Zast an ºn/ita/iſie.
Żardon. It will be observed that his range was
far wider //am &/ºat of his more genera//y Ánown
successor. For he not only haunted the Weſs/
ôorder, which was the //ace of his nativity and the
seat of his inheritance, but A ent, Windsor Forest
and the AVezy Forest, 60//, /ar more extensive ał ż/at
period than now, or even two centuries since, besides
Aſs occasiona/ excursions affroad and two visits to the
neighbourhood of Zondon itself. -
The czzczzyzstance #/a/ Fºzzyarizz re/77-ed' 772.Éo
private /ife some time before his death, and had a
son of Öo//, / is names, who ſe// in Že Čač/e of
Zewes in 1264, Żrior to the composition even of 4/ºe
Žoem above mentioned, might ſave rendered als
zºmusual/y cautious in receiving the account of 4/ºe
father's career, had it not been the case #4a: //e
younger Fitzwarin Zived in the Áing's peace, and
was a loyal subject of the Crown, though in man/i-
mess of character worſ/y of his iſ/us/rious sire.
We judge from a passage near the end of the Æoya/
M.S. printed by Wright, that the brothers of Æu/Ae,
and perhaps Aimse//, /e/d property in Affingdom,
w/ic/a, on a grant of Zand's from the Æar/ //ars/a/
at Ashdown in Sussex, they affandoned, and setſ/ed
aſ Ashdown, ſounding the market town of Wanting
wiłż że right of a ſair. // may 6e a clew to #/e
Žersona/ aſpearance of Sir Fulke that his ºrož/er
Wi//iam is described, while he was the Áing's
Żrisoner at Westminster, as a ta//, stout, muscular
man, with a ſong, Ö/acá áeard. Sir Fu/Åe himse/f
is indeed said in the Aistory to have been, as a ſad
of eighteen, very ſandsome, strong, and ta//.]






FULKE FITZWARIN. 2O I
WHILE William the Norman reigned in England,
among the great barons who served him in his wars,
Payn Peverell, Lord of the Peak and the White
Laund, with all the lands, chases, forests, and waste
thereto appurtenant, was one of the most loyal and
the most puissant; and when he died, because he
had no heir, William Peverell, his sister's son, suc-
ceeded to all that fair heritage, and furthermore gat
by conquest other lands, as all the land of Morlas
as far as the water of Dee and Ellesmere. This
William in the White Laund made a tower, which
he named the White Tower, and dwelled in the
same ; and the town that grew round about it was
called the White Town or Whittington; and yet
other towns he built at Ellesmere and at Keyroc.
Now this William, again, had no heirs, yet he
had two fair nieces : Elen, whom he wedded to
Alan Fitz Flaeu, Lord of Oswestry, and gave her in
dower all Morlas and Keyroc, and Melette, that
was the younger and fairer; but no man pleased that
great lady, for that she deemed none of her worthy.
Her uncle sought her, that he might know her
full mind; and she said unto him, “ Verily, sir, there
is not a knight that I would take in the whole land
for riches or estate, but he must be courteous,
comely, and debonnair, and of his body the most
valiant in all Christendom ; and such will I have,
and no other.”
The Lord of the White Tower gave her assu-
rance that he would essay his utmost to discover such
a husband, and gave her in fee the White Tower
and all belonging thereunto, that her hand might be

2O2 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
the more sought ; and she was thereafter named
Melette of the White Tower.
Then a tournament was proclaimed against the
feast of St. Michael the next ensuing, to be held at
the Castle of Peverell, for the love of Melette, and
whoever should be approved the best knight in all
the jousts by her allowance was to espouse her,
and enter upon her lands. The challenge was
dispersed through every country ; and at the
appointed season came to Peverell knights from
England, Scotland, France, and many another fair
region, even the king's son of Scotland, the
prince of Wales, and the dukes of Burgundy and
Brittany, and all clad in shining armour, with their
steeds in array of war, and their escutcheons and
devices. It was a noble spectacle to behold.
But albeit there was present at that time, for the
sake of that noble lady, Melette of the White
Tower, all the flower of chivalry, the honour of the
tournament remained on the first day with a knight
attired in red samit, who was all unknown, and
when the rest went to their inns, disappeared into
the forest nigh-hand. And on the second day he
entered the barriers again, and his colour was green
like the forest ; and as it had happened before, he
overcame all that challenged him, and, lastly, the
duke of Burgundy; and when Melette of the White
Tower, who sat in a high place with her ladies,
viewing the contest, saw how matters went, she
called her page unto her, and commanded him to go
and deliver her glove to the Green Knight Adven-
turer, praying the same to be her champion.
Whereupon he once more withdrew, and now


FULKE FITZWARIN. 2O3
returned accoutred in red, and did other deeds of
marvellous prowess, that none might stand against
him ; and in the end judgment was taken that he
was the winner of the prize. Then he disclosed
himself to be Warin de Metz, cousin to the duke of
Brittany, which duke had fully equipped him for the
tournament; and Melette of the White Tower and
Warin de Metz were joined in marriage, and had to
them born, in the time ordained by God, a son, who
was called Fulke fitz Warin. º
Now inasmuch as Warin de Metz, the brave and
gallant knight, grew in favour with King Henry,
the second of that name, and was one of the most
potent barons of that age, his son Fulke, when he
came to boy's estate, was taught by the same master
those things in learning that it was meet for him
to know that gave instruction to the two young
princes, Richard and John, the king's children, and
the three were schoolfellows and playmates together;
and when God called to him King Henry, and King
Richard reigned in his room, Richard appointed
Fulke Lord of the Marches of Wales. But it hap-
pened in the course of time that King John sat on
the throne, and because he bare a secret grudge
against Fulke Fitzwarin, since they had quarrelled
in playing at chess in their nonage, he took from
him this government and his lands that he had
received in marriage, and bestowed them on Fulke's
enemy, Morris Fitz Roger.
Besides Fulke, Warin de Metz had had four
sons; and when King John wrought upon him this
foul wrong, he repaired with his brethren to the
court at Westminster, and renounced his allegiance



2O4. FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS
in the very presence of the king, and with his cousin
Baldwin de Hodnet and his said brethren, and
their followers, left the city. The king sent certain
knights in pursuit of them, by whom they were
overtaken ; but the king's men were defeated, and
Fulke was made an outlaw, and his estates forfeited
to the king's use.
His father Warin de Metz and his mother
Melette of the White Tower were dead ; and he
hastened to his manor of Alderbury, gathered all
that he could of his possessions, and with his four
brethren and his two cousins, Audulf de Bracy and
Baldwin de Hodnet, fled for the time to the court of
his kinsman, the duke of Brittany. But at length,
earnestly desiring to revisit his own country, Fulke
secretly landed in England with his brethren and
other companions, and travelling by night, while
they lay by day in woods, reached the neighbour-
hood of Whittington, where they set themselves to
watch the doings of Morris Fitz Roger.
The news that so bold an outlaw had set foot on
English ground soon reached the king, for a valet
of Fitz Roger recognised him in the forest beside
Whittington, and the king straightway appointed
one hundred knights to seek for Fulke Fitzwarin,
and take him wherever they might find him. But
because Fulke and his kindred were allied by blood
to some of the greatest in the realm, and many
were, moreover, in dread of him, those that had
this matter in charge were not over-zealous in their
quest, and it was whispered that they might have
found Fulke and the rest, an' they would, but feigned
that they did not happen upon him. -

FULKE FITZWARIN. 2O5
One day as Fulke and his following were in the
forest of Bradine, there came by ten merchants,
with a rich convoy of goods, guarded by fourteen
men-at-arms. John Fitzwarin was sent to ask
them who they were, and whence they came, and
begged them to repair to his lord in the wood to
have speech with him. But one of the guard smote
John Fitzwarin, whereupon the others appeared,
and took the merchants and men-at-arms prisoners.
Then it was understood that the merchandize be-
longed to the king, and that him-upon would fall
the loss, an' it were taken them-from by force, for
Fulke made it an ordinance to himself and to all
that paid him obedience never to rob any but the
king and his friends ; and so the merchants, when
they had well satisfied him that the forfeit would
not be theirs, but the king's, sent them away with
a message of thanks to his grace for his goods.
King John was exceeding wrath at this insolency,
and proclaimed Fulke a traitor to his crown, and that
whoever should bring him in, dead or alive, should
have a thousand pounds of silver and all his lands
in England.
The outlaws privily removed into Kent, and
Fulke, leaving his retinue in the forest, rode along
the highway alone. He shortly met a man that
carried on his head a chaplet of red roses, and he
begged it of him ; and the fellow, saying that he was
sparing of his goods who would not give such a
thing at the request of a knight, handed him the
chaplet, for which Fulke rewarded him with twenty
sols.
But the man wist well who it was that he had

2O6 FEUIDAI, AND FOREST LEGENDS.
seen, and made haste to Canterbury, to tell the
news to some of the knights to whom was com-
mitted the duty of taking Fulke. Who raised the
country all round, and placed folk everywhere with
horns, to blow them if they saw the outlaw. Yet
Fulke knew nought hereof, until such time as he
heard one sound a horn ; and then all the watchers
drew together, and the outlaws gathered round their
chief, and there was a great fight, wherein the king's
people were beaten and slaughtered, and Fulke and
the rest rode away at full speed.
When they had left their pursuers far in the
distance, they dismounted and walked to an abbey,
where Fulke left his brethren and the rest, and, in
the guise of a monk, limping on One foot and sup-
porting himself on a staff, awaited the arrival of
the king's men. Who, shortly coming up, asked
him if it was so that he had seen any armed knights
pass that way. “Yea,” he replied, “and may God
repay them the hurt they have done me! Seven
of them on horse and fifteen afoot came along
even now, and because I could not, by reason that
I am so weak, move quickly enough, they threw
me down in passing over me, and well-nigh
wounded me to death.” The king's men thanked
the old lame monk, and hurried away in chase, till
they were lost to view. But presently Fulke dis-
cerned eleven knights, well mounted on foreign
horses of price, approaching; and as they came up
to him, their leader said in derision : “Look at this
great fat monk His belly, I warrant, would hold
two gallons.”
Fulke's spirit rose within him, and suddenly
FULKE FITZWARIN. 207
lifting his staff, he struck the speaker to the earth,
and his companions, who had kept watch at the
abbey gates, flew to his aid, seized and bound the
knights, locked them up in the porter's lodge; and,
leaping on their horses, Fulke and his attendants
drew not rein till they reached Huggeford, where
Sir Walter de Huggeford, that was Fulke's kins-
man, entertained them. -
Now let us speak of a stranger adventure than
all that befell him. When he had been with his
company at Huggeford a certain space, came a secret
messenger from Hubert le Botiler, Archbishop of
Canterbury, praying him to wait upon his grace, as
he had matters of great moment to confer with him
upon.
So Fulke returned to Kent, and leaving the
others in the forest, he and his brother William in
the guise of merchants repaired to Canterbury, and
to the primate's palace. His grace shewed Fulke
how his brother Theobald le Botiler, that had
espoused a very rich lady, and the most beautiful
in all England, Dame Maud de Caus, was deceased,
and how the king was seeking to win his widow to
his mistress ; but she had taken sanctuary there, and
was now beneath his roof. He said, “I pray you,
good friend Fulke, and on my benediction com-
mand you, to take her to wife.” And Fulke, see-
ing that she was good, and fair, and of honourable
repute, and had in Ireland many strong castles and
other possessions, after counsel with his brother
William taken, assented ; and the union was pri-
vately solemnized by the archbishop himself within
the palace. And after two days, Fulke, leaving his

2O8 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
bride in sanctuary, proceeded to the forest, where
Fulke made known to his brethren and friends what
he had done: who made merry over the adven-
ture, and in sport called him husband, demanding
whether he had a mind to bring his fair lady to
castle or to wood.
No sooner was he joined in wedlock to the sister-
in-law of the archbishop, than he learned tidings
which carried him incontinently to the north country.
For a certain ribald knight of those parts, named
Peter de Bruvile, under colour of being Fulke Fitz-
warin, was sorely oppressing the honest people
dwelling on the borders, and dishonouring Fulke's
fair fame ; and in especial he understood that this
Peter de Bruvile, with his troop, had broken the
house of Robert Fitz-Sampson, that was a friend
to Fulke and had done him many courtesies, and
held the place, personating and discrediting him.
For, let it be ever held in remembrance, Fulke
was in arms only against the king, and no robber
or murderer.
On the night then that he and his company
reached the dwelling-place of Robert Fitz-Sampson,
he bad the others stay behind in readiness, and
clomb over the fence, where he heard sounds of
mirth and revelry; and looking by stealth through
a casement, he beheld those caitiffs in the hall
feasting and making merry, their visages masked,
and Robert Fitz-Sampson and his lady, and their
household, bound in one corner. He listened
awhile, and the men addressed their chief as Sir
Fulke, and the lady piteously cried out to him,
saying, “Ah, Sir Fulkel for God's mercy, I never


FULKE FITZWARIN. 2O9
did you hurt, but have alway loved you to my
power.”
He heard no more, but rose to his feet, and all
alone he went forward, sword in hand, crying,
“Now, peace | I command you, all that be here
present, and no one stir the least !” And he sware
a great Oath that if any amongst them should move,
he would hew him into small pieces. So they were
awe-stricken.
“Now," quoth he, “which of you causes him-
self to be called Fulke P”
“Sir,” said Peter de Bruvile, “I am a knight,
and am called Fulke.”
“By God! Sir Fulke,” exclaimed he, “rise up
quickly and unbind this esquire and his lady, and
the rest, and bind well in their room all your com-
panions, or you shall be the first to lose your
head.”
Peter did as he was bidden ; and when he had
bound well all his crew, Fulke commanded him to
cut off their heads, every each one; and so he did.
Then Fulke said to him : “You recreant knight,
that cause yourself to be called by my name, you
lie therein. I am Fulke, and that I shall make you
speedily know, for I will requite you for procuring
me the repute of a robber.” And thereupon he
smote his head off likewise.
And when he had accomplished all this, he
called his companions, and they saw what had been
done. And they presently sat together at supper,
and communed on this strange accident and this
deceit, which had so unjustly brought into disfavour
the name of Fitzwarin ; and Fulke saved Robert
A. L. - P



2 IO FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Fitz-Sampson and his family and his treasure, that
none was lost.
In the mean time, his lady, that was the primate's
sister-in-law, had been delivered of a daughter in
sanctuary, and had then repaired to Sir Walter de
Huggeford; and she lay now at Huggeford and
now at Alderbury, until King John, who had spies
upon her, holding her in enmity by reason of her
marriage, obliged her to take refuge in Shrewsbury,
where, in the church of Our Lady, she gave birth
to a second daughter; and so straitly was this
unhappy lady watched, that when she was now
again in travail, her child was born to her in a mean
cottage on the mountains of Wales, and baptized
in the Maiden's Well below ; and the mother was
so weak, that she was carried to the Grange at
Caer-y-genant.
But Fulke, on his part, was more than ever rest-
less, and the thought of Morris Fitz-Roger and his
lost patrimony rankled in his bosom ; and shortly
after his visit to the north, and worthy chastise-
ment of Peter de Bruvile and his crew, he resolved
to make once more his way to Alderbury, where
he lay with his comrades in the forest near the
river-side, in a thick coppice, and was unseen of
any. Who to John de Raunpaygne, one of the
trustiest of his friends, thus spake :
“John, you know something of minstrelsy ; dare
you go to Whittington, and offer to play before
Morris Fitz-Roger, to the intent that we may wise
what he doeth P”
“Yea,” answered John de Raunpaygne, and took
a certain herb ; and putting it into his mouth, his
ſ
º
º
º


FULRE FITZWARIN. 2 I I
face swelled and grew discoloured, so that his own
people scarce knew whether it were he or no.
Then he donned such raiment as a poor man might
wear, and took his instrument, and put a staff in
his hand, and came to Whittington.
The porter led him in to Sir Morris, who asked
him where he was born ; and he replied, in the
Marches of Scotland. He demanded of him what
news he had.
“Sir," quoth he, “I know none, save of Sir
Fulke Fitzwarin, that was slain of late, in com-
mitting a trespass in the house of Sir Robert Fitz-
Sampson.”
“Say you so P” quoth Sir Morris.
“Yea, truly,” replied the minstrel; “all the folk
of the country speak of it.”
And Sir Morris was right fain of this good news,
and gave the minstrel a cup of fine silver in reward.
John learned that Sir Morris would undertake
next day a journey to Shrewsbury with a small
company, and hastened back to his master with
the tidings; and Fulke and certain of his band,
placing themselves in the way, slew Sir Morris and
all his knights that were with him. But when Sir
Morris first espied Fulke, he knew him by his arms,
and cried out, “Now I am assured that all minstrels
are liars.” Thus, notwithstanding, by so many
fewer enemies had Fulke.
He gave the king no rest, and took side with
Owen, prince of Wales, against him ; and now that
Sir Morris Fitz-Roger was dead, he re-entered into
his patrimony, that had come to his house by .
Melette of the White Laund. But it so fortuned
2 I 2 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
that in one of the battles that he had against the
king's knights, Sir Audulf de Bracy was taken, and
led to Shrewsbury, where the king was ; and the
king sware that he should be hanged.
John de Raunpaygne dyed his body and face as
black as jet, attired himself richly, and with a tabor
slung round his neck, rode on a fair palfrey to
Shrewsbury.
When he was brought before the king's grace,
the king asked him who he was and where he was
born.
“Sir," quoth he, “I am an Ethiopian minstrel,
born in Ethiopia.” -
“Are all the people in that land of your colour P”
demanded his grace. -
“Yea, my lord,” John replied, “both men and
women.” -
“What do they say in foreign lands of me,
prythee P”
“Sir, they say truly that you are the most re-
nowned king in all Christendom, and it is for that
I am come to see you.”
“Fair sir,” quoth the king, “you are welcome.”
“Sir my lord,” returned John, “ many thanks.”
After the king had gone to rest, Sir Henry de
Audeley, constable of Shrewsbury castle, desired to
see the black minstrel, and summoned him to his
chamber, where they made mirth with wine and
melody, until Sir Henry suddenly said, “Go fetch
Sir Audulf de Bracy, that he may have a good time,
ere he dies on the morrow in the morning.” And
then they all discoursed together; and presently
John Sang a song that Sir Audulf was wont to sing,



FULKE FITZWARIN. 2 I 3
and Sir Audulf gazed at him and knew him, but
made no sign. When Sir Henry called for the
cup, John sprang to his feet, and passed it to him,
but unseen threw thereinto a powder, which caused
all that partook of the drink to fall asleep ; and
each drank after Sir Henry save John and Sir
Audulf: who, when the rest were slumbering, tore
up the table linen, and descended through a case-
ment to the river-side beneath, and escaped to
Whittington, where Fulke lay, and welcomed them
very joyfully.
When the king perceived that Fulke waxed so
powerful in Wales, he sent letters to Prince Owen,
who had wedded his sister Joan, and prayed him to
banish that felon from his court, or that, if so he
would deliver to him the body of Fulke, he would
restore him all his lands which his ancestors, the
kings of England, had at any time afore from his
lordship taken. Prince Owen shewed the letters to
his wife, who privately let Fulke understand, that
her lord meditated coming to accord with the king.
Then Fulke sent his wife under charge of his
cousin Baldwin de Hodnet to Canterbury, and com-
mended her to the care of the archbishop, her
brother-in-law, and with his four brothers, and Sir
Audulf de Bracy and John de Raunpaygne, all
armed, he repaired to the prince at Balaha.
“Sir," quoth he, “I have served you to my
power right loyally: but now one knows not in
whom to put trust, for you have received the king's
letters, whereof you have said to me nought; and
in regard of the great promises that his grace
therein makes, you intend to betray me.”


2 I 4 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Fulke,” the prince replied, “remain with me;
for indeed I had no thought of deserting you.”
“Sir,” Fulke returned once more, “I believe it
full well, yet will I not in any wise stay here.”
They quitted Wales accordingly, Fulke and his
company, and journeyed till they came to Dover,
where Baldwin de Hodnet advised them that he had
left the Lady Maud in safe keeping with the arch-
bishop at Canterbury; and then they put to sea,
and landed in France. -
The French king, that was named Philip, received
the knights of England courteously, and they took
part in certain jousts, which were at that time held
in the fair city of Paris. The French knights bare
themselves well, but the strangers overcame them
at all points, and in especial Sir Fulke was marked
of the king for his prowess. Of whom the king
demanded his name, and he said, “Sir, I am called
Sir Amis du Bois.” Then King Philip asked him
if he knew in England a knight named Sir Fulke
Fitzwarin, and what his appearance and stature
were, for his fame had spread widely abroad. Sir
Fulke replied that he knew him well, and that he
was much of his height; and King Philip was
very gracious unto him and the other knights of
England. -
But when King John found that Sir Audulf de
Bracy had been set free, and that Sir Fulke and
his brothers had left England, and had gone to the
court of his cousin, the king of France, he wrote
letters to King Philip, urging him to drive Sir Fulke
Fitzwarin from his realm. Then, for that he knew
not that Sir Amis du Bois was verily Sir Fulke, he


FULKE FITZWARIN. 2 I 5
returned answer that he had no such knight in his
land. But came Sir Fulke presently unto him, and
craved liberty to go. The king asked him what
more he needed to his full content; and Sir Fulke
shewed him that he had news requiring him to
return home.
Said the king, “Sir Amis du Bois, I think that
you be Sir Fulke Fitzwarin "
“Truly, my lord, it is so,” quoth he.
King Philip said, “You shall dwell with me, and
you shall have richer lands than ever you had in
England.”
But Sir Fulke excused himself, pleading that he
was not worthy to receive lands of another that
could not hold his own heritage; and he took leave
of King Philip, he and his people, and came down
to the sea, where he espied a ship, whereof he asked
the mariner his name. He said that it was Mador,
and that he was a Russian born.
“Mador,” quoth Sir Fulke, “know you well how
to carry folk from region to region in safety P”
Mador said, “Yea.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Fulke, “you have a perilous
calling. Tell me now, what death did thy father
die P”
“He was drowned in the sea,” answered the
other; “and so my grandfather, and his father, so
far back as I can tell.”
Sir Fulke deemed him bold to go to sea; and the
mariner looked at him, and said again, “Where did
thy father die, and thy grandfather, and his father,
and the rest, prythee P"
“Verily,” said Sir Fulke, “in their beds, I trow.”
2 I 6 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Truly, sir,” answered and said Mador, “since all
your lineage so died, I marvel that you dare go to
bed. But every creature, sir, will have that death
that is destined for him.” -
Sir Fulke owned this to be true, and he caused
Mador to build him a strong ship, and he hoisted his
flag thereon; and they sailed along the coast of
England till they met another ship, wherein were
many knights, whereof one challenged them. Mador
said that the ship was his ; but the knight replied
that he lied, for it carried the arms of Sir Fulke
Fitzwarin, and commanded him to deliver up the
body of that traitor. But Sir Fulke drew alongside
the ship, and took all the treasure therein, and then
let the sea enter, so that it sank. Onward thence
they sailed, doing hurt to none save the king's ships,
and came to Scotland, where they went on land to
seek victuals.
They saw a boy tending sheep; and he led them
into a cavern underground, and there left them, and
went outside and blew a horn, that his servant on
the mountain might hear him, quoth he, and bring
food. The boy blew six moots, and returned ; and
presently entered six great and tall clowns and fierce,
clad in coarse and filthy tabards, and each in his
hand a great staff. Sir Fulke misliked their de-
meanour, but was silent. They went into an inner
chamber, and anon they presented themselves in
rich garments of scarlet and green and shoes of
orfrey, and no king could be more magnificent; and
they saluted Sir Fulke and his friends. Then was
brought unto them an exceeding costly chessboard,
with chessmen of gold and silver; and they invited



FULKE FITZWARIN. 2 I 7
the strangers to play. Each lost by turn, till it fell
to Sir Fulke to have a game.
The fiercest of the clowns said to him, “Will you
play ?” -
“Nay,” replied he.
“You must play or wrestle," quoth the clown.
“In good faith,” replied the other, “there you
lie, shepherd; but I will play with you in the
manner that I have learned.” And he leaped up,
and drew his sword, and he smote the heads of all
the six clowns from their shoulders.
Thereupon he looked around and found a chamber,
where an old woman sat with a horn in her hand,
and often she tried to blow it, yet could not. Sir
Fulke asked her what booted the horn, if she could
not sound it. She said that if it were sounded,
succour would come to her in abundance. He
took the horn and passed thence into yet another
chamber, where were seven damsels, very sump-
tuously attired, and working rich embroidery.
They cast themselves on their knees, and sued for
mercy. He lifted them up, and demanded who and
whence they were. -
One said: “I am the daughter of Aunflorreis
of Orkney, and my lord dwelleth in Castle Bagot, in
Orkney; and it happened that as I and these other
damsels, and certain knights of our acquaintance,
took a boat on a time to solace ourselves on the sea,
the seven sons of the old woman that you have seen
came upon us in a ship, and slew our people, and
seized us, and dishonoured our bodies. Whereupon
we pray you to set us free.”
And Sir Fulke took them to his ship, and all the



2 I 8 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
victuals, riches, and armour that he found in the
cavern, with the haubergeon that he ever after
prized above all other things to him pertaining, and
would neither give nor sell to any. And when the
ship was laden, he went again on land with his
company, and blew the horn that the old woman
had had in her keeping, and all the thieves of the
country, two hundred or more, thronged toward
them ; and they slew them, that there were no
thieves in that country afterward.
Sir Fulke left Scotland, and voyaged to many
other lands, and saw great wonders, whereof the
rarest was the dragon that ate human flesh and
slept on a couch of fine gold, for his nature was
so hot, and the nature of gold was to be cold ; and
this monster kept a fair damsel prisoner, that was
daughter to the duke of Carthage. Whom Sir
Fulke, after he had slain the dragon, restored to
her father; and the duke was full glad, and offered
her to him in marriage, with all his whole dukedom.
But Sir Fulke refused, and sailed away toward
England; and landing at Dover, where he left his
ship, repaired to the forest of Windsor, where the
king lay.
Now, Sir Fulke well knew that great forest, and
when they came thereunto, they heard horns blow,
whereby they judged that the king would hunt that
day. Sir Fulke bad his company tarry behind,
and very richly armed he rode alone to see what
tidings he could gain of the king. For it entered
into his thought to challenge the king for his dis-
inheritance.
He presently met a charcoal-burner with a triblet


|
~-
FUILKE FITZWARIN. 2 I 9
in his hand, and he changed clothes with him, and
gave him ten besants to his pay, bidding him keep
secrecy. He sat by his fire, blowing the embers,
and drawing the wood together, when anon came
up the king on foot, attended by three knights, for
the rest were on the other side of the forest, who
demanded of him if he had seen stag or roe. He
said that he had seen a stag, and it had long horns,
and if his grace pleased, he would lead him whither
it had gone. The king and his knights, all afoot,
followed the charcoal-burner until he came to a great
thicket; and he prayed the king to wait, while he
beat the thicket, and made the stag run his way.
Forth he sprang into the coppice, hastily gathered
his following, and throwing aside the charcoal-
burner's blouse, took the king and his attendants
prisoners. -
“Sir king,” said he, “now I have you in my
power; and such judgment will I exercise on you as
you would on me, if you had taken me.”
The king trembled with fear, and begged his life,
which Sir Fulke only granted when his grace, in
presence of his knights that were with him, swore
to fulfil his covenant, restoring him all his heritage
and goods whatsoever, and suffering him thereafter
to dwell at home in peace with such security as he
should think fit to require.
But as soon as the king had returned to Windsor,
he went from his oath, and despatched a force of
knights, under Sir James of Normandy, to take
Sir Fulke wherever they could find him. John de
Raunpaygne, Sir Fulke's trusty and well beloved
friend, gave warning of their approach, and they set
22O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
upon them and slew all save Sir James of Normandy;
and Sir James of Normandy they bound and gagged,
and Sir Fulke changed armour with him, and the
rest clad themselves in the armour of the king's
men, and went to the king; and when they had
delivered to him Sir James of Normandy, whom he
deemed from his armour to be Sir Fulke, saluted
him, and took their leave.
The king was exceeding angry when he perceived
how he had been over-reached, and sent out a larger
troop of horsemen in pursuit of those outlaws, who,
being suddenly surprised, narrowly escaped capture;
and Sir Fulke was sorely wounded, so that they
were fain to carry him away, and his brother
William remained a prisoner.
This was the gravest misadventure that had
hitherto befallen Sir Fulke, more especially since
he might not at that time rescue his brother, but
was taken on shipboard, and with his companions
visited many countries, acquiring great riches. Yet
he longed sore to return to England, and compass,
if he might, the deliverance of his brother, if he
were not already dead. And when they had again
set foot on their native soil, he and the rest, and
John de Raunpagyne, had found that William Fitz-
warin was yet the king's prisoner, and lay at
Westminster, well guarded, they brought up their
ship as close as they could to the city, and in the
guise of mariners took means to deliver him, and
to take him to their ship, which set sail for Brittany.
There they spent half a year or more with Sir
Fulke's kinsfolk; and Sir Fulke, still intent on
visiting the king with sharp reprisal for his treachery,
/
-
2.


FULKE FITZWARIN. - 22 I
\
at the end of this time resolved that nothing should
hinder him from landing once more in England;
and he secretly came to the New Forest, which was
to him right familiar, and the king hunted the boar
in that forest with six knights, his attendants. The
outlaws seized them all, carried them to their ship,
and put out to sea. The king promised to grant
Sir Fulke his peace, and to restore his castle of
Whitington and all his lands to him, and to leave
the six knights as hostages until the pardon was
sealed. Which admitted to the king's peace Sir
Fulke and his four brethren, and sundry others his
companions in arms; and Sir Fulke and his three
brethren submitted themselves to the king at West-
minster, at his return from his duchy of Normandy,
and were there received back into grace with much
pomp, in the presence of the Earl Marshal of
England, the Earl of Chester, and many other earls,
barons, and clergy. Whereat Hubert de Botiler,
archbishop of Canterbury, that had ever been good
friend to Sir Fulke, unfeignedly rejoiced.
Sir Fulke came home at length to Whittington,
where he found the Lady Maud his wife and their
children, to his great joy, and they lived together in
much honour; and their daughter Eva, when his
wife Joan was dead, that was the daughter of the
king of England, married the prince of Wales. But
| Sir Fulke, remembering him of his sins against God
in the slaughter of many people, and other grave
trespasses, built to the glory of Our Lady near
Alderbury, in a wood on the Severn, the New
Abbey, in which, in the fulness of time, he and his
lady, the Lady Maud, were buried ; and after him



22.2 FEUIDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
-
his son, that was likewise named Fulke, remained
in the king's peace all his days, and was a valiant
knight in his service, that was, besides, by reason of
his broad domains and puissant kindred, a lord of A
great weight and worship. 2.y

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'JLIWRIGHH SHH.J. CINV. DNIXI GIH,L


224 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENIDS.
In the portion which is unfortunate/y deficient
the sta/wart friar proceeded no doubt to court, and
was we// received. 7%e king was apparen//y at
AVoſţīngham, the town more than once cited in the
story, and thiſ/her his entertainer would of course
7-epair. It must have been a curious meeting.
We perceive //ał że theatre of the present adven-
ture was Sherwood; and the monarch concerned may
ôe safe/y presumed to ſave been Ædward the Second.
Zł was during that prince's AVotting/amshire progress
in 1323 that the circumstance may have occurred,
and we have been consequent/y induced to consider
this legend as allied to the Æočin Hood series.
The winning affability of our Aings where no
fo/ifica/ princip/e was direct/y involved, and where
majesty was (as it were) on fur/ough, form the basis
of numerous traditions and a fruitſu/ theme for
anecdote. Z%e earlier incidents of this class iſ/us/rate
in a very va/uač/e and offortune manner certain
traits which used to be considered beneat/, the cog-
misance of the historian.
Zł is observač/e, in the account of Żis mode of /ī/e
which the hermit gives to his unknown visitor, Ž/at
Sherwood Forest at aZZ events was £70tected in the
P/antagenet time by Keeffers and foresters, and that
the friar was off/iged to conduct / is contraband
operations after dusá.
This may serve in a measure to corroborate the
authenticity of one or two of the Æočin Hood stories,
where affrays with the officers of the Crown are
re/affed; &ut these functionaries would, as a rule,
exercise a sound discretion Öy giving Æobin and Ais
men a wide óert/..

THE KING AND THE HERMIT. 225
The reader of “Ivanhoe” will easily recognise the
“Aing and the Hermit " as the foundation of an
episode in that move/. The o/d fabliau, which we
Aere reproduce for the first time in a ſegióſe shape,
was origina//y inserted in a Žuć/ication printed during
Scott's /ifetime, and in fact in 1812, just before the
commencement of the Waver/ey series.] -
JESUS that is King of heaven bring to a good
end all such as follow the minstrel's calling, and
tell passing strange adventures, gladdening the
hearts of men, as they sit at meat, and drink the
red wine !
I will sing of an accident that befell a certain king,
if you will hearken unto me. -
It happened in good Edward's time, that his grace
went to Sherwood to solace himself with hunting
the deer, and with raising the great hart among the
coppices and on the moors. -
And when the king's men had dispersed them-
selves about, and returned to his grace to report to
him what they had seen, his grace asked them in
manner following: “Fellows, where ye have been,
in what places have ye seen most game P”
To whom they answered, sinking on knee :
“Everywhere, east and west, lord, there is of game
great plenty. Ere the sun go down, we can shew
your grace two thousand head.”
An old forester drew near, and, “ Forsooth, lord,”
quoth he, “I saw under the greenwood tree a deer,
and such large antlers as he bare I never of my
days beheld before.”
“Lol" said our king, then, “I will grant unto
A. L.




226 FEUDAL AND FOREST I,EGENDS.
thee a royal pension to thy life's end, if so thou wilt
bring me that-to.”
On the morrow, betimes, they set out, the king
and his men, with dogs and horses and trusty bows;
and to the greenwood are they bound ; and when
they came thither, they spread their nets and their
gins, each archer standing by his tree, bow in hand.
Then they gave three blasts on the bugle-horns,
and uncoupled the hounds; and the hounds ran as
though they were mad, and started the game out of
the covers.
The king and his men followed with shouts and
blowing of horns through the forest, over hill and
dale, through thick and thin. The king rode on a
good horse; but the beast began to tire, for his grace
had been in the saddle from midday till evening :
and he fell behind the rest a little, to let his courser
breathe, till at last he was left alone, and knew not
where he was. And the night began to draw on.
The king thought within himself: “While there
is still light, it will be better to take shelter under
Some tree; for if it grows dark, and I fall into a pit,
my horse and I were in evil case. I have heard
poor men call on St. Julian to lend them good
harbouring, and he has listened to their prayer.
St. Julian, as I am a true knight, send me grace this
same evening to meet with some abiding place!
Every year that I live I will make offering to yield
poor folk shelter for thy sake l’
Now not much farther had our king ridden, when
he became aware of a light in the distance, where
the wood waxed thinner; and as he approached, he
saw that it was some hermitage or chapel.
THE KING AND THE HERMIT. 227
“Now, by St. Julian, good speed Yonder I will
go and beg a lodging.”
A little wicket he soon perceived ; but it was fast,
and he called out, that those within might hear his
voice. And presently at the door of this dwelling
in the forest stood a man, who by his mien and
presence appeared to be a hermit; and as he wended
his way toward the gate where the stranger stood,
he told his prayers on his beads. And when he saw
the king, he said: “Sir, good even "
To whom the king replied : “Well met, Sir
Friar. I beg thee to suffer me for this night to be
thy guest; for I have ridden far in the forest, and
have lost my way, and it grows toward nightfall.”
The hermit said: “Verily, for such a lord as thou
art, my poor lodging is in no wise meet ; though
sometimes, if it be a poor man that comes this way,
and seeks refuge, I deny him not, lest he should
take harm. I dwell here in the wilderness among
the wild creatures, and sustain myself on roots or
whatever I may get, as it is the will of the Lord.”
The king answered and said : “I beseech thee,
then, that thou wilt shew me at least the way to the
nearest town, and ere a fortnight is passed thou shalt
hear from me to thy advantage ; or, if thou canst
not thyself go, that thou wilt suffer thy boy to lead
me a mile or twain on the road, while it is yet
twilight.”
“By St. Mary,” quoth the friar, “unless I deceive
myself, little help gettest thou, sirrah, here.”
Then said the king : “My dear friend, how far is
it, pray you, to the town 2"
“Five miles,” replied the friar; “and a wild road


228 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
it is, by Our Lady except ye have the day before
you.”
“By God! hermit,” cried the king, “with thee I
shall lodge to-night, or else I should come to some
mishap.” -
“Thou art a stout carl,” said the hermit peevishly;
“yet if I were out of my hermit's weeds, I would
not be bearded by three of you. Well, I cannot
fight with you ; and if ye must come in, let it be
so, a' God's name, and ye must take even what ye
can get.”
So the king put up his horse, and two handsful of
barley-straw he fetched out of some corner for him,
for the beast had had a hard day. The hermit
looked askance at him ; but the king took no heed,
and hewed some wood, and kindled a fire, and
seated himself down before it.
“Dear hermit, let me have some supper. The
sorrier the day, the merrier the night | By God
if I were a hermit in this forest, when the king's
keepers had gone to rest, I would sally forth east
and west, with my good bow in my hand and my
arrows in a thong, and see what I could get to
gladden myself and my guests. What needeth the
king venison 2"
The hermit said to the king : “Good sir, prythee
tell me where thou livest ?”
“Sir” replied the other, “in the king's court I
have dwelled many a day; and my lord rode on
hunting, as great lords use to do, and after a great
hart have we ridden from noon to eventide, and yet
he escaped away. All the day I have been out in
the forest, and I am foredone with weariness, I

THE KING AND THE HERMIT. 229
pray thee give me to eat, and thou shalt not repent
the service.” - -
The hermit went away, and fetched bread and
cheese and thin ale; and the king took thereof, for
he thought that other meat the hermit had none.
Yet very shortly he had enough.
“Take it away,” said the king; “I shall requite
thee ere long. Now, hermit, if I were in such a
place as this, I should learn to shoot; and when the
king's keepers were well asleep, thou mightest get
of the best. Though thou beest a friar, it were no
reproach to thee to have a bow and arrºws. Thou
mightest shoot the wild deer, and no forester espy
thee.”
“If thou hast nothing better to tell me than this,
forbear, sirrah,” quoth the hermit then. “Why, -
were I taken in such a fact, I should be thrown
into prison, and an' I could give no bail, should be
bound hand and foot, and it would be a mercy if
I were not hanged.” -
Then the king answered hirn so: “Were I in thy
place, I should be astir o' nights, when I wist well
that the king's foresters were a-bed. Now, come,
hermit, as thou art a true man, if thou can'st handle
a bow, make no secret of it to me; for, by God! no
man shall have it from me so long as I live. Come,
hermit, if thou hast any venison, give me of the
best.”
The hermit said: “Men of high estate look
jealously at my order, and would fain put me in
prison, if so they might find that I busied myself
with such things. It is our calling to spend our
days in prayer and fasting, and to take no heed for

23O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENIDS.
our meat. Many a time nought passes my lips but
milk of the kine. Warm thyself by the fire, and
then get to sleep, and I will lay my cope over
thee.” -
The friar eyed his visitor steadfastly, and con-
sidered in his mind, before he proceeded farther;
and then he continued thus:
“Thou seemest a fellow something different from
any that I have seen this long time in these parts.
Let me see what can be done.”
And he went to a chest, and drew forth two
candles and lighted them, and set them on the table.
The king marvelled after the words which the
hermit had before spoken, but held his peace.
Presently the hermit fetched a cloth and spread
it, and laid fine bread upon it, and baked venison ;
and he bad him choose whether he would partake
thereof, or have hot collops; and he might have
them salt or fresh, as it liked him best.
The king ate and laughed, and, “Well, hermit,”
cried he, “I might have had dry cheer had I not
touched upon the shooting ! Now Christ save a
friar that can furnish under the greenwood such
good fare as this I swear the king himself is no
better off than we, an' we might only come by some
drink to wash it merrily down.”
The hermit called his boy—William Allen was
his name—and he said to him : “Go, and by the
side of my bed thou wilt see a bundle of straw, and
underneath there is a horn pot—God forbid that
we should stint of it! And when thou hast brought
it, give Our guest's horse corn and bread to eat.
Return with despatch, and bring me my cup, and we

THE KING AND THE HERMIT. 23 I
will drink till dawn and have sport. I will see what
sort of a fellow thou art.”
The king was debonnaire enough, and answered :
“Whatso thou wilt have me do, command me.”
“When the wine comes, canst thou say Fusty
ôandyas? and I will make response, Strike, pantmere.”
“Yea,” quoth the king. But as soon as the boy
entered with the flagon and the cups, the friar
looked at the king, and the king was silent, for he
had forgotten the words.
“Fie, man,” said the hermit, “wilt thou take all
night to learn them 2 Say Pusſy Öandyas.”
“Pusſy Öandyas,” said the king.
“Striće pantmere,” replied the hermit.
Then these two set to their wine, and jested
together, and the boy filled their cups again and
again. The king said: “For this good cheer I shall
give thee reward, hermit; it is the merriest carouse
I have had this seven year.”
“God bless us all !” quoth his host. “But, alas !
when thou comest again unto thy lord's hall, thou
wilt forget the friar. Yet, perchance, if thou
shouldest relate the adventure that thou hast had
to-night among gentlemen where thou dwellest,
there will be laughter and merry cheer; and if thou
wilt pay me another visit some night, I promise thee
thou shalt not want a venison collop.”
“Fear not,” said the king ; “thou shalt not be
forgotten. To-morrow, so soon as the day daws,
we will go away together, and when we come unto
the king's gate, they will not keep us long waiting,
I trow. And trust me, hermit, the best that is to
be had there shall be set before us two.”
232 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
The hermit answered so, -–
“I have been in the king's court, sir, ere now,
and have had given to me to eat of a root, and have
been kept loitering about half the day. Weenest
thou that I am so pressed that I must hang my
heels till I am called 2 I have neighbours here-
about, whom-unto I send presents of the wild deer's
flesh, and they let me have in return bread and ale,
and so I live well enough.”
“Hermit,” said the king, “by my faith, I am
well pleased with thee; thou art a bonny friar. I
tell thee, man, if thou camest to the king's court
on thy adventures, thou dost not know what may
betide thee, ere thou goest thy way again. Though
I be indifferently clad, I may make bold to go
thither, and bring with me guests two or three ;
and no man shall say me nay, but I may do my
pleasure.”
“By Our Lady,” said the hermit, “I trust that
ye be a true man, if I came as ye say unto me.
But for whom should I ask, prithee P”
“Jack Fletcher is my name; all men know me:
and ye will find that I am a man of worship in
the king's service.”
The hermit, thus reassured, answered : “Come,
then, Jack, into the chamber hard by, and I will
shew thee something more.”
The king followed the hermit into his bedroom,
and spied about the hermit's bed many a broad
arrow hanging. The hermit handed him a bow, and
said unto him,
“Jack, draw it up.”
But the king could scarce bend the string.

THE KING AND THE HERMIT. 233
“Sir” he said, “there is no archer that the king
hath that can shoot with this.”
Then the hermit took the bow, and placed in it
an arrow of an ell long, and drew it to the head.
“Jack,” said he, “there goes not the deer in the
forest but that arrow should find it. Jack, since
thou art a fletcher by craft, thou mightest now and
again help me to a shaft or two.”
The king answered that he would.
“Jack,” said the hermit, “an I were sure that
thou wast true, I could shew thee yet more still.”
The king sware that he would never betray him,
and the hermit took him into his larder, where
were troughs filled with venison.
“Jack, how thinkest thou ? While there is deer
in this forest, now and then I may happen on some
of the best ; the king can have no better. Jack,
if thou wilt, take some of my arrows, and we will
try them in the morning.”
They went back to their cups, and drank and
talked till daybreak; and when they rose betimes,
the friar said: “Jack, I will go with thee a mile or
twain, to put thee in thy way.”
“Much thanks,” replied the king; “but last night,
when we were together, you promised me that you
would come some day to the king's court, and see
what passes there.”
“Certes,” answered the friar, “I shall come, as I
am true man, before to-morrow night.”
The friar guided the king through unknown
recesses of the forest, and brought him to a place
which he knew, and then these two bad each other
a warm farewell; and when the friar was out of



234 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
sight, the king put his bugle to his lips, and sounded
a loud blast, and his knights and lords, who had
been scouring the forest in search of him, came up,
and were rejoiced to see our lord the king once
more, whom they had thought to be lost.

THE NUT-BROWN MAID.
[7%is deſight/u/ and exyuisite piece, of which the
antiguity is undoubéed, aft/ears to have been on sale
as a broad-sheet in 152O, and forms part of the
misce//any Anown as “Arnold's Chronic/e" (1502).
Aut as it has no affinity with the remainder of the
conſents of that volume, it was probably reprinted
there from a separate edition; so that it was, perhafts,
a sta//-/a//ad many years prior to the date above
mentioned. Zł occurs among the ear/test pub/ications
zegistered in the books of the Stationers' Company;
and Captain Cox of Coventry, as Zane/ame ſeſs us
Ánow in his Áemi/worth letter, had it in 1575.
On a former occasion, the present writer ventured
to draw attention to the similarity between it in
point of tone and style and passages in Alexander
Barclay's trams/aſion of the Æclogues of Æneas
Sy/vius Piccolomini, published about the same period.
The pathos and purity of the narrative are at al/
events very striking, and almost deſy a modern imi-
tator. It is a sweet ſittle idy/, commemorating the
zomantic courtshift of a noble, under the disguise of
a bourgeois, off/iged to ſ'y fo the wood's from the
arm of Žustice, and a maiden, who claims to Če a
Čaron's damghter.
It s/ight/y reminds us of the “Zord of Bur/eig/ ";
and how far it exceſs it /


235
236 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
We have attempted to preserve as far as possible
the spirit and substance of the original, which pre-
sents the form of a dramatic interlocution more or ſess
ſounded on fact, and terminates in the trium//, of
the Aeroine, whom the simple grace of the story has
made the lifelong friend of so many. 7%e composi-
tion almost stands by itself, by reason of its unusual
structure aud its union of delicacy and Öeauty, so rare
at that remote date in our /iterary history. It is in-
£roduced by a sort of process in which the two speakers
undertaže to impersonate the characters represented.]
RIGHT or wrong, men do ever complain of women,
saying that it is a labour in vain to seek their love,
for they will never requite the same. For if a new
lover appear, straightway from their thoughts the
old one is a banished man.
Ah too true it is that often no trust is to be put
in them. Yet in a case which I shall narrate to
you now you will see that they sometimes remain
steadfast and true. Witness the Nut-brown Maid,
who, when her lover repaired unto her and made
his plaint to her to prove her, would not forsake
him, for she in her heart affected none other but -
him alone. -
Then let us discuss between us how the matter
befell. Listen to the story of the Nut-brown Maid,
Now I will begin, and ye. that be present, I pray ye
listen unto me, how she suffered, and what trial her
lover put upon her. I am the knight, and in the
darkness I come as privily as I may, saying:
Alas! it is so ; I am a banished man.
And I, to fulfil your desire, will do what I may




THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 237
to shew that men to their shame accuse us women
without cause. Therefore, my own sweetheart, say
unto me how it fareth with you, for in my mind I
love you alone.
It standeth thus. A deed hath been done,
whereby great harm may come to me. I trow that
I am destined to die a shameful death, or to flee
to the woods, and, with my good bow in my hands,
lead an outlaw's life. Wherefore have I come to
thee, my own truelove, to bid thee a sad farewell;
for I am bound to the thick forest, there to dwell
a banished man.
O Lord ' what availeth the happiness of the
world 2 The glory of a summer's day is quenched
before noon. I hear thee say farewell. Nay, nay;
we are not so soon to depart. Whither wilt thou
go 2 What hast thou done? All my cheer would
turn to sorrow, wert thou once away. For of all
men I love only thee! .
I can believe that for a little while thou wilt fret.
But in a day or twain thou wilt be comforted, and
indeed I pray thee not to lose thy labour by think-
ing on me. For it is so, that I must hasten away
to the wood, a banished man, alone.
Now that thou hast unfolded to me how it is,
I shall speak to thee plainly my mind. Since it
must be so, and thou hast not to choose but to the
forest to betake thee, I will not stay behind. For
it shall never be said that to her lover the Nut-
brown Maid was untrue. Make thee ready, then,
and thou shalt not tarry for me. For of all men
there is none but thee whom I love.
O, think what will be said in court and city
238 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
by men and women of every degree, when it is
noised abroad that thou art gone ! They will give
it out that thou hast escaped to the forest-side to
please thy wanton will, and that thou couldest no
longer abide without thy lover. Liever than thou
for me shouldest win an evil name, I will go, a
banished man, to the greenwood alone.
Though all should cry that I were at fault,
I would not waver, for the blame would rest with
them that sought to defame me. True love is
above shame, and I shall shew that they who would
not do as I, when thou art thus oppressed by
trouble, are recreants all. But not such the Nut-
brown Maid. -
I avise thee to remember well how it be-
seemeth not a maiden to follow an outlaw into the
wood. For thou must carry his bow, and like a
thief be ever in dread of the law. Whereby much
wrong might to thee come. So let me, prithee,
go away, a banished man, alone.
As ye say, so it is, may-be. But love may lead
me to come afoot for thy sake, and help thee to
make a new home beneath the wood-shade. For,
if I have thy companionship, I ask no more. It
maketh my heart wax cold to think of parting from
thee, whom alone the Nut-brown Maid loveth.
An outlaw hath the hand of every man against
him. He may be taken and bound, and be hanged
on a tree, and become sport for the wind. And
what couldest thou do then 2 Thou couldest not
yield me succour. Thy bow would fall from thy
hand. O, let me pursue my way alone to the
forest, a banished man -

THE NUT-BROWN MAID, 239
It doth not belong to womanhood, forsooth, to
fight and to draw the bow. But if need pressed,
I would even do what I might, and essay my most,
as women have ere now, to serve and to save thee,
whom only I love.
Yet hear me once more. I doubt if thou couldst
bear the hardships of the forest life. Think of
the thorny paths, the frost, the snow, the rain,
the heat of Summer and the winter's cold ; for
whatever betide we must lodge under the green-
wood, with no other roof over our heads than the
poor thatch, and I know that thou wouldest soon
wish that thou haddest not done this thing.
I have shared thy joys, and is it not meet that
of thy griefs I should be partaker likewise 2 Yet
where thou art I cannot fare amiss. So let us
haste to be gone. The Nut-brown Maid waits for
thee. -
Consider, when ye would dine there may be no
victual to get, nor ale, nor wine. Consider, my
sweetheart, thou wilt have no house but a bower
of leaves and branches of the tree, and no bed to
lie upon. O, thou art too tender to bear these
things; and I will depart and leave thee behind.
Such an archer as men say that thou art can-
not fail to find meat among the wild deer, and the
water of the brook will well suffice me for drink.
Youth and health have we, and to sleep o' nights
we may make shift as others do. So let us no
longer delay. l
Ah one other thing thou must do, ere with
me thou canst go. Thou must cut thy hair, and
let thy kirtle fall no lower than thy knee, so that

24O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
thou mayest, if need be, bend thy bow the better
against an enemy. But to-night woodward must
I flee, and thou must have all prepared to set out
before the dawn of the day. -
I shall do for thee more than to womanhood
pertains. I shall shorten my hair and my kirtle,
as ye bid me. O my sweet mother, my heart
bleeds for thee the most ; but, adieu ! I must go
whither fortune leads me. Thou art my guide
and my refuge. Let us go ; the day beginneth to
break.
Stay, stay ; thou shalt not go; for methinks that
whosoever it were that sought thee in love, thou
wouldst accompany, belike, the same. The proverb
says, “ soon hot, soon cold"; and this is true of
a woman. Wherefore I shall let thee stay here,
and seek the forest, there to dwell in solitude.
There is no need to use such speech to me.
For thou knowest too well how hard I was to woo
and win, and though my ancestors were noble, how
I, a baron's daughter, stooped to love a squire.
A baron's child to beguile, O, it were an accursed
deed; and that she should mate with an outlaw,
Almighty God forbid It were better for the poor
squire to make for the forest alone, than to have
it said that he had so foully betrayed thee.
Whatso hap, I shall never upbraid thee with
such a thing ; but if thou goest, and so forsakest
me, then shall I think that thou wast a traitor unto
me, and I shall in no long space render up my
breath.
If ye went, ye would rue. For I have already
in the forest a maid fairer than thee, and because

THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 24. I
one would not endure the other, there should be
strife, and I desire peace.
Even though that were so, my heart would still
be thine, and to thy paramour I would be a hand-
maid; nay, if thou haddest even a hundred, I
would crave to be one among them.
My own dear heart, now hast thou well and fully
approved thyself to be true and steadfast to me
as never maid or wife was before. The case is
not as I feigned it to be, when I sought to try
thee. Pity indeed it were that such an one should
suffer farther distress | Let it pass, whatever I said
to thee when I began. I have done no trespass, nor
is there need that I should to the greenwood go.
These tidings make me gladder than if I were
crowned a queen. But, alas ! I trust that ye are not
playing with me, as ye did afore ; for then my heart
would break indeed.
Fear not; I tell thee truth : and as thou hast
a baron to thy sire, understand that I, who shall
presently go about to seek thee in marriage of
thy father, had an earl, who is now with God,
to mine, and that with all my broad lands in West-
moreland I shall endow the Nut-brown Maid.

ROBIN HOOD.
[I. In dealing wit/, // is ancient and favouriſe
£radition, the editor /ćas for the first time made use
of such material on/y as appeared to him autº/en/ic,
and has discarded all the more recent theatrica/,
May-day, and Öa//ad-mongering suffers/ructures on
the origina/ group and sequence of incidenſ. A'ison
and after /kimº Guách, in an even /a/ger measure,
/ave swo//en. Zhe Özz/3 of their respective ſºutó/ications
ôy the indiscriminate admission of every Scraft, good,
ãad and indifferent, bearing the name of the ouſ/aw,
where there was frequent/y no actual re/affons/ºi/ to
Žis persona/ /ćistory, and have conseſ/?ten//y assisted
in imparéing an erroneous conception of the few
Ánown ſacás to Z/ºe Zºng/isſ, reader. A'itson was by
far áže Öełżer critic of the two, öztá áže information
ał żis disposa/ was såſ/ more imperfect than ours,
and he laboured under the initia/ mistake of //acing
the Aero of Barnsdale too early, and of attributing:
to him associates and eaſº/oiás wit/, whom and w/ic/.
/*e could have had moſ/ºing to do.
The researches of the A’ev. /ose//, //under, and
the critical labours of 7%0mas Wright and others,
have contributed very important/y to rectify our view
and estimate of this ſºme and imperis/aff/e episode,
and it is difficult to understand how any rea/ service
is dome by Žersistence in eachióiting //e few genuine

242
ROBIN HOOD. 243
remains, in this case, encumbered and disſigured by
discordant ſiterary interpolations and after-growths.
7%e /rue ſoundațion for a narrative of the trans-
miſſed incidents in Že career of Æočin is the “Zittle
Gesſ of Æoffin Złood,” a piece Zoo weſ/ Amozwn to
require further description ; and there are certain
auxiliary ſights, whicſ, permit us to amp/ify the
somewhat scandy record suff//ied by Zhał Żrecious
7:e/ic, in Že shape of a handful of separate ba//ad's
preserved in MS. and/rint. Such are the “Tale of
Aobin Hood” from the Cambridge M.S., “A'oôin
A/ood and Guy of Gisãorne,” and “A'oôin Hood and
the Požer.” A // //ese, especia//y :/e first-named,
are very ſau//y and Zreacherous, Öztá áže prose feat
w/ic/, occurs Óe/ow may 6e acceſſed as a care/u/ and
fairly complete embodiment of all that can be treated
as of guasi-Öiographica/ va/ºte. Æven // is se/ected
i matter has required a great amount of rearrange-
ment. In the origina/ versions &/ºe sequence of events
Žs often evident/y erroneous and confused, and, for
£nstance, the effic of Z/e “A night,” which forms //e
introductory scene in the “Zić/e Gest,” is improper/y
placed before those (a//ad's whicſ, describe the earlies#
meeting Öeſween Æočin and /ºis two associates, Ziffſe
/o/m and the Curtal Friar.
7%e ſirst portion of Že Öa//ad of Že “A”ſter” is
doubtless ancient and genuine; but the central feature
in the ſaffer /a/ is common to Z/e anterior story of
“//ereward Že Saron.” Zºe notion is borrowed by
AE’eeſe, in Žis //ay of “Adward /.” (1593), and in his
case it was evident/y a reco//ec/ion of a 6a//ad mozy,
no longer Ánown in frin/, and by the merest accident
| transmiſſed to us in an uniyale /l/S.










244 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Of “ Guy of Gisborne" also it is difficult to doubt
that there was, at one Žeriod, a printed text of very
early date, since it is more /i/e/y f/a/ /Jumbar, who
died about 1515, was indeóted for his Ánowledge to a
7 ecord in type rather than to a tradition or a M.S.
Aſ fºresent we mere/y Ánow Guy from a sing/e cir-
cºmestance in his a//arent emp/oyment áy &/ºe S/heriff
of Yorkshire to capture Æoffin. But, according ſo
ZOumdar, he was himse/f a person of simi/ar stam/,
and fossió/y it was a case of setting a £/ºief £o catc/.
a thieſ.
A point which may be wor// notice, by the way,
a/#/ough it is perhaps to/erað/y oôvious, is that in the
course of the fo//owing story, not on/y the sheriff of
AVotting/ams/ºire, but of Yorkshire, f/ays a part.
/n the Öa//ad of “Guy of Gisóorne,” whic/, /ies in
AEarnsdale, Guy is in fact a scout, employed Öy the
sheriff to tracá Ročin, and obtain a clew to Ais
whereabouts; and of course the functionary for one
county would have no jurisdiction in another.
In the inter/ude of the “Four Elements (1519),”
and again in Oda//'s translation of the A/o////egms
of Ærasmus (1542), is cited a piece entitled or com-
mencing, “As ſºočin Hood in Barnsdale stood’;
Žis is not aff/resent Ánown as a separate &roads/eet
Aut it may weſ/ &e identical with the tale of “A'oôm
Aſood and Že Ánight,” with which the “Zittle Gesä”
oftems, &ut which aſ! #4e evidence conduces to reſer to
a ſafez stage in Že /ăſe of Æočin. ---
As regards the pieces affiliated on the legend, such
as the “AVoôle Fisherman,” the “Tinker,” the “Sheff-
Aerd,” the “Forester,” and others, while there aft/ears
Žo be no authority for associating them wit/, /ēoffin,


ROBIN HOOL). 245
Z/ey re/resent the ever-varying succession of adven-
Żures and incidents to w/ic/, //e career of an out/aw
was often , and we have in 4/ese stories circumstances
which, if they did not /a//em to him or /ćis comrades,
may ſave Óeſa//en of/hers simi/ar/y situated, wit/.
w/ºose names it would ſave been ſess profitable to con-
mecſ &Aem. Aſ &/ºe same Zimze some apparent/y genuine
/roductions, /ö/ºe “A'o6 in //ood and the Potter" and
“A’oôān Āſood and A1//en-a-/Da/e,” are /iaô/e to the
suspicion of Čeing paré/y indebted to eacăsâng tradi-
£ions of ear/ier adventurers, //ereward //e Saaºon
and offers ; and we aft/re/end Zhe second Žart of
//e “A”offer”—a Barnsdale story—in Guách, to be as
zºnaut/en/ic as it is to/a//y impročač/e, while “A'oôān
A/ood's Goſden Prize,” Zhough perhaps genuine, is, so
far as we can see, mere/y an altered feat of the “7 wo
A/acA: ///ozz/s' 272 //e “Gesſ.”
2. //unter was, we believe, the earliest to ſix wiłſ.
a greater air of probability &/ºe period to which
A'offin Hood óe/onged. Our older antiquaries had
Öeen conſenſ, as a rule, to accepá čhe Öa//ad-mongers'
vague motion //a/ /*e /ived in the days of the Cru-
sades and A'ic/ard of the Zion //eará, and #47s Zoose
Z/eory responded to the popular conceit */ał że zwas
as rea/ a personage as A'offin Good/e//ow. Aſe was
Żołg//, again, Öy many to be an abstraction or Ö/e,
around w/ic/, //e professiona/ cafferers for the Žuć/ic
entertainment /ad coſ/ected a Čody of mainstreſsy;
and even his very name, which we now Amozy to have
Öeen usua/ enough, was regarded as often to douffé
and conjecture. Yet with al/ this scepticism &/ºere
was a certain circumstanția/úy, which went so far
as to conſer on ſºme a Ziſſe, to provide him wit/; d.


246 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
7.06ſe wife, and to Čestow on his resting-//ace a dated
eftitaff/.
Zn rejecting those portions of the A'offin Hood
ða/ads which we judge to be destitute of authority,
and to be no more than /iterary compilations of a
Zaſer period written for the sta//s, we fo//ow //e
example of the restorer, who removes //e modern
//asſer from old ca//hedra/ waſ/s, or /ćim who, äemea//
a wort/.../ess mediaeval fearſ, ārings to ſight a lost or
rare classic. AEven those pieces to which we have
had recourse, such as the “Zittle Gest” and “A'oôin
Aſood and the Potter,” while they are substantia//y
of the highest curiosity and importance, were clearly
#/he work of 7//iterate scribes, and // is is more pre-
dicaäſe of the A/S.S. even Zhan of the Žºržnáed maſter.
A/r. //under / as eachióited a sketc/, of the out/aw's
/.../e, of whic/ some fortions will &e ſound incor-
Żorated with the version which we ??-int of the story.
That accom//isſed and distinguished scholar arrives
ał żhe conclusion that ſºoô77, Aſood was in the service
of one of the defendents of the Æarſ of Zancaster—
Żroðað/y an archer—at the Battle of Boroughöridge,
ſought in March, 1323; and #4at suðsequent/y to that
disastrous event he with others sought refuge in the
extensive wood's in the neighöourhood of Wakefield,
where persons of his name #en /ived, and to which
he doué//ess Aimself Čeſonged. He was a man fo/er-
ač/y advanced in /i/e at #/...s £ime, and was married to
one Matilda-not the Zord Fitzwa//en's daughter, but
an individual w/ºose name occurs in a contemporary
document. 7%e //oods, prior to the Zoss of the
Zancastrian cause at Åoroughöridge, aft/ear to have
&een persons àe/ongºing to 4/ºe yeoman class, and to

ROBIN HOOD. 247
Åave been weſ/ connected, especia//y if it be the case
Z/a/ //ey claimed near consanguinity wit/, //e /De
Sayntons, who were Zeman/s under //e Crown in
capite of the sma// Honours of Pom/efracá and 7 icó-
Ai//, and of whom a female member, Æ/İza/e//, de
Staymſon, was prioress of Á77%/ees.
3. The prevailing idea about A'offin Hood is that
Že spen? //e w/o/e of /ºis adu// /ăſe under Z/e green-
wood free, and on/y reſºred to a mummery when Æe
zzeeded in / is /asſ moments medica/ assisſance and
the services of a nurse. Æuſ such a view seems to
àe who/ſy inconsistent wit/, //e truth. Æoffin passed
Åis yout/, and early man/ood at or near Wakefield
£n peaceful offscurity wit/, / is family or /ćis wife,
and was already a meida/e-aged £erson when he
sought Z/e new ſome, where Ais worst enemy was
“winter and rough weather.” A/or is it to be
supposed that he remained steadfast to one place
during the period of Žis retirement from society.
Aſe shifted his quarters, as we know, from Barns-
da/e (near Wakefield) to P/umpſon in the same
county and to Sherwood in AVoſţīnghamshire, either
from A^e /ove of change or for greater seczºrity and
concea/ment. For to /ºis origina/ de/ºnguency as an
adherent of Żhe Zar/ of Zancaster or as Zhe ſeſſe-
£rator of some such act of violence as drove young
Game/yn and Adam Spencer fo Zºe wood in Chaucer’s
Zaſe, Æe Öy / is new course of /č/e added that of a
poacher and freeóooter, and (above both) a despoiler
of £/he hierarchy, and wit/, //e assistance of a sma//
ôand of faithful confederates, which from time to
time increased in numóe?", /*e succeeded for a season
not on/y in eſºlding fursuit, Özló in maintaining /ī/2-
248 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Se/f and /ºis fo//owers in comparative ease, and in
re/ieving the needy.
7%e space occupied by the effic in its pure state
and by the forest /iſe of Æoffin is narrowed by Mr.
Aſunder to about twenty months. We are disposed
to incur #/e risk of gues/ioning such a view, inas-
much as the earliest g/impse gained of Zhe Aero
finds /ºi/2 in possession of a ſimiſed re/imate, it is
true, but of a ſu// Areasury and of every evidence
of power and prosperićy, and 4/ke “Gesä” express/y
states that ſhe led a Zife in the wood's “Zwo and
twenty years"; nor is it for a moment to be taken
for granted! //a/ #/e existing /i/erary records are
com//eſe or consecutive. Our impression is thał Że
Aſſaſſ/e of Boroughöridge in 1323 occurred long suff-
sequent/y to the adoption Öy Æočin of a sec/uded and
/aw/ess existence, and that that evenſ mere/y con-
Żriðuted to strengthen his reso/uſſion and to Sweſ/
#/ºe ranks of his adherents. // goes without saying
Žat Barnsda/e, which we clear/y aft/re/end to have
ôeen the first and for some time so/e ſie/al of /, is
activity, was under any supposition the ſaunt of
dangerous characters Óefore / is day, and we can
Żroduce festimony to estab/is/, /a/ in 4/ºe /ast year
of Ædward /. that ſºard of £/he road from Scotland
to 4/ºe nor//, was motorious/y and specia//y insecure.
Zá may moč 6e a/Čogether a ſuffi/e speculation to
Zn/uire wheſ/her &/ºe exceptiona/ /recautions adopted
to protecá /ī/e and Żºrożerſy in 1307 were directed
against Æočin Hood' or against anterior and inde-
pendent enemies to the Aing's peace, when taking
Öacá ázwenty-two years from 1325, #/e refuted date
of Žis decease, ózºng's us to 1303. Zºltá we owe,


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25O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
of the story, and //a/ //e menſion in “A”;ers P/ough-
man" is due to achievements spread over a much
/onger Žeriod.
4. Onder any circumstances whatever, A'offin //ood
/*as accom//ished #/e most signa/ £rium//, whic/, /as
ever ſa//en to the Zof of an AEmg/ishman. By virtue
of unique attributes and under very extraordinary
conditions /he has earned an imperishable name, one
which is part of our history and our birt/right.
Two centuries and a /a/f after the composition of
“Piers Ploughman,” a verse-writer of the reign of
/ames /-//rayſon in his “Poſyo/öion”—sings :
“In this our spacious isle / think there is not one
Auf he hath heard some talk of him and Zittle /o/in,
And to Z/ie end of time the ſales shal/ me'er be done
Of Scarlock, George a Green, and Much the miſler's son ;
Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made
In praise of Æobin Hood, his outlaws and their trade.”
And here we are, aſ a disſance of 550 years from
the effocſ%, wiłż że Öa//ad-/ero constant/y in our
thoughts and on our /i/s. Aſe went to his grave
toward the close of Ædward of Carnarvon's reign
without a suspicion &/a/ /ºis country would care for
Aïs reputation as dear/y as for the memory of Magna
Charta, of which he was a practical exponent and
supporter. For in an age
“When those may take who have the power,
And those may keep who can,”
he 2//e/d #/e floor man against the ſyrannica/ or
alsurious oft/ressor. He was a Żolitica/ /e7e/ic, and
Žn a sense a re/igious one, since he did not allow / is
Žious sentiments to 6/ind him to the abuses of the
yet unreformed C/ºrcſ, and #/e overóearing insolence







ROBIN HOOD. 25 I
of the / igher ecclesiastics. But his eatraordinary
ſame came to him unsoughſ, for had it not been for
Z/e ruin and froscription of /, is ſame?/y and friends,
Æe might ſave continued ſo 4/ºe Zast a Wakefield
yeoman, and have been buried wit/, / is fathers. The
force of circumstances /ed him, ſo re/a/iate for / is out-
/awry &y becoming a maker of history, and Öy inducing
successive generations to exhaust their ingenuity in
se///ºng / is Žersona/ity and / is period.
The nearness of many of Že adventures of Æočin
Aſood and /ºis comrades to the Scotis/: Öorder might
account for £/e ear/y ſoftuſarity of the Öa//ad's in
AVoráſ, Britain, and for Že “Zi///e Gest” being
among the first productions of Že parent AEdinburg/,
Żress in 1508, aftart from the sympathy of the
countrymen of Wa//ace with the poſitica/ /rinciples
/e/a/ by Æoôān, for he was not so much an opponent
of Z/e Church as of the hierarchy, not so much of
monarchica/ government as of feuda/ offtression and
7-apacity. -
As it is, the edition of the “Ziff/e Gest” ſuff-
/is/hed in Scot/and may or may not be anterior to
that Öy Wymāym de Worde. But it is guite possible
that the Zafter printer executed one before his re-
mova/ from Westminster to Fleet Street in 1502.
So many of £/ºese more ancient typograft/ſca/ monit-
men's ſave ſerished or aſ /east so far failed to come
to /*g//, /usá as #4e Scočis/. edition of “Sir AEg/amour
of Artois” in 1508 aſ present fakes precedence of
//e AEmg/is/-/rinted ſetts, and yet most froðað/y was
taken from one.
// in his poſitical sentiments and principles /ēoffin
/eamed in the direction of socia/ism, it musá áe re-

252 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENIDS.
membered that it was a very different state of Żarties,
of zwhich he was a witness and contemporary, from
Z/af which aſ fºresent Aas to rec/ºon wit/, //e socia/s/
as a ſºroff/emº and a danger. 7%e /3arnsdale outſ/aw
saw Óefore his eyes on/y ſwo main orders or ranks of
/iſe, the patricians and//effeians. The great Middle
C/ass, whic/, / as made Zºng/and what it is, and which
can alone maintain its in our position as a Słaże,
could be ſºard/y yet said to exist as an active /o/ifica/
factor; and A'offin ſaid down for himself //e rule and
maa time, not &/a/ aſ were equa//y entitled to share //e
national lands and wealth, but that the circumstances
justifted ſºme in Aoſding the Öa/ance between those who
were too ricſ, and #/.ose who were too poor. He was
an unpar/iamentary redistriðuter.
The impotence of the civil authority in A'offin's
days is strong/y exemp/ifted by //e impunity whic/.
our hero enjoyed during his term of sojourn in
AEarnsda/e and elsewhere, and Öy the advantages
w/ic/, /*e gained in his occasiona/ encounters wiłż żhe
7,27tnicipa/ and even roya/powers. 7%e vast, uninclosed
areas of wood/and, #/e absence of an organized /o/ice,
and Že popular sympathy, had much to do wit/, //e
success of the out/aw in evading defection and Čaffling
Żursuit. -
5. We have São/en of the soft/histication of the story
Öy //e Załe, writers for Že popular faste, where a
Žežečua/ demand for move//ies creaſed the necessity
for c/anging //e venue, and em/a/ging //e true scope
of the Story. Zł is even easy to see /ow characters
/ºe //e AE’ºnzzer of Wa/e/ie/a/ and Adam /3e/ were
introduced into the idy//ic drama as contemporaries
and coadjutors of Æoffin, they were both of the same
-
--



ROBIN HOOD. 25T
neighöourhood and Zhe same re/igion, and even an
educated man such as the author of the “Poſyo/öion "
zºnsus/ecting/y (un/ess it was by poetica/ /icence)
makes them members of the band.
ZŽ is not very sur/rising, Aowever, to find in the
/iterature of Z/e seventeen//, and eighteent/ centuries
such a ſat and uncritical treatment of the suðject,
when we cannoë ſeruse wiłż care the compositions so
much nearer the events described without detecting
Žnconsistencies and oversights. 7%e “Zittle Gest"
#se//, /roduced in the reign of //enry V//., asås
re-editing, before it is ca/ab/e of Öeing used as part
of a fair/y chromo/ogica/ and au//en/ic narrative.
The ſºoãin Hood cycle of Ča//ad's presents the
aspect of having furnished the parent-stocé, whence
the authors of a// the other effusions of the Áind, and
primarily “Adam Bel,” derived their inspiration
and materia/. For several of these pieces outside the
actua/ AEarnsdale or Sherwood series possess a simi-
Zarity of feature and treatment, and, a/#/bough other
Żarts of the country were densely wooded at that
7-emote effocſ%, and afforded equal scope for the 2//us-
tration of forest-ſife and scenery, it is noticeable that
(wit/, one or two exceptions) the whoſe of this family
of Zegends is associated with the nort/, of Æng/and
and with Scot/and. Aſ we may compare sma// things
with great, we are ſer/afts entić/ed to presume that
out of the few incidents which the rea//y ancient
ôa//ads in Żrint or /l/S. embrace, the extensive co//ec-
£ion in our hand's gradua/y developed itse//, /ust as
the “Z/iad” or the “Odyssey” may have grown to
what we see theme from s/ender prima stamina or
gé????.S.

ſ S4 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
The norma/ A'oôin Hood &al/ad, written for the -
meridian of the stal/s, conveys the impression of
/aving proceeded, if not from the same Žem, from the
same type of composer. Zá is couched in a £rite and
monoſonous // raseology, neither in Áeeping wit/, //e
topic nor wit/, //e period, and in some instances one
as manifest/y an evo/uſion from another, wit/; varia-
£ions for Z/e nonce.
Among the pieces inserted in their collections by
Aºitson and Guácſ, as possibly connected with this
group, we confess Z/ał we discern moſ/ºing to the
Żużose. The story of “A'offin and Gandeſyn" is
mere/y some passage in the careers of two foresters,
w/ºo, /i/ºe /čočin Hood, were poachers of the Aing's
deer, and the name of one of Z/e individuals /as Óeen
wrong/y given as A'o6 in Zy//, because the Stanzas
commence with 4/ºe word's “A'oôān Zy//, in greenwood
ôounden,” the second word &eing not a proper moun,
Öztá a common veró, i.e. “Ziefſ.”
Zá is not our à/ame if ſ/he reader finds &/ºe /egend,
as we give it, s/orn of some of its ſafer eacrescences.
We have endeavoured to give care/u/ consideration
to a////e Öa//ad's eactanț; 6% we have ſound iſ ima-
Žerative to reject a very sensióſe proportion as of
mo authority and as mere secondary structures, and,
after all, our chief fear is that we have been perhaps
Zoo indu/gent to one or two fiedes.
When we hear in 4/ºe &a//ad's of Žis remova/s from
one //ace to anoážer aſ a considerað/e disſance, we
must take into account #e very res/ricted faci/i/ies
for traveſ/ing in the fourteen// century and //e
aggravated difficulty whicſ, would present itself in
the case of a man who was outside //e ſale of the
.
ROBIN HOOD. 255
/aw, and on whose /*ead a price was 7:04 atm/reguenz/y
set. Migrations from Yorkshire southward could
only be accomplished by night or in disguise, and it
was impractica/e for the out/aws to £ransfer Zhemg-
se/ves to points many days' journey aparé without
great caution, and even Zhen aſ serious risé, as Zhey
would be necessari/y divided and /iable to defection at
/a/ting-stages. We may, in fact, take it for granted
that an exodus from Barnsdale or Sherwood was
not undertaken Öefore one of £/ºose retreats /ºad grown
zºntenað/e for the time.
~ It may striæe some as one of those tasks which
are &etter Zeff a/one, Čač of proving almosé Öeyond
doubt who Á'offin Hood was, when he ſourished, and
how prosaica//y his fortunes ended; it may be treated
4 as a piece of indiscreeſ suffererogation to ſe// /ozy
such a man, toward the close, ſailing in Aea///, and
strength, accepted service under the Crown, and how,
after a few mont/s, he was compelled to seek medica/
or surgical aid in the priory, of whicſ, a relative was
/ady sufferior, and where he died from over-ø/eeding
through the treachezy, it is a//eged, of Sir Aºoger of
ZDoncaster, a £7 fest, may-àe, who had been one of Ais
invo/untary guests in Barnsdale formerly.
6, 7%e Aiséozy of this “Zięż/e Gest” seems to be
that it was formed into a connected narrative out
of a certain numóer of separate Zegend's in Al/S, or
in oral reco//ection Öy a mort/-countryman, who was
| conversant with the haunts of the outlaw on the
outskirts of Wakefield and in the vicinage of the
Wa//ing Streeſ, and who asserted his editoria/
fºreſensions à), inserting Aere and Žere a few intro-
ductory or connecting stanzas. 7%e narrative aſ Ae








256 FEUDAL AND FOREST I,EGENDS.
very outset represents the hero as Aaróouring a deadly
resentment against the sheriff of AVoſţīng/am, so
f/a/ aſ the point where the tale offens we are bound
ſo inſer &/a/ much / as /d//ened wiłżouá /eaving
any vestige behind, and //a/ ?/e “Zi///e Gesſ” is a
gar/and, beginning abrup//y, and //unging us in
medias res. But the starting-point of the adventures
must sure/y have been in Barnsdale, not in Sher-
wood, and al//ough Æoôin is usua//y considered a
AVoſţīnghamshire celebrity, whatever glory after-
£ains to him is more properly a Yorkshire inheri-
ſance; for it was thence he sprang, and there, at
Wažefte/d or in Barnsdale and P/umpton, that he
spent the greater part of a not very prolonged /ăſe.
7%e specia/ interest and va/ue of the “Zić//e
Gest” are manifold. /ć suftſ/ies us with items of
information or portions of the effic now/ere eſse
Żreserved, and not on/y s/hezws the popular view of
the suffect, so far as it goes (for it is not exhaustive),
nearly four ſºundred years ago, when ora/ &radition
was capable of suff//ying a writer with a fair/y
genuine conception and reporá, 6% preserves, so far
as the eacºgencies of metre and space a//owed, //e
/anguage of A/S.S. versions of stiſ/ older date, ſo
which the editor of the “Gest” had recourse, and of
w/ic/ ſºagmentary 7 emains on/y aſ fºresent survive.
l/e aſso perceive Zał aſ the end of the ſifteenſ/.
century the out/aw was associated wit/. A/ot/img/ame,
7 after than wit/, /3arnsdale or P/umpſon.
7%e editor of the “Gest” not unnatura//y and not
injudicious/y (from his immediate point of view)
p/aced the incident of Že “A might” in the ſore-
ground, Öuá we see reason to differ from f/a/
ROBIN HOOD. 257
\ arrangement, as the adventure was clearly one Öe-
ſonging to a more advanced effocſ% in our hero's career
as an outlaw.
The “Gest” is the sole attempt, which we are at
Żresent aware of Żossessing, aſ a consecutive relation ;
ôut it is, as may be readily £erceived, imperfect in
... many respects. “A Zale of Æoàin Hood,” printed
Öy Guácſ, from the unique, but incomplete, Camóridge
A/S., is simp/y the AVoſţīngham effisode, emóracing
the capture of Æočin and his Aeroic rescue Öy /o/ºn.
Zá 0&ious/y aftertains to the later Žeriod of the effic,
when Æoffin was a familiar figure at AVoſţīnghame
as well as at Wa/Čeſle/d, and when / is renown,
moreover, had so strong/y impressed the King, Zhat
/ºis aftermost £/ought, when he heard of his defen-
Žion in the ſands of the sheriff, was, not his punis/-
ment, Öztá a supreme desire to see so famous a
character.
Æoffin's career affears to have commenced, as it
closed, in Yorks/ºire. The middle fortion is chieſ/y
occupied by scenes ſaid at AVoſţīngham or in S/her-
wood. 7%ere the closer provinzićy to an active
eaecutive jurisdiction in the Žerson of the Sãeriff
of AVoſţīngham &rought the outlaw most frequent/y
in Žeri/ of his ſióerſy and /ăſe; and from Z/ºe stress
which he is traditiona//y alleged to have ſaid on
unrelated hostility to the sheriff, we are froëably
justifted in concluding that there was some early
grudge in that guarter which Æočin mever ſorgave.
If we accept the view of Mr. Hunter in regard
to the chronology and ſaffitat of Æočin Hood as
Özoad/y correct, we find ourse/ves in a Żosition,
after the ſapse of a// the years Óetween the first
A. L. - S

258 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
77tarter of the fourteenth and //e last 7uarter of
Že nineteen// century, Zo ſix with remarkað/e exac-
Žižude Zhe area and radius of his movements, so far
as Z/e 4/eatre of Žis ear/iest eaſ/oi/s is concerned
—Barnsdale and its environs. He ſay, in ſacá, -
wiłżin an easy distance of that portion of the
JWał/ing Street which ran through Barnsdale, and
Že relied for //under on the trave/ling parties whicſ.
made #4 is highway their route from Zinco/us/ºire
to Yorkshire; and the deep forest on all sides
furnished to men familiar with every yard of
ground a secure amzóus/, and concealment. The
compiler of the “Zittle Gest,” or the author of the
&a//ad of the “A night,” even ſets us understand //at
#/.e point on the Wałſing Street nearest to the out-
/azy's rude ſome in the foresá was once Ánown as
Z/e “Say/es,” although no such //ace is at fºresent
distinguis/aff/e. 7%e independent evidence of Że
narrator imparts a strange rea/ity to #e incident
in the “Gest" where Zittle /o/n and two others
are des/a/c/ed Öy their master to Zoo.4 out for a
wictim, who proves to be //he distressed Ánight, and
to whoſe #46 out/aw, instead of roöðing ſºme, Zends
a large sum of money to save his fro/erty from
for ſeizure. It must have been something more than
an unintentional or unconscious coincidence, f/a/ ?/e
mom/s are made to present Z/ºemselves just ał Że
precise juncture w/ºem A'offin has assisted a layman
to free himself from the clutches of the Church, and
can wiłż a certain degree of consistency aft/roßziałe
the treasure ſound in the Zuggage of Že ecclesiastics
to reimburse himself, so that my Zord abòod is
virtually satisfied at the expense of his own order,

ROBIN HOOD. 259
and what is in eaccess is generous/y handed to the
Amight in return for his thoughtful fºresent of bows
and arrows.
We have main/y adhered to #/he sequence of events
as it offers itself in the old account. But we must
proceed to sitómit a conjecture, which strikes us as
of sufficient force to justify adoption, that f/e meet-
ſing with the two monks and that with the Anight
have been transposed, as the possession of so large
a sum, as even four Aundred gold crowns was un-
/i/Ée/y, in the absence of some unusual piece of good
fortune immediate/y fºrecedent, and // is may also
he// to explain the profusion of viand's Seá čefore
| Sir Richard. The outlaws had had a good time.
We discern in Sir A'ichard at the Zee or (Aſ-
Zee) a man of honourable character and unusual/y
/iberal sympathies, whose secular leaning was natu-
za//y more pronounced after his bitter eaſerience of
the cupidity and uncharitaſ/eness of the abòot of St.
N. Mary's. He //ayed a ſazardous faré in those days
of clerica/ ascendency and despoéism, and we are far
from being perfect/y acquainted with the duration
and extent of /ais relations wit/, /ēočin Hood, while
of Žis uſ/imate ſafe we seem to be so far ignoraná. -
A/r. Hunter seems to creaſe an zºnnecessary diffi-
culty, in treating the episode of the “A might” by -
concluding or fresuming that his residence was in
Yorés/ºire, where Æoffin and he first met. But he
was then merely on his way to York to negotiate
an extension of grace from the aâbot of St. Mary's.
After Že repulse and Žursuit of Že outlaws at
AVoſţīngham on #/e occasion of the second archery
meeting, Æoôān and / is men take she//er in #4e castle




26O PEUIDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
of a Knight, who is eafºress/y said in Že Öal/adºpoem
to be the same whom ſºočin had laid under such
weighty off/igations, and who evident/y had a seat
near AVoſţīngham. The writer of the Öa//ad calls it
C//e7sda/e, which may have been 4/ºe name of //e Aouse
or the locality. But Mr. Hunter f/in/s the ballad
wrong, &ecause a person of equestrian raná was not
Zięe/y to possess two mansions in different counties.
7%e fact is, that we do not know that he did, and
the evidence is in favour of his abode being near
AVožingham.
It is improbable that the yeomen had such familiar
relations wiłż żwo personages of Zhe same raná.
The “Zittle Gest,” drawn up from still earlier
2ecords, pronounces the owner of the place near
AVoſţīngham to be identical with the recipient of
A'o6 in Hood's bounty. 7%e Áing waits £7// /e
7 eaches that town, or at ſeasá ážat county, before
/*e dec/azes S27 A'ze/aza's estates 2&ndez attazzalez.
After his evacuation of his castle, the Ánight retires
into SAerwood, and is there ſardoned by Ædward.
7%e w/o/e venue, eaceft £/ºe casual meeting in
Aarnsdale, is within a radius of AVoſţīngham.
7. There is another £oint dependent on this precise
/oca/İzation of a part of the tale. As early as 1307
AEarnsdale already enjoyed, we perceive, the repute
of Öeing a dangerous stage in the journey to the
south, for we are fo/d that w/ºem #/ºree dignitaries
of the Scotisſ Church were on their way to Win-
chester under a roya/ escort, Zhat escort differed
from Žime to time according to circumstances, Öztá
when they arrived at Pontefracá, on the com/?nes of
AEarnsdale, it was raised to the maximum of twenty



ROBIN HOOD. 26 I
archers. The co-eval record says that this was
“Żropter Barnsdale.” But if a score of dowmen
was accounted an adequate protection for such an
exa//ed party, we matura//y furn our #/oughts to the
force whic/, /čočin Hood is averred in Öa//ad-lore
ſo have ſºad constan//y at his command, and which
could have readily overwhelmed the guard at its
ſu//est streng//. 7%ere is no difficulty in Čelieving
that the out/aws fluctuated in number according
to circumstances or requirements; in the commencing
sections of Że “Zittle Gest” not more than four
aftear. Zo ca/cat/afe ày &/ºe score was at once a
common fractice and a common Åind of Ayferóole,
and we must confess ourselves incredulous as to the
existence of a body of one ſºundred and twenty or
even one ſºundred and forty armed and desferaſe
men, where their cardina/ offſecć and /o/icy were to
avoid notice, and to suft/y their deficiency in force
by their fact, ſide/ity, and intimacy with the ground;
nor show/d it be over/ooßed that they were principa//y
Žersons of a raná sufferior to the common soldier.
AWeveráže/ess, on S^ecia/ occasions, it is guite fos-
sió/e 4/aff ſočin Hood could ra/ly together all the
stout ſe/lows within reach, and verify the five or
Seven score of song. As a ru/e, such a foſ/owing
might ſave Zºroved a source of actua/ weakness,
from its promeness to ſavour treason as well as
Žuć/icity ; and it is woráž noting that throughout
the story #Aere is no /ºint of Četraya/ or disſoya/y
Öeyond one or £wo Zić/e Örushes between Æoffin and
his rather irascióſe ſieutenant.
One word more. 7%e entry above 7uoted: Öe/ongs
to 1307, an ear/y stage in the development of the

262 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
town to pay his devotions in the church of Our Zady
machinery by which Æočin set Aimself against the
/aw; and we ſind that, later on, when the high
cellarer of St. Mary's passed through Barnsdale, ſº
Žis escort was raised to ſifty-ſwo, and even that
7twmöer was flota/y inadequate to protect Aime.
Our conclusion, 2% on the whoſe, is Z/a/ // e norma/
following of Æočin limited itself to Zittle /o/n and
Aalf a dozen others, and that when, 7% on information
zeceived, any remarkað/e emergency was eaftected,
additiona/forces were co//ected by an aunderstood and
accepted principle of summons—not by bugle (for
that was merely a ra//ying ca//), Öut Öy message. It
7s against froðaðility, as it would have been against
fo/icy and /rudence, f/at a Zazge Öody of men, not
amenable to the law, should have been constanț/y
mustered in one spot or centre.
7%e situation of the out/aw in ſhe wood/and in
those ear/y days was of necessity ſess isolated than
we may sometimes &e affé to suff/ose. For / is clothing,
a fortion of his diet, his tools and weapons, medical
and surgical assistance, he was Órought into ſerio-
dical contact with the bordering towns or villages, of
whose inhabitants / e not seldom enjoyed the private -
sympathy; the present of Öows and arrows from Sir /
Aichard at the Zee was mere/y an exceptional wind-
fa//; and we see that Æobin Zimself and /o/m, if
not others, ventured into AVož/img/ama, and occasiona//y
also into Wakefield, on urgent or special occasions.
A'očin had a wife, and possib/y children, and some
of his comrades may have been similar/y//aced; and
in one instance we see that he proceeded to the county
-º
-|
there. As a Catholic, he natura//y missed the

ROBIN HOOD. 263
services frescribed by his ritua/; and #/.e celeóraſſion
of prayers or graces before mea/s by Friar 7 uck or
otherwise, if it was a reaſily, as affirmed in Z/e
“Gesſ,” made indifferent amend's for the privation.
We hear /ī///e, indeed, of the friar beyond the
menſion of /ºis first encozºnfer wiłż A'offin and acces-
sion to #e Zaráy, and it is on/y by imp/ication &/ºat
we assign to ſºme 4/e function of Żries/-c/a//ain. Aſe
makes a more frominent ſigure in Z/e //ays and
“A”oſyo/öion "; /*e does not occur by name in Z/e
“Ges?”; and it is possib/e 4/af Ae did noč ſong sur-
wive, or that he seceded.
7%e “Gest” makes Æoffin &uild a chapel in Barns-
da/e, which is not so zºn/iće/y; it may have Óeen aſt
– ineaffensive wooden structure, simi/ar in aftearance
to many still visióſe in primitive localities; and the
officiating friest, if not ZºucA, was ſer/afts some not
too fastidious priest at a modest stipend or a character
of the type fourtrayed in the “Aing and the
Aſermit.”
Z72 more or /ess immediate comme.tion with this
fortion of £/e suffect, it may be worſ/, while to refer
to a sermoſt of £4e fourteent/ century, that is to
say, 7ust affold the Zºoſ in Aſood era, Žreached Öy a
ºf arson who has been roëóed on the highway, and 70/40
mažes /ºis discourse an elogium on brigandage. He
7-eceives / is ſºrofferſy Öacá, and a go/al moč/e for /ćis
fee. Zºe adventure may, of course, have to re/ation-
shift, but the ſeriod accords, and the particulars are
characteristic.
There is one aspect of the forest Zife of a fºo-
scribed character such as A'o677. Hood, z0/ic/, /as
never ſer/affs Óeen much considered, and whic/.


264 FEUIDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
direct/y Óears nevert/e/ess on his day-by-day existence.
What, in s/orſ, was f/e nature of the shelter which
Že wood's could be made to afford, and, while it was
sufficient to protect from f/he weather, could be wit/-
out serious trouſ/e reſº/aced at different points? The
/ºu/ or cabin of £/ºe Keeffer might be a permanent struc-
£2.7°, ſhowever /iu/zó/e and /i/zifed, Öztá //e out/aw
was not entit/ed to Zook for /eng//ened sufferance, and
was at any momen? /iaôſe to #/e seizure of his effects
and the demo/iſſion of Ai’s retreat, even if he succeeded
Žn eluding persona//y :/e officers of the sheriff or the
soldiers of the Aing. The idea/picture of Robin and
Žis merry comrades under the greenwood shade, re-
gaſing on Venison and wine, and entertaining monarch
and fºre/a/e, / as often made its speculate on the scene .
in winter, in the drenching rain, in Zhe deep snow,
amid #/e wild /ºurricane—in the hour of sickness,
and in Z/e peri/ of deat/.
Arome a casua/a//usion, or so we co//ect #/at #/e
out/aws stored their venison, wine, aſe, and other
provision, if not their /a/i/iments, in caves, on/y
Ánown ſer/afts to themse/ves; after f/he accession of
Že sheriff of AVožing/a/2's coo/, //ey enjoyed the
o/ffortunity of having their food proper/y dressed;
and for fres/, wafer they resorted to the forest
streams, or perchance (when they were in Barnsdale)
to the weſ/w/ic/, stiſ/ &ears the outlaw's name, and
is sing/ed out by Mr. //under as probab/y a genuine
/in/, wit/, /&offin and his men.
We arrive at no definite authoritative clew on this
Žoint, since even in the early part of the “Zittle
Gesſ,” where Æoffin receives a guest at “the Zodge
door,” the eafºression is mere/y that of the editor of

- ROBIN HOOD. 265
the poem. Buł że incidence of the case bespeaks
frequent remova/s and transfers, and consequent/y a
Zemporary and ineaffensive description of refuge from
//e weat/aer, and store/house for provisions and effects.
We have on/y to f/row ourse/ves five or six centuries
Öack to rea/İze in our mind's vision tens of £/ousands
of unincſ/osed acres, where sma// structures could
Öe //aced out of Z/e common tracá, and practica//y
Žizzyższó/e ſo f/he 247:27.7/ſated.
A/or is even Z/ał Żrocess requisite, since at #/e
Żresent moment, in Z/e AVew Forest and elsewhere,
Žeen conversant wit/, aſ! #/*e infricacies of the denser
Žortions continue to reside years Zogeţáer in Żułs or
cabins constructed of Zimzóer and thatc/ ; and such
persons become hardened to the weather, and en-
amoured of the freedom, tiſ/ ?/ey are info/eramt of
an ordinary roof.
A snake-catcher in Z/ºis deſight/u/ region, who has
/ived here on sufferance the best part of his /īſe, Aas
an impediment in his utterance, which the local fo/
ascribe to his farce/-sna/Če mout/. -
8. The densely afforested condition of England and
Scot/and, Öoč/. during and ſong after the mediawa/
epoch, made possible a deſiance of the law w/ic/
would now be scarcely maintainable for a day or a
week (as Zºe case may be); and the strict and ſea/ous
%reservation of game, with the limited Ånowledge of
//antaſion, rendered siſwan /i/e, again, more secure
from the reluctance of the officers of the Crown to
destroy cover. Zºe forest fo/A-/ore or romance,
which we possess, was, Ziſſe everything eſse of £/e
, Áind, the product of favouring circumstances, whicſ,
came 7zever 7 ecºzzº. -


266 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
The men who ranged themselves round A'offin, and
shared /ºis fºr:vations, enjoyments, and Zrium/ſºs,
were sitc/, as the A'idings of Yorks/ºire, and the
moráž of Æng/and genera/y, are sé:// caftaff/e of Żro-
ducing : Zong-backed, Öroad-s/ou/a'ezed', faſ/ /eſ/ows,
who were a matc/, for al/ coºzers in musc/e and///uck,
and even “/#//e” /l/uc/, //e /l/7//e7's son, was moſt
Żmproðað/y, if deficient in Séature, compared ſo 4/ºe
rest, of Z/ºe /ēod ſoy &ui/a. 7%e men are yeſ on Z/e
ground; but the spirit and conditions ſave disaffeared.
As regard's Plumpſon Park—when the “Gesä”
was written and printed, the residence and froßerty
of a ſamzi/y of Že same name—it was in the P/an-
£agemed ſºme an often wood/and and a roya/ c/ace,
and doub//ess origina//y formed Žart of the great
forest of Ánaresóorough, of w/ºcſ% #/ºe Soſe remaint-
Žng #7 ace is, we believe, #e Sázay at Harrogate,
i.e. the //arrow Gate, or way, of that domain. 7%e
editor of #e “Gesä” ferºus it a park, Öecause / e Ánew
Žá as Satc/.
Zł S/ou/d Öe àozºne in mind, in considering #/e
remova/s of Že out/aw and Žis fo//owers from, one
Żołmż żo ano//e7, even of Że same part of £/ºe Áing-
dome, f/aff such changes were necessari/y in their case
accompanied by great risk and difficulty; and it is
Žere&y safe and guite eaftedient to endeavour, as
zve ſave now for the first time dome, to arrange in
c/aromo/ogica/ order, so far as may Óe, the series of
ôa//ads and £4e contents of £/ºe “Gest,” the resu//
being a far more intelligiöſe, and probably more
accurate, view of the story. -
After al/, /owever, there must Če much #e same
difference Četween the most realistic version now


ROBIN HOOD. 267
fossièſe and #/*e actual facts as #/here is between the
sun and its //otos//ere.
Auf after his órief service at courſ, perhaps about
Že end of 1323 or #e Öeginning of 1324, it was to
Aarnsda/e, 7zoá áo Sherwood, Z/a/ /*e reſºred to end!
/*is days. Zhere was his true patria, Žis native
//ace and air. -
7%e ſeculiar wildness and sec/usion of this district
Žn the fourteent/ century, even in comparison wit/.
Sherwood, is exemp/ifted by the apparent freedom?
from moles/a/ion whic/ #/ºe outlaws there enjoyed.
We do not hear of any incursions into it by the sheriff
of the county, nor of any of Żose narrow escapes
which Æoffin and Žis followers eafterienced in the
Sherwood country.
Of the cause of his deat/, probably in the spring
of I 325, we get a meagre account, Öztá it is nowhere
stated that, Zooking at the not very lengthened interva/
&etween the reported failure of his ſea/#/, and that
desperate endez/rise for saving the Æſe of Sir A'ichard
ał żhe Zee, f/e over-exertion was sufficient to impair
the system of a man doubtless advanced beyond the
Żrime of /č/e. -
. Of Simon A/ood, fresumab/y a relative, and a
/articipator in 4/ºe roya/ grace of 1323–4, our cogni-
sance is /imited to the mention of Žis name as a
zecipient of Żay as a va/eff or groome of the chamõer.
Af/e, whic/ is a/most certain, s/hared ſºočin's fortune
Żm the zºoods, ſº is name nowhere occurs in £4e 6a//ads.]
I.
LEND a courteous ear, gentlemen that be of free-
born lineage, whilst I tell you of a good yeoman,

268 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
whose name was Robin Hood. A proud outlaw he
was, and a courteous.
In the famous town of Wakefield he was born
and nurtured, a yeoman's son, in the days of Edward
that was called Longshanks; and he grew up to
man's estate there, and wedded a gentle wife,
Matilda her name, and they lived in the king's peace
many years.
But in the wars between our lord the king that
now was, that is to say, Edward of Carnarvon, and
his cousin the Earl of Lancaster, this Robert or
Robin took arms for the earl; and when it was so
that on the field of Boroughbridge, in the year of
grace 1323, our lord the king took prisoner the said
earl, and vanquished his men in battle, all such as
fell not in the fight or were captives fled to the
woods or over sea, and among the rest Robert or
Robin Hood and Simon Hood and certain others
sought refuge in Barnsdale beside Wakefield, a
mighty forest and a fair.
Here they went to dwell beneath the greenwood,
winter and summer, and set nought by the weather
and by the law, namely, in Barnsdale on the Watling
Street. Few they were in the first beginning.
There were Robin, and Simon, and Much the
Miller's son, and Little John, and William Scathlock,
and Will Stutely, and Reynold, and Gilbert of the
Wight' Hand, and Friar Tuck, all lusty men and true.
But as the report went abroad of their free and
merry life, and of the rich toll which they levied
from abbot and baron and other of high degree,
many came to them craving fellowship, or admitted


ROBIN HOOD. 269
f
ſº
|
\
| \,
\
for their approved prowess with the bow and the
quarterstaff, and swelled the band, till it waxed right
numerous and strong, well furnished with arms and
goodly raiment. For food they wanted not ; our
lord the king sold his deer to them best cheap; and
for venison that was over and above their need,
they were wont to barter other victual, and wine,
and provision of all sorts. So that Robin and those
that were with him lacked little truly, save their
homesteads and Holy Church.
Now you have heard tell that Robin was of the
yeomanry ; but his comrades, one and all, were men
of the people. Albeit, however, they suffered a
common lot, and were bound together in brother-
hood, they acknowledged Robin their master, and
were ruled by him in all things; and he prescribed
to them, at such time as they first gathered together
in the forest, the canons whereby they should be
governed in their dealings with the various conditions
of men and with women.
Verily Robin was a devout man, and sorrowed
more than all besides for that he might not, as his
former usage led him, pay worship to God, and His
Son, and Our Blessed Lady, where their churches
stood in the place of his up-bringing. Therefore he
Sorely grieved ; but no meat nor drink passed his
lips, nor was taken in his company, till three masses
had been said by the friar : one for the Father, one
- for Christ Jesus, and one for the Holy Virgin whom
above all women Robin most loved and revered.
These, then, were the commandments which
Robin laid down for observance: “Look,” quoth
he to Little John questioning him and saying on a



27O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
time, “Master, tell us what we are to do, whom we
are to take, whom to let go unharmed, whom to
succour.” “Look,” said Robin, “all of ye, that ye
do no hurt to any husbandman that tilleth with his
plough, nor to any yeoman that walketh in the
woods, nor to knight or squire that is a good fellow;
and I straitly charge you to lay no hand on any
woman, but to aid them all to your power for Our
dear Lady's sake and for St. Mary Magdalen's.
These bishops and these archbishops may ye beat,
and bind, and rob, and any such other that are
oppressors of the poor commons ; and in especial
I commend to your attention, that ye never keep
him out of your minds, the proud high-sheriff of
Nottingham.” -
All of which Ordinances, during such space of
time as Robin Hood lived and ruled in the parts
of Barnsdale and Plumpton, and of Sherwood in
Nottinghamshire, were held by his following to be
a law binding unto them ; nor no king that ever
reigned in England received fuller and gladder
obedience than Robin, or was of greater worship in
Barnsdale and the borders thereof.
II.
Of all the brave and stalwart fellows who sware
allegiance to him, none loved him more dearly than
Little John, though, as you are presently to hear,
none was so wayward at seasons or so stiff-necked.
Yet he loved Robin again, and was loyal to the
heart's core.
How they first met was while our outlaws had
for a time, as their use was, removed from Barns-
ROBIN HOOD. 271
| CaS62.
- ſº
-º-
-º-
º
dale to Sherwood; and Robin, one day in the
morning, bidding his comrades hasten to him if they
heard the notes of his bugle-horn borne in the wind,
had wandered forth alone in quest of adventures.
He had not gone far when he encountered, at a
narrow bridge over a forest stream, a stranger un-
armed, save with a quarter-staff that he bare in his
hand; and they met midway, nor would either yield
ground. Robin drew back and bent his bow ; but
the stranger called him coward, for that he would
assail a defenceless man.
Then Robin cast his bow aside, and stepping into
the thicket, cut a good Oaken cudgel, and returning
to the bridge, “Now,” quoth he, “we are more
equal, and here we will fight till one of us is over-
cast into the water, and that shall determine the
The stranger was content, for he was passing
tall and strong, and little doubted the issue, and
after many a fierce blow surely enough Robin lost
the day. He swam ashore, and drew himself to the
bank by a thorn that overhung, and setting his horn
to his lips, blew as he had aforehand given warning.
Greatly the stranger marvelled when he beheld
the answer to the call.
“What has befallen, master,” asked Will Stutely,
“that thou art in such sorry plight 2'
“O, nothing,” replied Robin ; “only this fine
fellow and I had a bout on the bridge, and he beat
me, that I fell in.”
“Is it so 2° they cried with one voice; “then he
shall suffer likewise.” And they seized the stranger
in order to throw him into the brook.




272 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
But Robin commanded them to forbear, saying:
“Touch not a hair of his head, comrades, for he is
a stout fellow and a gallant. Prythee, friend, what
is thy name P”
“I am called. John Little,” quoth the stranger.
“If thou wilt be one of us,” answered Robin, “I
will teach thee the use of the bow, and thou shalt
want for nothing.”
The stranger said: “Here is my hand; I will
serve thee faithfully, and, I warrant, will play my
part.”
“His name shall be changed,” cried Stutely, “and
I will be his godfather. Let us prepare the chris-
tening feast under the greenwood tree, and baptize
anew this pretty seven-foot babe.”
The cloth was spread on the grass, and they
brought venison and wine; and when they had eaten
and drunk galore, Stutely spake in this wise : “This
infant was called John Little; but for ever after
to-day he shall be known as Little John.” And
they emptied their cups, and drank to the health
of the new comer, till the woods rang again with
their voices.
And this is how Robin Hood first found Little
John, who proved staunch and trusty to the end,
and loved his master in his heart as dearly as any ;
yet now and again they had passages betwixt them,
not as on the bridge, but of words only, leaving
no rancour nor bitterness, and being indeed, as the
quarrels of sweethearts, the preamble to more fervent
affection and loyalty.
Many have heard of the renowned Friar Tuck,
that was of this band not the least, and that said
ROBIN HOOD. 273
|
ſº
\!
ſ
grace and held mass under the forest shade, whereas
no other parson nor any church was nigh-hand
enough for resort ; and this was the manner wherein
Robin and the friar became at the outset and
beginning of acquaintance.
III.
In the summer days, when leaves are green, and
flowers are fresh and gay, Robin and certain of his
followers chanced to be in Barnsdale, and had good
sport in killing the king's deer, and above them all
Little John bare the bell, for that at five hundred
feet he brought to earth a hart of grease. t
“God’s blessing on thee,” cried Robin, “that
made so noble a shot! By Our Lady, I would ride
a hundred mile to see thy match, John.”
Will Scathlock laughed. A loud laugh laughed
he. “Master,” he said, “there dwells in Fountain's
Abbey a friar that will easily beat both him and
thee. He can draw a good yew bow, that friar at
Fountain's Dale, and better shoot in it than us every
each one. -
Robin sware a solemn oath, by the Holy Virgin
he sware it, that no meat nor drink would he take
till this goodly man he had seen with his eye. He
put on his doublet, and his best hosen and shoon,
and his mantle of Lincoln green, a cap of steel on
his head, his sword and buckler by his side, and
bow and arrows in hand; and to Fountain's Dale
he is gone. -
And as he drew near to Fountain's Dale, no call
had he farther to search, for the friar walked by the
A. L. T




274 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
water-side, and well accoutred was he, and weaponed
against need, with his cap of steel, and his broad-
sword, and his buckler.
Robin alighted down from his horse, and made
him fast to a thorn, and as he came near unto that
lusty friar, he called aloud unto him, saying, “Carry
me over the water, friar, or thou shalt rue it.”
The friar took up Robin on his shoulders, and
bare him through the deep stream, till he reached
the other bank.
“Now carry me in thy turn, thou fine fellow,'
said the friar, “or at thy peril say nay.” And Robin
without a word did the like service for the friar.
The friar nimbly leapt off Robin's back, and
Robin said to him once more : “Now say no say,
thou curtal friar, but carry me over again.”
Nought spake the friar, but suffered Robin to
mount the second time; and when in mid-stream
they were, he cast him suddenly off.
“N ow choose, my fine fellow,” quoth he, “whether
thou wilt sink or swim " i -
They both swam to the bank, and Robin took his
bow in his hand and let fly a shaft. But the friar
fenced it off with his buckler of steel. “Shoot on,
shoot on, thou fine fellow, a whole summer's day,
and thy arrows I will catch as they come.” And
truly Robin spent all his stock, and harmed the
friar no whit.
Then they took to sword and shield, and fought
with might and main, till Robin began to slacken,
and begged a boon. “I prythee,” he said, “ thou
curtal friar, let me put my horn to my lips, and blow
blasts three.”
IROBIN HOOD. 275
“Blow to thy heart's fullest content,” said the
friar. And presently came trooping over the lea
Little John and many yeomen more, yea, half-a-
hundred yeomen.
“Whose men are these ?” demanded the friar.
“They are mine,” returned Robin. “What is
that to thee P”
“I beg a boon,” said the friar, “the like that I
granted thee. Let me put my fist to my mouth
and whute thrice P.”
“Whute, friar,” quoth Robin again; “what is in
a friar's whuting but should make me fain to hear
it P "
The friar set his fist to his lips, and thrice he
whuted ; and incontinently there bounded over the
sward of bandogs half-a-hundred. “Now,” cried
the friar, “there is for every man a dog save for
thee, friend.” But two of the dogs seized upon
Robin, and tore his mantle from his back.
Little John took his good bow in his hand, and
shortly half-a-score of the friar's dogs weltered in
their gore.
“Take away thy dogs,” shouted John, “ or I will
give both them and thee short shrift.”
“A boon | a boon | * cried the friar. “Good
fellow, hold thy hand, and thy master and I will
agree, I warrant.”
“Friar,” said Robin, “if thou wilt forsake
Fountain's Abbey and Fountain's Dale, and come
with us, thou shalt be our chaplain, and every
Sunday through the year thou shalt have a noble to
thy fee, and I will give thee free living.”
The friar said, “Yea,” whom theretofore no man,





276 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
neither knight, lord, nor earl, had in seven years'
space withstood ; and he was ever after of that
merry company.
IV.
At another time, Robin, straying among the
pleasant lawns of the forest, happened upon a lusty
fellow that, with staff on shoulder, seemed to range
in quest of the king's deer, whom Robin, desiring
pastime, accosted, demanding what he sought, and
holding him in hand that he was one of our king's
keepers, to safeguard his deer.
“If thou art a keeper in this forest, with such a
great commission, thou art bound to have other to
succour thee, ere thou makest me, sirrah, to stand."
“ Nay,” returned Robin, “there is but I alone
that shall such thing accomplish with the aid of a
stout oaken staff from the thicket hard by. For
seeing, good fellow, that thou hast not a bow nor a
blade, I will, an' need be, fight with thee on equal
conditions.”
“My staff is eight foot long," quoth the stranger;
“get ye one the like of it.”
Then these two set to work, since neither would
yield, in right earnest, and it was so that, after a
long bout and a sharp, Robin gave way.
“Good fellow,” quoth he, “let us stay our hands
and buffet each other in vain no more by my
counsel. I prythee, what is thy name 2"
“Arthur Bland,” replied the stranger; “and I am
a tanner in the town of Nottingham, whither if thou
ever comest I will tan thy hide good cheap.”
“Cease, good fellow, from such talk,” Robin,
ROBIN HOOD. 277
answering him, said. “My name is Robin Hood;
and if thou wilt forsake thy calling and live with me
in the free forest, thou shalt be welcomed by my
faith, and shalt nothing lack.”
“Take my hand as my pledge,” said the tanner;
“no man shall us depart. But say truly, if thou
art Robin Hood, where is Little John, who is my
near kinsman on my mother's side. Fain would I
see him with eye.” -
Robin placed his horn to his lips, and blew once,
and Little John came tripping down a green hill.
“What is the matter P” he cried ; “master, I
prythee tell. Why standest thou staff in hand 2 and
who is this stranger ? I doubt that all is not well.”
“The tanner hath tanned my hide, John ; but
a bonny blade he is, and a master of his art, I
warrant; and he saith that he is thy cousin, by Our
Lady, man.”
Then John, who had been at first about to
challenge the tanner, whereas he thus understood
that he was Arthur his kinsman, cast away his staff,
and threw his arms about his neck; and those two
brave fellows wept for joy.
Thus it was a glad and merry encounter in the
end, and so in the choice of his comrades Robin was
wont to let trial go before trust.
V.
Now, by reason of the many and grievous tres-
passes and felonies that these good yeomen com-
mitted against the peace of the realm, and of the
hue and cry and horn-blow, and offer of reward

278 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENIDS.
thereupon ensuing, Robin and his fellows tarried not
alway in one place, but removed themselves from
Barnsdale to Sherwood, and back again to Barnsdale,
and thence to Plumpton, that is beyond the forest
of Knaresborough, so that men travelling with rich
goods and store of money from the north through
the midlands scarce knew which road to choose from
fear of those outlaws, that regarded not king nor
sheriff, and were both bold and subtle.
It befell on Whitsunday, early on a morning of
May, that Robin and John and Much the Miller's
son were in Sherwood together. “This is a
merry morning,” said Little John, “by Him that
died on a tree; a merrier man than I now am liveth
not, I trow, in Christendom. Pluck up thy heart,
master dear, and think how fair a season it is this
Whitsunday morning.”
“One thing,” returned Robin, “breeds me pain,
and it is that on so Solemn a day I may not to my
matins go. It is now a fortnight or more since I
my Saviour saw. Verily I will go to Nottingham
by the grace of Mary mild.”
“ Nay,” brake in Much, “go not unaccompanied,
but take twelve of us, well-weaponed, with thee,
master.” -
“By my faith,” said Robin, “I will not so; but
John shall be my bow-bearer, put-case I have need
Of it.”
“Thou shalt carry thy own,” John answering
said ; “and I will carry mine ; and as we go along
we will shoot for a penny under the wooded
shade.”
“I will not shoot for a penny, in sooth, John,

ROBIN HOOD. 279
with thee, but for three,” his master replied. And
they set to their contention, till John had won of
Robin five shillings to hose and shoon.
But when John claimed his winnings, Robin
denied him, and gave him the lie, yea, smote him
with his hand, that John waxed wroth, and pulled
forth his sword.
“If thou wast not my master,” he cried, “thou
shouldest abi' it full sore. Get ye a man where ye
will; thy service I forswear.”
So these two friends parted in anger, John back
to the deep forest, and Robin to Nottingham ; and
when Robin had entered into the town, he repaired
into the church of Our Lady, and said his orisons,
kneeling at the altar, and Sundry worshippers saw
him, and wist that it was Robin Hood, and mar-
velled, but said nought. Save only a certain monk,
who—woe worth him —carried the tidings to the
sheriff, saying: “The king's felon is in Our Lady's
church at the mass. He robbed me of a hundred
pound, and I have him ever in my thought.”
The gates of Nottingham were made fast, and
the sheriff hied with an array of men to the church
with their bills and staves.
“Alas! alas !” muttered Robin, “now I miss
Little John, forsooth do I.”
But he drew his two-handed sword, and rushed
into the thickest of the throng, and laid twelve of
the sheriff's men at his feet, till it unhappily for-
tuned that, as he smote the sheriff himself on the
head, the blade of his weapon brake, and he was
fain to yield himself up.
Into a deep dungeon he was cast, and the monk

28O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
that had betrayed him set out to the king with
letters from the sheriff, seeking our lord the king's
pleasure, attended by a little page. Through Sher-
wood they rode, and ere they were on the skirts of
the forest Little John and Much the Miller's son
were by chance in a small house, where dwelled
Much's own uncle. Now John and Much, who
knew not what had happened, and had hoped that
by the grace of Our Lady their master might be
safe, espied them approaching, and went forth to
meet them on the way.
John asked the monk what news, and the holy
brother replied that he carried letters to our king
from the sheriff of Nottingham, how a bold outlaw,
called Robin Hood, was but yesterday taken, and
lay at his grace's mercy.
“He robbed me and my fellow,” quoth John, “ of
twenty mark, Surely enough ; if he be taken, as ye
say, forsooth we are not sorry.”
“So did he me,” said the monk, “of an hundred
pound. I was the first to lay hands on him ; ye
owe it to me that he goes no more at large.”
“I pray God to give you thanks,” replied John,
“ as we will do, when we may. We will even now
go along with you, and bring you on your road
safely. For Robin hath many a wild fellow belong-
ing unto him, that, if they wist and came this way,
would slay you of a certainty.”
But when they had gone a certain distance into
the wood, John and Much pulled the monk and
the page from their horses, and John let the monk
understand how grieved he was that the holy
brother fell on his head. - -


ROBIN HOOD. 28 I
The monk saw how the wind blew, and cried for
mercy.
“He was my master, sirrah, that thou diddest
betray,” said John, sternly. “I warrant thou shalt
never reach our king to tell him the tale.” And
he smote off the monk's head, and likewise the little
page's, and buried them both.
Then they hastened with all the speed they could
to our king where he lay, Little John and Much
the Miller's son, and kneeled before his grace,
presenting the letters of the sheriff. Our king
demanded where was the monk that should have
brought him these letters, and John shewed him
how the holy brother had fallen sick and died on
the journey.
Our king said : “There was never yeoman in
England that I more longed to see.” And he
straightway caused to be delivered to John and
Much his letters under his signet, commanding the
sheriff to send Robin to him, and hold him harm-
less. Moreover, at their leave-taking, his grace
gave them of his bounty twenty pound, and made
them yeomen of the Crown.
They sped to Nottingham as quickly as they
might, and shewed the king's letter under his signet
to the sheriff, who doffed his hood to our king's
seal, and demanded where the monk had become
that had borne his message to our king.
Quoth John : “ His grace took him so in favour,
that he is now Abbot of Westminster by his grace's
appointment.”
Whereupon the sheriff made John and Much good
cheer, and let them drink of the best with him.






282 FEUDAT, AND FOREST LEGENDS.
And when all were gone to rest and asleep, because
John doubted what the king might do, he resorted
to the jail where his master lay. The jailor said
unto him, that Robin had broken prison, but John
shrewdly guessed that he spake not the verity,
and out with his sword, and forthwith despatched
him. Then he snatched the keys from his girdle,
and set Robin at large, and gave him a good sword
in his hand. Then, where the walls were lowest,
those yeomen clomb privily over, and made for the
forest.
“Master,” quoth John, “see, now I have re-
quited good for evil! Albeit thou diddest me
wrong, I have saved thee from the proud sheriff,
and so having done, farewell; for I go.”
“Nay, it shall not be so, John,” returned Robin,
taking his hand ; “but for thy worthiness and love
I will yield thee my room, and thou shalt be in lieu
of me chief of Robin Hood and his men.”
“Say no more, master,” quoth John. “I crave
only the second place. We are friends again.”
So ended the strife, and all the company was joy-
ous enough : when they beheld Robin among them
whole and sound, yea, glad folk were they ; and
under the greenwood tree, among the broad leaves,
they feasted together on pasties of the king's veni-
son and the good red wine.
The sheriff of Nottingham made cry and procla-
mation for Robin, when he found that he had
been delivered from safe-keeping; for he doubted
that our king would displace him from his shrievalty
for so high a misdemeanour. But little he profited
by his pains ; and so soon as our king understood
|
ROBIN HOOD. 283
how Robin Hood was free, and how Little John
had beguiled both the sheriff and himself the king's
Own grace, he wox exceeding wrath, and sware
that, had it not been so that these yeomen had
deceived them both alike, the sheriff should have
been hanged high.
“I made them yeomen of my Crown,” said our
king, “ and bestowed on them fee with my own
hands. Forsooth, such a fellow as Little John hath
not his like through all merry England. He is true
to his master,” quoth he ; “by sweet St. John he
loveth him far better, I swear, than he doth me.
Let it pass. So long as Robin Hood lives, he can-
not forget how Little John brought him out of our
castle of Nottingham.”
VI.
During such time as Robin had tarried in Sher-
wood, there happened unto him many strange acci-
dents besides; and, for example, on a certain day,
as he, with John and Much, lay amid the coppice, in
expectancy of some traveller passing thereby, lo l it
was so that a gallant young fellow, yet with down-
cast mien, approached the place where they stood,
as one that wandered he wist not whither.
So Robin bad them go forward, and greet him,
praying him to come to their master, who there-
upon, after fit salutation, demanded of the youth, if
it chanced that he had ought by way of money in
his purse, to aid poor men in their need.
“Nay, sirs,” quoth he sorrowfully enough ;
“money have I none, save five shilling and a ring,
that I have reserved against my wedding-day. I



284 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
was, forsooth, to have been joined in holy marriage
to a fair maiden; but her folk have riven her me-
from, and my heart is near to breaking.”
“What is thy name 2" asked Robin.
“I am called Allan à Dale,” saith the youth.
“What wilt thou give me, Allan P” quoth Robin
again, “to help thee to thy truelove?”
“Neither gold have I, sir, nor fee,” answered he ;
“but I will make oath upon the holy Bible to be
thy true servant my whole life during.”
“When shall the wedding be kept, and where,
friend ?” the outlaw demanded.
“Marry, sir,” replied Allan, with brighter cheer,
“at a church five short mile hence away.”
Thereupon concluded Robin to aid young Allan
a Dale, and he said unto John and unto Much :
“I shall go thither, where the wedding is ap-
pointed, habited minstrel-wise ; and do you, with
some score of our fellows, follow me close, and be
at hand when my horn soundeth; and do you, young
Allan, come with them along, and bring my bow.”
So the outlaw spake, and forthwith he changed
his raiment, and was away; and when he entered
the church, all were there assembled, and awaited
the bride and the bridegroom.
The priest, seeing Robin, prayed him to say
wherefore he came, and who he might be.
“A minstrel,” Robin answered.
“I am right well content," quoth the holy min-
ister. “Thou art the very man whom-for we
looked.”
“It is well,” said Robin ; “yet music get ye none
till the bride and her truelove I see.” -

ROBIN HOOD. 285
:
Anon entered at the door the damsel, led by her
father, and behind came the old and rich knight
that she had been to the wrong of another bestowed
upon.
The priest stood with his mass-book at the altar,
and the wedding should have proceeded, when, to
the amazement of all those present, the stranger-
minstrel stepped forth, and forbad the rite.
“This is no match,” he cried ; “and since the
bride is at hand, she shall choose her own mate.”
Straightway he drew a bugle from under his coat,
and blew thrice, and ere the priest and the rest of
the company might ought resolve or do, four and
twenty archers stood at the stranger-minstrel's side,
and Allan à Dale was of them who delivered to
Robin his bow, as he had charged him. There
was no man in all that assembly who kenned not
truly enough who the stranger was.
“Allan,” he said, “this is thy truelove, and ere
we go we will see thee wedded.”
“They have not been asked thrice in the
church,” muttered the holy priest, “as the law of
our land is.”
But he was of Robin too afeard to grudge over-
boldly, lest he should rue his hardihood.
Then Robin plucked off the priest's sack, and
laid it on Little John ; and John marched into the
choir, and when he had asked the couple seven
times, lest three might not suffice, he said : “Who
giveth away this maid " -
“That do I,” said Robin, “and he that seeks to
take her from Allan à Dale, shall dearly abide it.”
Joyfully those yeomen returned with Allan and

286 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
his dear to the forest, where they held the marriage
feast; and so with much thankfulness and love the
couple went their way to their own homestead, no
man hindering them.
VII.
It happened afterward, because a hue and cry
had gone out against him, that Robin forsook for
a season the parts about Nottingham, and betook
himself with Little John and the rest to Barns-
dale once more ; and on a certain morning in
summer, where Robin slept in the wood, the wood-
wale sang so loud on a spray nigh-hand, that it
awoke him : who to his comrades, joining him
anon, said thus: “Last night, fellows, I had a
dream, that two wight yeomen fought with me, and
beat and bound me, and took my bow me-from
withal, and by my faith, if I live, I will be avenged
on them, John.”
“Master,” John answered and said, “dreams
come and go like the wind upon the hill, that blow-
eth to-night and in the morning is hushed.”
“Well, well,” Robin replied, “thou shalt go with
me, John, and the others shall stay behind within
call, if need should be.”
So these two donned their liveries of green, and
took their bows, and forth into the forest they went
their way. They shortly became aware of a stout
yeoman that leaned against a tree. A sword and
dagger were at his side, and he was clad in a
leathern jerkin.
Now Little John prayed of his master that he
ROBIN HOOD. 287
would suffer him to step forward and speak with
the stranger; but Robin wox wroth, “for that,”
quoth he, “John set so little store by him,” and
was alway for leaving him behind ; and such words
grew betwixt them, that at length John departed,
and left his master, who had threatened to break
his bow athwart his crown.
Then, when he was alone, Robin advanced to
the yeoman, and unto him said : “Good morrow,
good fellow. By thy bow that thou carriest thou
shouldest be a fair archer.”
“I must speed on my way,” returned the other,
“while it is yet morning. I seek an outlaw called
Robin Hood, and would liever meet with him than
have forty pound in my purse.”
“Let me be thy guide, good fellow,” said Robin,
“ and I will take thee shortly to him. But first let
us try our mastery under these trees so broad and
green. We may chance to meet with Robin, ere
we dream.” - -
They cut two tall boughs from a briar, and set
them up for a mark sixty rods each from other
apart. Robin shot first by allowance, and missed
by an inch ; but the other came not near, albeit a
good archer he was counted. The second time his
arrow touched the garland ; but Robin's clave both
wands in twain.
“A blessing on thy heart! good fellow,” cried the
stranger. “Thou shootest as well as Robin Hood.
Now, good fellow, tell me thy name.”
“Nay,” said Robin, “not till thou hast told me
thine.”
“I am called Guy of Gisborne,” answered the








288 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
other, “and I hold a commission to take Robin
Hood, wherever I can find him.”
“My dwelling is in this wood,” said Robin unto
him again, “and I set by thee right nought. I am
that Robin Hood of Barnsdale whom thou art
appointed to take.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than
his brown blade was in his hand, and those two
fought to the death. Robin stumbled at a root, and
fell, and his foe wounded him in the side. But he
called on Our Dear Lady, and rose to his feet, and
with a back-handed stroke Guy he hath slain. He
smote his head from his body, and placed it on his
bow's end, saying, “Thou hast paid a traitor's
forfeit.” ; and he nicked Guy's visage, that none
might know it, and changed garb with him ; and
with his bow and arrows, and horn, so that he wore
his semblance in all things, he started in quest of
John to let him understand the news, and make the
peace with him again.
Now, Robin wist not that, after his parting from
John, certain grave accidents had befallen him and
sundry other of his company. For the sheriff of
Yorkshire, with seven score men, had entered Barns-
dale and had slain two of the yeomen, and gone
nigh to take Scathlock, when John, drawing near,
perceived how the matter was, and drawing an arrow
to the head, shot William a Trent, one of the sheriff's
men, that he never more stirred. But by misad-
venture John's bow brake, and he was straightway
surrounded and taken, and fast bound to a tree.
A blithe man was the sheriff, whenas he saw how
Little John was his prisoner, and he sware that he


ROBIN HOOD. 289
should be shortly hanged, where he might be a
warning to all false traitors. “Be not so sure of
that," quoth John to himself; “for by Christ's help
I may yet go free.”
“Hearken, hearken,” cried the sheriff to his men;
“I hear good Guy's horn blow, and I warrant he
hath taken Robin Hood, or him slain ; and lo! see
where yonder cometh that brave yeoman Come
hither, come hither, good Guy, to me," quoth the
sheriff, “and ask what boon thou wilt.”
“No boon I crave,” returned Robin, “till I have
slain both master and man.” And he sped in all
haste unto the tree where John was, under colour
of shriving him before his death; but the sheriff and
his men pressed closely after to stay him, for they
at last divined who it in truth was.
Robin cut the cords, and gave Guy's bow into
Little John's hands, and his sheaf of arrows, and
put his own horn to his lips; and the sheriff espying
the outlaws coming up, and John ready with his
bow, turned about and fled, carrying with him in his
breech one of John's feathered messengers.
So as Robin had formerly owed his life to John,
when he was close prisoner in the castle of Notting-
ham, now it was his gallantry and wit that brought
that yeoman safe out of the hands of the proud
sheriff, that would surely otherwise have shown him
scant grace; and these generous outlaws, namely
Robin and John, found, as in many a case before,
a soreness and severance the knitting up of a firmer
friendship.


29O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
VIII.
At another time yet, it was the Bishop of Here-
ford that was reported to Robin, as he lay in Barns-
dale, to have it in his mind to cross the forest by
the Watling Street, with his retinue; and Robin
enjoined upon his men who took that charge to
slay a fat deer against the dinner-hour, for that he
looked to have a bishop that day at his table, who
would pay for his cheer as became so great a lord.
Robin and six of his fellows habited themselves
like shepherds, and sat about the fire as the bishop
came up. In lowly wise they saluted his good lord-
ship, and to him asking they replied, “We are
shepherds, that tend our sheep in this forest all the
year round ; but to-day we make merry, and dine on
the king's deer.”
“You do well!" cried the bishop, his choler rising;
“you are honest fellows forsooth ! The king shall
hear of it. Leave your fire and your fare, I bid ye,
and come along with me.” º
“A pardon, a pardon | I prythee, my lord,” cried
Robin ; “it ill becomes your lordship's cloth to take
so many poor men's lives away.”
But the bishop was deaf to entreaty, and would
have had his guards seize the shepherds. Robin
set his back against a tree, and from beneath his
shepherd's smock drew out a bugle-horn. A loud
blast made the woods echo, and ere the bishop had
time to think, the shepherds had cast aside their
garments, and where there had been six were sixty
and more.
“Why blow you so lustily P” asked Little John.
“O ohn,” answered his master, “here is a
y y 2


ROBIN HOOD. 29 I
bishop that will take us to our king, and grant us
no pardon, will he not 2"
“Off with his head,” cried John, “and dig a hole
in the earth for the varlet !”
“O, forgive me," quoth the bishop, changing
his tune, “and let me go my way, good Robin.”
“Nay, my lord, stay awhile ; your dinner is
dressed,” answered the outlaw. “Let me assist
your lordship.” And he caused the bishop to dis-
mount, and led him courteously by the hand to the
spot where the repast was spread on the green sward.
They ate and drank, till it wox late, and the
bishop and his folk lay under the trees on a harder
couch than their habit was ; and it happened in the
morning, when it drew to the leave-taking, that
Little John, by command of Robin, searched the
bishop's mail, and found therein three hundred gold
pieces. “Here is money enough,” quoth he,
“master, to pay for his lordship's lodging. It
putteth me more in charity with him, by Our Lady!
albeit I trow he loveth me but little.”
Then the bishop and those that were with him
went their way after many courteous salutations, and
they thought in their hearts that they had done
better, an' they had taken another road in lieu of
the Watling Street, whereby such unforeseen dis-
comfiture and loss were unto that great lord
wrought.
IX.
Robin stood in Barnsdale, and leaned against a
tree. By his side were John, Scathlock, and Much.
Presently unto Robin spake John thus: “Master,



292 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
an' ye would give us the word that we might dine,
it were well.”
“Nay,” quoth Robin, “thereto I have no lust,
until I see some baron bold or other guest un-
bekenned, or some squire or some knight, that may
pay worthily for his cheer. Take thy bows in
thy hands, good fellows, and leave me here; and
walk up to the Sayles, and so on to the Watling
Street. Abide there until ye become aware of any
that may lighten the cost of our meal.”
They went to the Sayles and to the Watling
Street; and they looked east and they looked west;
and no manner of man might they espy. Yet at
last, as they cast their eyes down a by-way in Barns-
dale, they perceived where a knight came riding
along. Heavy was his bearing and little his pride
one foot was in the stirrup, and the other out. His
hood hung over his eyes, and his garb was simple
enough : a sorrier man, forsooth, never rode in the
merry woods on a summer's day.
The yeomen approached him full courteously, and
Little John, because he knew that he was of knightly
degree, bending his knee at the saddlebows, wel
comed him to the forest-side. “My master,” quoth
he, “ hath waited dinner for you these three hours
past.”
“Who is your master P’’ the knight demanded.
“His name, sir, is Robin Hood.”
“He is a good yeoman,” the stranger returned
“whom-of I have heard much commendation
Albeit my purpose was to have dined to-day at
Blithe or at Doncaster, yet I consent with you three
to go unto your master.’
ROBIN HOOD. 293
Then they went all together, and as he rode
along the tears stole from his eyes, and coursed
down his cheeks. They brought him to the place
where their master tarried, who unto him said, as
he doffed his head-gear, and beseemingly knelt :
“Welcome art thou to me, sir knight! Truly I
have expected thee these two hours.”
“God thee save, good Robin," quoth the knight,
“ and all thy comrades so gallant and free "
They sat to their dinner, and numbles of the
deer, and water-fowl, and pheasant, with wine and
bread in plenty, they had ; and Robin bad the
knight eat and drink, and spare not.
“Gramercy, Robin,” said his guest, “such a fair
meal have I not seen these three weeks. If ever I
come again this way, I trust to give thee as good.”
“By dear worthy God,” cried Robin, “I am not
so nice in the order of my diet. But since it
was never the manner for a yeoman to pay for a
knight's cheer, thou wilt clear the score, wilt thou
not, ere thou goest hence 2"
“I have nought in my purse,” the stranger an-
swered and said, “that I can proffer for shame.”
“Tell me truth, sir,” quoth Robin. “How much
hast thou, all told P”
“Ten shilling and no more,” said the other.
“An' So it be,” said Robin, “not one penny do I
touch, and an' thou needest more for thy occasions,
I shall freely lend it thee.”
Little John searched the knight's mail, and found
indeed that he had sooth spoken ; and thereupon
Robin commanded them to bring wine of the best,
and bad the knight drink to his content.



2.94 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Tell me now, knight,” he presently said, “and
I shall keep thy counsel right well: wert thou made
a knight malgré thyself, or one of yeomanry P
Hast thou been an unthrifty husband of thy sub-
stance, or an usurer, or a lecher ?”
“None of these, by my faith, Robin, have I
been,” he protested ; “for, God is my witness, an
hundred winter herebefore my ancestors knights
have been. I am called Sir Richard at the Lee.
Within this two or three year, my neighbours well
know that I could spend four hundred pound by
the year. Now have I no goods save my children
and my wife, till God amend my estate.”
“How hast thou lost thy riches, then P” Robin
demanded.
“By my not over-wise kindness. I had a son,
forsooth, Robin, that should have been my heir,
and whenas he had but twenty winters, jousted he
with the best ; and for that he slew on a time a
knight of Lancashire, I was fain to lay my estate
to pledge to save his life. To the Abbot of St.
Mary's at York, Robin, my lands are in gage, and
are forfeit, alas ! unless so be the money be repaid
within a short day. And whereas I have it not,
I go to seek grace ; and so, farewell, for the time
draweth nigh.”
“What is the sum ?” Robin asked.
“Four hundred pound,” said he.
“What, then, wilt thou do, put-case thou losest
thy inheritance P”
“I shall cross the salt sea, Robin, and go to the
Holy Land, where Christ our Saviour was quick
ROBIN HOOD. - 295
and dead, and to the Mount of Calvary.” And the
tears once more started to his eyes.
“Hast thou no friends P.”
“Whenso I was rich of estate, Robin, yea, verily,
had I store; but now they shun me, and know me
not.” -
“Pass the wine round,” said Robin ; “the knight
drinks not. Well, and hast thou neither any one
who would be thy surety P”
“By Him that died on a tree, none, save, maybe,
Peter, Paul, and John.”
“Cease thy jesting, knight, for by Him that
made me, and shope both sun and moon,” said
Robin, “nought set I by such warrantise.”
“None other have I,” quoth he, “unless it be
Our Dear Lady, that never yet failed me in my
need.”
“My dear worthy God, thou couldest have no
better an one. John, go to my coffers, and tell
truly four hundred pound.”
And John went, as he was bidden, and Scathlock
with him, and they brought the money to Robin,
eighteen score pounds and upward.
Then Much spake grudgingly, whenas he saw so
large a treasure about to go to Sir Richard at the
Lee ; but John chid him, saying it was a good alms-
deed to help so gentle a knight; and withal he
prayed Robin, if it were not meet to offer his guest
a new livery, that he might appear before the lord
abbot as became his condition. -
“For ye have scarlet and green, master,” said
John. “There is many a merchant in England
that hath not so rich a store.”




296 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
And when Robin gave leave, he took his bow,
and measured three ells of each colour, and at
every ell he leapt. -
“What devil’s-kin draper is this 2" muttered
Much.
“By God Almighty,” cried Scathlock, laughing,
“he may give him all the better measure, since it
costeth him so little.”
But John marked them not ; and he prevailed on
Robin, who was nothing loth, to find him a new
gray courser, and a new saddle.
“What dost thou give the knight thyself, John P.”
Robin inquired.
“Even a pair of gilt spurs, master,” he answer-
ing said, “that he may pray for all this company.”
“To-morrow,” said Sir Richard at the Lee, “I
must be at St. Mary's to redeem my lands, or they
go from me for ever. When shall be my day,
Robin P”
“This day twelvemonth in this place,” the yeo-
man replied ; “and I lend thee John to keep thee
company to York as thy servant, and to aid thee
to his power, because it were shame that a knight
should go unattended.”
The knight set out from Barnsdale, blessing
Robin Hood and his men for the best friends that
could to him have befallen ; and with John at his
side pricked forward on his way to the abbey of
Our Blessed, Lady, merrier in heart than he had
weened ever more to be ; for in his mail he carried
the freedom of his fair lands and his children's
heritage.
t
-
t
º
º
--
º
-
|


ROBIN HOOD. 297
X. -
The Lord Abbot sat in high state at St. Mary's
at York, and with him were the high cellarer and
the chief justiciary of England, and the sheriff of
Yorkshire, that were partakers, all of them, in the
venture whereby on failure of his day Sir Richard
at the Lee, that gentle knight, lost his lands at
Utersdale for aye.
The high abbot remembered them all, who
were there present, how this day twelvemonth
the knight of Utersdale had borrowed of him four
hundred pound, and laid his lands in pledge; and
that if he came not soon to redeem them, he should
suffer disherison.
“It is full early,” said the prior; “the day has
much to run. I had liever lay down a hundred
pound than take away too lightly the knight's be-
longings. He is may-be beyond sea, and cannot
reach England in just time. I wis he may be
suffering great hardship ; and it were sore pity to
deal too strictly with him, and too sternly use our
power.”
“Thou art ever in my beard," quoth the high
abbot, “by God and by St. Richard ' "
“He is dead or hanged, doubtless,” said the high
cellarer, “and we shall have anon four hundred
pounds more to spend by the year.”
“He will not come yet, I dare well undertake,”
said the chief justiciary.
Meanwhile, Sir Richard at the Lee and Little
John had ridden well, until they came to the abbey
of Our Lady at York, and ere they drew within sight
of the gates, that gentle knight threw off his upper

298 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
habit, and clothed himself in poor weeds, and Little
John in like manner; and when they knocked at
the gates, the porter opened to them, and shewed
them how the lord abbot, with many more of high
degree, were at their meat. -
They descended from their horses, and the porter
said: “Lead them into the stable, where they may
have whereof to eat, and rest, till ye have for them
again need.”
“By God that died on a tree,” quoth John, “they
go not thither by my counsel.” And whileas the
knight, whose valet for the nonce he was at this
time, was brought into the hall, John stayed behind
with the horses and the mail wherein the money lay,
that they had carried there-withal.
The knight went forth into the hall, where they
sat at table, and kneeled down, and in lowly wise
saluted the high abbot and all there assembled.
“Sir abbot,” said the knight, “I am here to keep
my day.” -
“Thou hast brought with thee the four hundred
pound, hast thou not P”
“Not one penny,” quoth the knight.
“Thou art a shrewd debtor,” cried the abbot.
“Sir justice, it is well; I drink to thee!—What
doest thou here, then, sirrah, that thou art before
me without the money P”
“I am here, sir abbot, to pray your good lordship
of a longer day,” he said, and yet knelt.
“The time has come and gone, and thy lands
have passed from thee,” said the high abbot.
The knight besought the chief justiciary, and like-
wise the sheriff, and once again the high abbot, that
--
º§
º
ROBIN HOOD. 299
he would lend a merciful ear unto him, and unto the
lord abbot : “I will be thy true servant, my lord,”
quoth he, “till I have well gotten the four hundred
pound,” and to him still denying: “But I have my
land again, full dearly it shall be bought. It is
good, lords, to assay a friend, ere a man have of him
need.”
The lord abbot looked upon that gentle knight
full angerly, and bad him quit the hall, calling him a
false knight. But he shewed the lord abbot that he
spake not truly, for he had never been other than
true ; and then he rose to his feet, and to the lord
abbot he said: “To suffer a knight to kneel so
long is scant courtesy. I have been in many a
tourney and many a fight, and have ever stood in
the front.”
“Sir abbot,” said the chief justiciary, “what wilt
thou give over and above, that the knight may sign
a release ? Else dare I to swear that never shall
ye hold your land in quiet.”
“An hundred pound more I will give,” said the
high abbot.
“Give him two,” said the chief justiciary.
“Forbear your reckonings, my lords,” said the
knight, more firmly. “Not one, nor two hundred,
nor a thousand, should serve ; I will not have, for
heir to my lands, abbot, justice, or friar." -
They all sat marvelling what he might signify,
and conferred together. But the knight started to
the door of the hall, and returned straightway, bear-
ing in both his hands a bag; to the board where
they sat he advanced, and loosening the cords,
he shook out four hundred pound.



3OO FEUIDAI, AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Here is the gold, sir abbot,” he cried, “that
thou diddest lend to me on my lands. Haddest
thou been more courteous, thou mightest have had
something to boot.” -
They had all laid down their knives and spoons,
and ate and drank no more.
“Sir abbot, and all the others that I see,” said
the knight, “ye have your money again, agree
among you, as ye may ; and since my day I have
kept, I shall take back my land, whatever ye may
do.”
He marched straight out of the hall a proud
and jocund man, and found Little John in the court
awaiting him ; and they took horse, and went their
way; and whenso they had lost sight of York, they
donned again their gayer raiment, and proceeded on
their road together, until John took leave of that
gentle knight to go unto Nottingham, and Sir
Richard at the Lee drew not rein until he came to
his own gates at his house in Utersdale in the forest.
“Welcome, my lord,” said his wife, “albeit lost
is all our good.”
“Nay, madam,” he replied, “not so; be of better
cheer, and pray for Robin Hood, that his soul may
enter into bliss: for without his bounty we had been
beggars for a certainty. As I went by the way,
madam, I met that excellent yeoman, and he lent
unto me the money, wherewith I have freed our
lands.” -
XI.
It happened that, while Little John yet attended
on the knight, there came a report of a shooting

ROBIN HOOD. 3OI
that was to be held at Nottingham, and because the
knight had no longer occasion for a valet, and was
in haste to be at home, John and he parted with
friendly greetings; one to repair to the archery, the
other to his house in Utersdale.
The bowmen, who answered to the proclamation
of the sheriff of Nottingham, were archers good and
true; but the stranger, whom no man knew, alway
cleft the wand. Quoth the sheriff: “By Him that
died on a tree, this is the best archer that I ever
saw withal.” And presently he accosted John,
saying thus unto him : “Tell me now, wight young
man, what thy name is, where thou wast born, and
where is thy present dwelling 2"
“In Holderness, sir, I was born,” John answered
unto him, “and I am called Reynold Greenleaf,
when I am at home.”
“Say to me, then, Reynold, wilt thou live with
me? I will give thee to wage twenty marks by the
year.”
“If so be,” quoth John, “I may get leave from
my master that is, I am well content to hire myself
for the twelvemonth, sir.” And John feigned that
he got leave, and abode with the sheriff. Yet
nevertheless he loved him not, and thought alway,
even from the first, how he might beguile him.
“So help me, God!” he said in his heart, “I
shall prove unto him the shrewdest servant that
ever he had.”
It chanced on a certain Wednesday, that the
sheriff went betimes on hunting, and left John at
home a-bed ; and John rose not till it was passed
noon, and was a-hungered. Therefore he went to


3O2 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
the steward, and prayed him that he would give him
to dine. -
“It is all too long for Greenleaf,” quoth he, “to
fast.” -
But the steward churlishly denied him, saying
that he must tarry until such time as the sheriff
returned ; and the butler started to the door of the
buttery and shut fast the same, lest John might gain
an entrall Ce.
John at a blow struck the butler to the earth, that
a hundred winters would not have seen him stir
again, and spurned open the door with his foot.
A goodly livery of ale and wine he there procured,
and repaired unto the cook, demanding victual. But
he up and smote John, and cried : “Thou art a fine
fellow truly to take hire in a household, and dine at
thy own pleasure.” -
John drew his sword, and the cook snatched
another nigh-hand; and for a whole hour they
fought together, those twain, and neither harmed
other.
“I make my vow to God,” said John, “thou
art one of the best swordsmen, as thou art one of
the stoutest fellows, that I ever with my eyes saw.
An' thou couldest shoot in a bow as well, I would
take thee to the greenwood with me, and thou
shouldest have twenty mark by the year to thy fee
and two liveries.”
“Put up thy sword, Greenleaf,” said he ; “we
are in accord.”
And the cook went and fetched numbles of the
doe, and bread, and wine; and when they had
eaten and drunk to their content, and had sworn
ROBIN HOOD. 3O3
:
fealty each to other, John made him privy to his
true name, and whither they were appointed to go;
but ere they departed, they went, treading on eggs,
and brake the sheriff's chest, wherefrom they took
three hundred pound and more, besides much silver
plate in vessels, masers and spoons, and forsooth
left nought.
When they were to Sherwood come, John be-
came aware of Robin Hood, where he lay with
certain of his yeomen, and courteously greeted him
and them.
“What tidings from Nottingham, John, prythee P”
asked Robin ; “and who is this good yeoman thou
hast brought thee-with ?” -
“The sheriff,” said John, “sendeth thee his
heartiest commendations, and by his cook, this fine
fellow here, presenteth thee with all his silver, and
three hundred pound to boot.”
“I swear by my faith,” said Robin, in glee, “it
was never with his goodwill that all this came to
me.”
Then John shewed his master how the sheriff
was even then on hunting in the forest some five
miles thence away, and he prayed him to gather his
men together, and he would let him see fair sport;
and for that Robin trusted John, he agreed, inquir-
ing no more.
John, then, yet remaining in the habit that he
wore in the sheriff's service, hied as quickly as he
might (for it drew toward the afternoon), until he
espied the sheriff and his men, where they were on
hunting with hound and horn ; and he did him
courtesy, and kneeled him-before.



3O4. FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Where hast thou been, Reynold 2" the sheriff
said, “that I see thee here 2"
“I have been in the forest, master dear,” quoth
he, “and so fair a sight saw I, that I could not rest
until I had you thereof advised : a great hart, and
with him seven score deer, and their antlers were
so large and strong, that I feared to shoot, lest they
should me slay.”
The sheriff desired to be led where the herd
might be viewed, and they rode, he and Reynold,
and the rest, till suddenly they came in sight of
Robin and his comrades.
“Behold the herd, master," cried John, “and
there is the master-hart 1"
“Thou hast betrayed me, Reynold, woe worth
thee l’’
“Thou art to blame, sir,” quoth John, “that I
was mis-served of my dinner.”
“Come, sheriff,” said Robin, “let us sit to
meat.” And they gave the sheriff place; but
when he saw his silver vessels on the board, he
wox heavy, and ate not ; for now he perceived well
the whole case, how the cook and Greenleaf had
wrought together, and robbed him of his treasure.
“Be of better cheer, sheriff.” Robin said again ;
“thy life is granted unto thee by the grace of Robin
Hood.” And when it grew toward the night, Robin
bad John and the others to prepare for rest, and
prayed the sheriff to do likewise.
Now, it was the summer season, and those
yeomen were wont to doff their hosen and shoon,
and their kirtles, and wrap themselves in their
mantles. º

ROBIN HOOD. 3O5
“Make thyself blithe, sheriff,” said Robin ; “for
this is our order in the forest.”
“It is harder than anchorite or friar,” returned
the other; “for all the gold in Christendom I would
not stay here long.”
“Nay, twelve months, sir, thou shalt abide with
me,” Robin answered, “and I will teach thee to
be an outlaw.” -
“Sooner Smite off my head,” cried the sheriff,
“and I will hold thee harmless.”
“An' thou must indeed go, sheriff,” said Robin,
“swear unto me on this sword that thou wilt never
thy whole life during do scathe to me or mine, but
be good friend to us, and helpful to thy best power.”
The sheriff sware as he was enjoined, and was
suffered to go his way in peace; and he thought that
while he was a living man he would never set foot
in Sherwood more.
XII.
Now, after these occurrents at Nottingham and
in the broad forest of Sherwood, whereby the
sheriff of Nottingham was so humbled and so
strangely cosened of his good, Robin thought fit to
remove himself from that part for a while, and re-
turned with John and the others, who attended him
at all times, to Barnsdale ; and one day, as these
yeomen stood together by the Watling Street, they
were aware of a man that sold pots, who along the
way came in his cart briskly and merrily, as one
who dreaded nor brooked no hindrance.
“See the proud potter, where he cometh,” said
A. L.


306 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Robin. “He has passed here oft before, and never
a penny of toll hath he paid.”
“I met him at Wentbridge,” quoth John, “and
worse luck befall him for it; he dealt me a stroke
that I shall never of my life forget. I lay forty
shilling I will let him have it back to-day. There
is scarce a man among us all that will make him
stand.”
“Here is forty shilling,” returned Robin, “and
more, and ye will, that I will bring him to yield me
a pledge.”
A yeoman kept the stake; and away started
Robin, and laid his hand on the potter's rein.
“ Fellow,” said the potter, shortly, “what is thy
will P ''
“Three year and more, potter,” said Robin unto
him, “thou hast haunted this road, and thou wast
never so courteous a man as one penny of toll to
pay.”
“What is thy name, fellow 2 Who of me asketh
toll P’’
“Robin Hood is my name,” he replied ; “some
pledge thou shalt leave behind thee.”
“Pledge I not have,” quoth the other, “nor toll
I not pay. Thy hands off my horse, or thou shalt
rue it, by my faith.”
From his cart he leapt, and thereout he took a
two-handed staff. Robin drew his sword.
“Let my horse be,” cried the potter, and Robin
and he set at each other, while John and the rest
watched hard by under a tree, and laughed at the
passages betwixt those twain.
John said to his fellows: “Yond potter will
--





ROBIN HOOD. 3O7
hold his ground, mark ye.” And almost ere he
had spoken, he, with a deft downward blow, struck
the buckler out of Robin's hand, and laid him on
the sward.
The others ran up to help their master, and raised
him to his feet, and John said: “Who has won
the wager now 2 Shall I have thy forty shillings,
master, or shalt thou have mine P”
“O,” quoth Robin, “if they were a hundred,
they are yours.” -
“Scant courtesy it seemeth,” then said the potter,
“whenas a poor man goeth on the way to follow
his craft, to let him, as ye have me done.”
“By my troth, thou art right,” Robin said; “that
is good yeomanry ; and if so be thou camest hereby
every day, never more shalt thou be questioned but
in hearty fellowship.”
XIII.
The day was at hand when the knight of Uters-
dale was under covenant to render himself in
Barnsdale, and restore to Robin the four hundred
pound that so happily redeemed his lands from
paWn. -
Robin stood in the forest, and with him were
John, Scathlock, and Much the Miller's son.
“Shall we go to our nuncheon, master P” asked
John, for it was mid-day. -
“Nay,” said Robin ; “I doubt that Our Lady is
wrath with me, that she sendeth me not my money.”
| “Have no fear,” John replied, “the sun has
- some way to go ere it set, and I dare answer for the
knight, that he is trusty and true.”


308 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Take thy bow in thy hand, John,” quoth his
master, “and let Scathlock and Much bear thee
company, and go up to the Watling Street. Thou
mayest by chance alight on some one, be he a mes-
senger from Our Lady or a man that can make us
mirth, or a needy yeoman that I might bestead.”
Not well pleased was John to go longer fasting,
yet he girt on his sword, and they all sallied forth
to do as their master had commanded them, and
presently they descried a right royal equipage, as it
came by the way. Two black monks went before,
each on a fair palfrey, and after them followed seven
sumpter-mules well-laden, and men-at-arms fifty and
two. No bishop rode more proudly in progress.
“I lay my life,” cried John, plucking up his heart
again, “that these holy men have brought us our
pay. Make ready your bows, my brethren, and
fear not. There are but three of us, all told ; yet
our master will give us a sorry welcome, an' we
bring not these guests to dine with him this day.”
“Stay, churlish monks,” John cried, “ or you are
dead. Full wrath ye have made our master, that
stays fasting for you.”
“Who is your master P” demanded the foremost
monk. -
“ Robin Hood.”
“He is a strong thief, whom-of heard I ever
yet no good.”
“He is a yeoman of the forest,” said John, “and
he has bidden you both to dine with him yonder
where he lies.”
But Much let fly a bolt at one of those holy men,
and he fell to the earth; and of those fifty men and


ROBIN HOOD. 3O9
two that were set as a guard over the sumpters, all,
save a little page and one other, fled out of view.
They led the other monk, that was truly the high
cellarer of St. Mary's at York, to the lodge-door,
and Robin did off his hood, but the cellarer lacked
the like courtesy.
“He is a churl,” said John.
“No matter,” said Robin. “How many had he
with him P”
“Fifty-two and another monk, that we left on the
ground.”
“Let the horn sound,” said Robin, “that we
may have company befitting, put-case they should
return.”
The high cellarer, after he had washed, sat to
dinner, and drank of the best, and Robin and John
served him right dutifully, till, when all was done,
Robin shewed him how he had lent, it was a twelve-
month, a little money to Sir Richard at the Lee, so
that he might acquit himself of a debt to St. Mary's.
The high cellarer sware that he wist nought of such
a matter; but Robin held that because he was an
officer of the abbey, he must be the messenger sent
to keep the day, and for that he was so true to
the time he yielded him great thanks. The high
cellarer made a vow, that he had but twenty marks
in his mail.
“If it be so,” quoth Robin, “thou mayest even
keep them, and I will lend thee more an' need be.”
John spread his mantle on the ground, and out of
the cellarer's coffers he took eight hundred pieces,
and more. “The abbey,” said he, “ hath doubled
our venture.”

3 IO FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Monk,” said Robin, in high glee, “Our Lady
is the truest woman whom-of I ever heard tell.
By dear worthy God, an' I had searched all Eng-
land through, I could not have placed my money
to more profitable usance. Fill of the best wine,
John ; let the cellarer drink, ere he go.”
But the cellarer said, “Nay,” and put spurs to his
palfrey, as to go.
“Whither are ye bound, sir?” asked Robin.
“To certain manors in this country,” he answered,
“whereas our reeves do us wrong.”
“Greet well your abbot from me,” said Robin,
“and your prior also, and pray them well every day
to send us such a guest.”
XIV.
In the meantime the knight of Utersdale came
not, and seemed like to break his day. But about
three hours after noon, as Robin and John and
certain others yet lingered on the scene, rode Sir
Richard at the Lee in sight, attended by his follow-
ing ; and as he drew near, he alighted from his
palfrey, and bent his knee to Robin.
“God save thee, good Robin Hood, and all this
company," quoth he.
“Rise, gentle knight,” said Robin ; “right wel-
come art thou to me. And, I pray you, what taketh
you so late to the greenwood P” -
“It was my duty, good Robin,” he answered ;
“but I shall tell you, that I was kept at a wrestling,
whereby I passed, namely, at Wentbridge, and holp
a poor yeoman, whom they would have wronged
else.”
ROBIN HOOD. 3 II
“'Fore God, thereof give I thee thanks, knight;
he that aids poor yeomen is my friend.”
“Have here, Robin,” proceeded the knight, “four
hundred pound that I borrowed, and twenty marks
for the courtesy.”
“Nay,” Robin answered; “Our Lady by her
cellarer hath already satisfied me; and if I should
take it twice, it were a shame indeed. But truly,
knight, thou art welcome ; and what import these
bows and arrows, so fair and fine, that thou hast
brought thee-with ?”
“A poor gift to thee, Robin.”
Robin took them in good part, and then he told
the knight all the story about the high cellarer; and
over their supper well they laughed.
“And hast thou gotten thy lands securely back
into thy hands P” the yeoman demanded.
“Ay, at length; but the abbey laboured shrewdly
to dispossess me, and sent messengers to London
to make suit to our king thereupon ; and the high
cellarer himself was to have gone thither to moot
farther therein, and was only by thee stayed from
his purpose.” -
“He let me understand differently,” quoth Robin,
“and he was a false monk. What was the wrestling
at Wentbridge, knight, whereat thou didst so cour-
teously intervene P”
The knight shewed how there was published a
wrestling for a prize to the winner of a pair of
gloves, a gold ring, and a pipe of wine, and how a
stranger yeoman won it; but they denied him his
right, and would have slain him forsooth, had he,
the knight and his retinue, not ridden into the

3I 2 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
throng, and for the sake of Robin Hood defended
that yeoman, and caused to be delivered unto him
the trophies of the day. “And I gave him,” added
he, “five marks for his wine, that it might be
broached, drink who would.”
Robin was right glad ; and because the knight
was not rich, and had spent of his substance not a
little in coming thither so accompanied, and in fur-
nishing a hundred bows and the like number of
sheaves of arrows, all of the best, his heart opened,
and he said to John, as the knight made ready to
go before the gloaming : “Fetch me four hundred
pound of the cellarer's treasure that he left behind.”
Then when John had brought the money, he
turned to Sir Richard at the Lee, and said: “Thou
wilt keep thy four hundred pound, knight, and four
hundred other I count out to thee for thy bows and
thy arrows; and if thou ever standest in requirement
of more, let me have thy news. But my counsel to
thee is, for the time to come be a better husband of
thy store.”
So they parted for awhile, Sir Richard at the Lee
and Robin Hood ; and Robin holp him to mount
his palfrey, and bad him heartily well to fare.
XV.
Still a short while the yeomen tarried in Barns-
dale; but anon came tidings of a noble shooting at
Nottingham beside the forest under the greenwood
shade, whereto all the bowmen of the north were
bidden, if they listed, to repair, and the prize to the
best archer was a silver arrow feathered with gold.
Now, Robin, remembering well that the sheriff







ROBIN HOOD. 313
-
of Nottingham had plighted to him his faith to do
him and his evermore no scath, and wishful, besides,
to prove his mastery at the pair of butts, called
certain of the trustiest of his fellows unto him, and
opened unto them his desire to go to Nottingham to
the shooting.
Little John, Will Scathlock, Little Much, Gilbert
with the strong hand, Reynold, and one other, to-
gether six, he chose to enter the barriers him-with.
The rest he commanded to be in readiness, lest the
sheriff should prove false. And against the day
it was so, that they all removed to Sherwood, each
to fulfil his part.
The sheriff stood by the butts, and the fourth in
order among the marksmen was Robin himself.
All the others shot well and with good approval;
but Robin won the arrow, and received it right
courteously. -
Presently arose a hue and cry, that it was Robin
that was there, and the horns were blown amain.
The outlaws stood together, and bent their bows;
and those who were behind wist well enough what
had befallen, when the sound of their master's bugle
brake upon their ears.
Loudly reproached Robin the sheriff with his
treason, and sware that the next time he would ask
a different pledge than that he had taken from him
In the forest, when his life was at his mercy ; and as
the yeomen fell back, they sent a cloud of arrows
among the sheriff's men, and many a soul perished.
But John was wounded in the knee, and could
scarce stir, and he prayed his master, sooner than
let him fall into the hands of the sheriff, to despatch

3I4. FEUIDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
him for the love of God and for all his passed
service.
“Not for all the gold in England, John," quoth
his master.
“Ay, so say I too,” cried Much. And he bent
down, and took John on his back, and bare him
along ; and as they ever continued to retreat, now
and again he set him down, and sent an arrow from
his bow on its errand. And so, by little and little,
through the wound of John staying them somewhat,
they left the sheriff's men behind, and a goodly
number dead ; and while the most part dispersed
themselves in the forest, Robin and John, and a
certain few other, arrived in fine at the castle of Sir
Richard at the Lee at Utersdale in the forest,
walled and double-fossed.
The yeomen had no sooner entered the gates
than they were made once more fast ; and the good
knight and his lady welcomed Robin and his fellows
to their house, the knight saying that than Robin
he loved no man in the world more dearly ; and with
them they remained a certain space at bed and
board.
The whole country the sheriff raised by cry and
by horn, and laid siege to the knight's house, com-
manding him to surrender unto him the king's
enemy; but he would not by any means, until he
saw the king's writ, and the sheriff had it not, nor
could so strong a place, held by these good archers, ..
gain into his hands. º
But shortly arrived our king's letters out of
Staffordshire where his grace was in progress, shew-
ing that within a fortnight he should be in Notting-


ROBIN HOOD. 3 I 5
ham, and charging the sheriff against such time to
muster levies, for his mind was to take that outlaw,
that he should no more set him at nought, and be
lord of the north country in his room. -
Robin bad adieu to the knight at the end of
twelve days, and right courteously he had been
entertained, with John, and Much, and Scathlock,
and Gilbert of the strong hand, and Reynold, and
returned to Sherwood ; and that gentle knight, not
deeming that the sheriff of Nottingham set spies
upon him and catchpolls, as he was hawking on
horseback at the riverside one morn, was suddenly
taken prisoner by an ambush, and carried toward
Nottingham bound to his steed.
The lady his wife rode as fast as she might to
Robin in the forest, and shewed him the sorry
chance, praying him for the love of Our Lady to
aid them once again. Robin doubted that he should
not overtake the sheriff's men until they were well
into Nottingham, and the sheriff was like to hold
the knight with all his power; for shortly our king
was looked for, and of men he had enough by
our king's ordinance. But Robin, because time
so pressed, summoned every yeoman within bugle's
reach, and enjoined them, as they loved him, to
render themselves in Nottingham town, ere the
bridges were drawn and the gates were shut.
Over hedge and over ditch these yeomen made
their way, Robin at their head, a goodly company
with their bows on their shoulders and their broad-
swords at their sides, and they came to their jour-
ney's end ere the sheriff could order the bridges to
be drawn up and the gates to be sparred.








316 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
The sheriff was in the street to receive his
prisoner, and was aghast when he beheld that strong
array of yeomen, with Robin Hood, in the rear.
“Hold, sheriff,” cried Robin ; “what news hast
thou of our king 2 By dear worthy God I have
not walked so hard this seven year, and I trow it
is not for thy good.”
He bent his bow and shot the sheriff dead, and
speeding up to him, where he lay in his blood,
smote his head from his body.
“Lie there, traitor,” he cried ; “whilst thou wast
alive, thou wast false to me and other.” And then
he sprang to the knight, where he lay bound, and
ungirthed him, and gave him a weapon ; and all the
yeomen, sword in hand, formed themselves in array,
and drove the sheriff's levies before them.
“Leave thy horse behind thee, knight,” said
Robin at length, “and come back with me to Sher-
wood, until we have devised means how to obtain
grace from Edward our comely king.”
XVI.
Now, our lord the king, namely, Edward that
was called of Carnarvon, having come into the
northern parts in the month of April, in the year
of grace 1323, and in the seventeenth year of his
reign, visited in due course York, Holderness, and
all the country about Doncaster and Thorne. In
the month of August he passed much time in the
Forest of Pickering. Part of September his grace
spent at Whorlton Castle and in the neighbourhood
of Richmond and Jervaulx Abbey; and on the



ROBIN HOOD. 3 I 7
twenty-second of the month he was at Haywra
Park in the Forest of Knaresborough, where he
saw how sorely he had been despoiled of his deer,
whereof he could meet with scarce any of great horn.
Then his grace moved by way of Skipton into
Lancashire, and on the fourth October rested at
Ightershill Park by Clitheroe. Thence he removed
to Blackburn, Holand, and Kirkby, and on the
twenty-third he was at Liverpool. Upon the
Mersey he took ship, and visited Ince and the
Castle of Hilton, and on the third of November,
journeying by the monastery of Vale Royal, Sand-
bach, Newcastle-under-Lyme, Croxden, Langford,
and Dale Abbey, he arrived on the ninth at his
town of Nottingham, where he purposed to abide
a fortnight or thereabout, so that he might make
inquisition into affairs and into the condition of his
Forest of Sherwood. -
The good people of Nottingham well knew our
comely king, who had formerly made progress in
that country, and had been in residence at New-
stead and at Clipstone. But it was a sad story
which he heard, when he came thither at this
present, of the death of the sheriff by the hand of
Robin Hood, and of the treason of Sir Richard at
the Lee.
Our king declared forfeit unto him the lands of
that knight, and sware an oath, that whoever
should bring unto him the head of so great a felon
should receive them freely at his hands under his
seal. But an old courtier, that waited on the king,
let him understand that his grace's act would be
void and of none effect, for that so long as Robin

3.18 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Hood lived no man would be suffered by him to
enter into possession of the estate of Utersdale, and
prayed his highness not to grant it to any one who
was dear to his grace, for that his life would be little
worth. -
In the meantime, Robin and his men followed
their accustomed employment and usage, and freely
killed the king's deer ; nor could the king come to
a knowledge by what means he might take that
yeoman, or have sight of him.
Then up and spake a forester, who was near his
grace, and said after this manner: “If ye will see
Robin Hood, ye must do as I ye counsel. Take
five of your best knights, and go down to yonder
abbey; put on monk's weeds; and I will be your
guide. I will lay my head that I will show you that
yeoman shortly.”
The king assented, and clad himself like some
abbot, with a cowl, and a broad hat, and stiff boots;
and they all set out on horseback for the forest, the
king singing, as he went, 7%e convent was clothed
in gray.
They had not gone a mile within the wood, ere
they met with that good yeoman, and Little John,
and Sir Richard at the Lee, and certain few others
with him. Robin started to the abbot's side, and
grasped his bridle-rein.
“Sir abbot,” quoth he, “a while ye must here
abide. We are yeomen of this forest, and live by
the king's deer ; other shift have we none. Ye
have churches and rents, and gold in store; for
Saint Charity, give us of your plenty.”
“Good friend,” said the abbot, answering him,


º
T-
ROBIN HOOD. 3 I 9
“I have lain at Nottingham a fortnight with the
king's grace, and have spent all my substance save
forty pound.”
“Sir abbot," quoth Robin again, “if it be so,
spare us half, and keep the rest for thine own
occasions.” And the abbot did so, and Robin de-
livered the money to his fellows, that they might
share it among them.
“Gramercy,” said the abbot, “for thy courtesy;
and Edward our king greeteth thee well by me,
and biddeth thee come to Nottingham to wait upon
him.” And the abbot took from his pocket the
broad signet, to which Robin straightway bent his
knee.
“I love no man in all the world so well as I do
my king,” quoth he “welcome be my lord's seal
and thou, for that thou bearest it. Sir abbot,
because thou art so good a messenger, thou shalt
be my guest, and all that are with thee, under my
trysting tree.”
Robin sounded his bugle, and seven score archers
answered shortly to the call, and made their obei-
sance to their master.
The king was moved by the sight, and said him-
self-to: “By St. Austin, his men are more at his
bidding than my men are at mine.” And when
they had feasted well on the fat venison, and fair
white bread, and red wine, and Robin and John
had ended their service on the abbot, Robin spake
unto him, saying, that he would have him now see
what sort of life they led in the forest, that he
might make report unto the king, whenas he met
with his grace.

32O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Under the linden they set up butts at good
distance and the rose garland, and whoever shot
not therewithin lost his bow and arrows, and
received a buffet to boot on his bare head. No
grace was shown to any. Robin, John, Gilbert
with the wight hand, and Scathlock, shot wonderly
well ; but the last time Robin missed the garland.
“Sir abbot,” said he, “I deliver thee my arrow, and
thou shalt give me my due.”
“It belongeth not to my order,” said the abbot;
but because Robin would not have it otherwise,
he folded back his sleeve and dealt the outlaw such
a blow that he fell well-nigh.
“I make my vow to God,” cried Robin, “thou
art a stalwart friar, there is pith in thine arm.
Thou shouldest shoot well in a bow, thou!”
And then, because Robin, and that gentle knight,
and other, had privily known from the first who the
abbot truly was, and because the forester that had
counselled our king was indeed a secret messenger
from Robin, they looked wistfully at him for a
moment, and forthwith sank on their knees at his
feet, and all those wild outlaws, when they beheld
them so do, did in like sort.
“We pray you,” said Robin, “ of your royal
mercy to my men and to me, and to this gentle
knight, Sir Richard at the Lee.” -
“For you, I grant your petition,” said our king,
“if so you will leave the greenwood and your now
kind of life, and if you will serve me in my court.”
“Content am I, liege lord,” said Robin, “to come -
into your service, with certain of my men, and see
what it is.”


ROBIN HOOD. 32 I
“Hast thou any coats of Lincoln green, that thou
canst provide me and my knights that are in my
company withal, ere we return to Nottingham 2"
And Robin furnished our king and his five
knights with that they required, and then they all
repaired together townward again; but Sir Richard
at the Lee was not of the number, for our king had
not yet declared his mind him-upon.
Robin rode by the side of the king, and they
both bare bows in their hands, and shot pluck-
buffet ; and now Robin won, and spared not the
king, and now the king had his turn. But his grace
allowed Robin the better archer.
The good folk of Nottingham fled amain, when
they erst espied so rare a gathering, all in Lincoln
green, with their weapons bent; and they thought
that his grace had fallen in the forest, and that none
in all the town would be left alive. The king
laughed, and made himself seen, and there was
great rejoicing and much good cheer; and in the
end our king lent an ear to the suit of Robin Hood
on behalf of Sir Richard at the Lee, and recalled
what he had done to his hurt, and assoiled him.
XVII.
Our king removed from Nottingham to Duffield
Frith, and rested at Ravensdale Park, and thence
after a time he proceeded unto Kenilworth, to spend
the feast of Christmas, while Robin Hood prepared
to enter upon his strange new life, as he had made
covenant with his grace, and was appointed by the
same to be a valet of his chamber.
A. L. - Y



322 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDs.
Fifteen months Robin remained in that office,
and not seldom lost his daily wage, for that he kept
not the court, but strayed away, none knew whither;
and at the end of five quarters or so, when it drew
toward Christmas of the year of grace 1324, he fell
sick, and importuned our king that he might be
suffered to return to Barnsdale, where he had made
a little chapel of St. Mary Magdalen, and sorely
desired to abide till he was called by God aside.
“My lord king,” he said, “I yearn to behold
Barnsdale once more, ere I die. I was erewhile a
good archer, one of the best in merry England ; but
my strength is well-nigh fore-done, and I have no
lust to my food, nor sleep not.”
When he came to Barnsdale, it was a winter's
evening, yet he heard the notes of the birds and
saw the dun deer; and when a great hart bounded
by in the short distance, he sent an arrow, which
brought it to earth. Then he knew that he had not
lost his cunning, and was glad. Presently, when he
blew his horn, some of his old companions came to
him : Little John, Scathlock, and other ; for they
had had secret tidings of his return.
They all sorrowed at heart; for they perceived
well that their master was ill at ease, and that his
vigour of body had departed from him,
He tarried too long in the forest to seek again
the court for dread of the anger of our king. But
he shewed his comrades how he deemed it best to
proceed to Kirklees Priory, and pray the prioress,
that was his kinswoman, to have him let blood, put-
case it might bestead him.
Now, the prioress had a paramour, that was Sir
ROBIN HOOD. 323
Roger of Doncaster, a holy brother, and he enter-
tained no goodwill toward Robin Hood ; and when
it was so that Robin was let blood, this Sir Roger
procured false play, whereby the strength of that
yeoman ebbed away, and he died, who would have
more worthily come by his end, sword in hand,
beneath the greenwood tree. But thus it was
ordered ; and he had, when he left the forest to
wait upon the king, been a dweller in the woods,
and an outlaw, as the story saith, twenty years and
tWO.

ADAM BE L.
[Having Zhus dealt wit/, //e Saxon Zegends of the
Æind and the ſočin Hood group, with the “A ing
and //e //ermit,” we come to the Öa//ad-effic of
“Adam Bel, C/ym of the C/ough, and William of
Cloudesley," which is to be regarded as a most inter-
esſing, Zhough ſer/afts the Załest picture of old fores/-
/.../e remaining to us in this class of composition.
7%e writer is unknown, and the first edition yet
recovered is dated 1536. // is evident //a/ in form-
ing the narrative there was an eye to froductions
of the same femour already in existence, and since
mo ancient /l/S. copy is ał Żresent Ánown to be
extant, he may have partly re/ied on them surviving
morſ/-country oral tradition, as where (in the Ö/acé-
ſetter impression) /*e employs the words “as / heard
say ”; but we cannot ſe// whether he was aware
£/a/, as /l/?". Aſunder ſirst pointed out in modern
days, one Adam Bel was living in the time of Henry
Z l’., and was 4/ºe recipient of an annuity out of Z/e
ſee-ſarm of C//ston, in Sherwood, AVoſţs.
At any rate, Æe/, if not the two others, was a
noted character at the end of the fifteenſ/ or
Öeginning of Že ſo//owing century, and Žossić/y
Örought a career as an out/aw to a close, as /ēoffin


324

ADAM BEL. 3.25
Z/ood ſad dome, by receiving the roya/ ?ardon and a
Žension.
7%e former circumstance may have been borrowed
from f/he earlier incident of //e Queen's intercession
for the burg/hers of Calais, where it is more appro-
Ariaſe.
7%e author of “Adam Be/" has maturally and
necessarily selected a particular passage in the career
of that outlaw and his two associates for treatment
and / reservation. We do noč Amozy how long the
/i/t/e Öand continued to deſy the law, out of the ſale
and protection of which they had placed themselves ;
Čut the term was most probably still åriefer than
that of #e froscription of Że hero of Barnsdale and
Sherwood, and it should be received into account
that their origina/ offence apparently limited itself
to poaching, and the case was not aggravated within
//he roya/ Anow/edge Öy homicide and sacrilege unti!
# /had become too /ate to 2-efracá.
We can admire aſ our leisure the discrepancy
Öetween Z/e Áing's estimation of the value of his deer
and that of the lives of his Zieges. 7%e s/aug/ter at
Car/isſe was doubtless exaggerated, but his grace's
emotion was in any case mai/d, and it was from/t/y
diverſed and eactinguished by an archery-match.
7%e old marrative presents the not uncommon
defect of developing the //ot imperfect/y and off-
scure/y, and it is essentia/ to a clear comprehension
of the sequence of events to amp/ify and transpose
Aere and there, just as, on the other hand, if Öecomes
imperative to curtail, from time to time, where there
7s unserviceable redundancy.
The opening of the tale recalls to mind that of
326 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
“Guy of Gisóorne,” and the episode of the a///e is
of course much older than this, and seems indeed to
/ave existed in German ſo/A-/ore Óefore the days of
7 eZ/.
7%e present story is, in ſacſ, of a composite ſea-
ture, with 4/e names of Z/ree motorious characters
to recommend it to notice. Of the rea/ /ºisſory of
Ae/ and his comrades it is impossible to say Aow
much we learn here or ſhow /i/t/e. His friends and
Aimse/f Żad, according to Z/ºe romancist, for ſeized
their lives by deer-stealing, not, /ike Game/yn in
Chaucer, Öy means/aug/ter, nor s/ou/d we &e Zoo
sanguine of the identity of the person mentioned in
Že record as a ſensioner, uncommon as the doué/e
name may 6e » for the Adam Be/ of song was a
Cumbrian hero, playing his part on ground stil/
more northerly than Æočin Hood, to him Car/isſe
stood in the //ace of AVožing/ama, and we are /rans-
Žorted from Sherwood or Barnsdale to Zng/ewood, a
wasá áract of wood/and once stretching from Car/isſe
to Penrith. -
One ſeaſure in “Adam Be/" peculiar/y appeals
ſo our sympathy and admiration, and it is #/e dra
mažic frominence given to A/ice, Zhe moč/e and femalez
wife of C/oudes/ey; for in the Æočin Hood effic //ere
is rea/y no female character, Marian Öeing a ſafer
creation, and A'offin's own wife never aft/earing in
//e genuine remains.]
I.
MERRY and joyous it is in the green forest, when
the leaves are full and broad, to walk beneath its
breezy shade, and hearken to the wild birds' song.


s
ADAM BEL. 327
It is of three good yeomen of the north country
that I seek at present to tell you all : Adam Bel,
Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley.
Archers of approved skill were they, and outlawed
for venison ; and in the town of Carlisle, where they
dwelled, they sware brotherhood, and to the forest
betook them. Whereof twain were single men ;
but Cloudesley had taken unto him a wife, and with
moist eyes he brake from fair Alice, and the chil-
dren clasped to his knee, to lead a strange new
life in Inglewood with his two comrades, their
hand against every man, and every man against
them.
So they made such shift as they could, and
passed their days amid the forest glades and lawns,
sustaining themselves on the king's venison and
the water of the brook; and ever and again a little
boy, who had served Cloudesley as his swineherd,
was sent to him privily, and brought him and the
others victuals and raiment, and news withal.
Till, after a certain space of time, Cloudesley
waxed homesick, thinking often on his young wife
Alice and his sweet little ones, whom he had left
behind him ; and he said to the others, that he would
fain make his way to Carlisle, to gladden his eyes
with the sight of them all once more. For Alice,
while she caused the little swineherd to pass to and
fro with meat for the foresters, held it unwise to
charge the boy with any message, praying Cloudesley
to come unto her, seeing that she was so straitly
observed.
Then said Adam Bel to him : “Ye go not,
brother, by mine advice; for if ye be marked, and
328 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
the justice take ye, your life is even at an end.
Stay, prythee, where ye are, and be content.”
But Cloudesley replied: “Nay, wend thither I
must ; and if so I return not to you and Clym by
noon, ye may augur that I am taken or slain.”
And when his brethren saw that they might
nowise prevail upon him they said no more, and
he departed on his way as it grew toward evening.
With a light step and an anxious heart he sped
along till he came to the gates of Carlisle, and he
passed in thereat disguised, that no man might
discern who he was ; and he paused not till he was
at his own window, and called on Alice his wife to
undo the door, for it was her own William who
stood without.
Then when the joy of the meeting had a little
abated, fair Alice gazed at him pensively, and said :
“William, it is so, that this house has been watched
and beset for you this half-year or more.”
But he replied to her : “Now I am here, bring
me to eat and to drink, and let us make good cheer
while we may.”
Now there was an old wife in the chimney-
corner, that Cloudesley had harboured for charity's
sake some seven years, and that had not of long
time set foot on ground. This shrewd and cursed
crone, albeit she had eaten his bread so long, seized
her occasion, and crept privily to the sheriff, where
he lived, and warned him that that very night
William the outlaw had by stealth come into the
town, and was even now securely at home, where
they might have him.
The sheriff caused the bell to be rung, and the



ADAM BEL. 329
justice and the sheriff getting their men together,
they soon encompassed the house round about on
every side. Then Cloudesley made all the doors
fast, and took his sword and buckler and bow, and
with his three children and fair Alice his wife
mounted the stair to an upper chamber, where he
imagined that he might withstand them all ; and by
his side his true wedded wife held a poleaxe in her
hand.
Cloudesley bent his bow, and the arrow shivered
in two against the justice's breastplate. “Beshrew
the varlet,” muttered Cloudesley, “that dressed thee
in that coat ; if it had not been thicker than mine,
thou haddest not spoken more.” -
“Yield, Cloudesley,” cried the justice, “and give
up thy arms."
“A curse light on him,” cried Alice, “who
lendeth us such counsel !”
And they kept them all at a distance, for
Cloudesley was at the window with his bow ready
bent, and none durst break the doors, so true an
archer was he.
“Set fire on the house, since there is no other
way,” shouted the sheriff; and they did as he bad,
and the flames quickly rose. Cloudesley opened a
back window, and let down his wife and his children,
and said to the sheriff, “ For Christ's love, hurt
them not, but wreak all your ire on me.” And he
kept his bow busy till all his arrows were spent
and the fire nigh burned his bowstring in twain.
“This is a coward's death,” he exclaimed, “and
liever had I fall sword in hand than thus.” And
he cast down his bow, and taking his sword and
J. h
--


33O FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
buckler, leaped down among the throng, and Smote
them on every side, till only by hurling doors and
windows at him could they make prisoner that stout
and bold yeoman.
Then they bound him hand and foot, and led him
to prison, and the justice commanded that he should
be hanged the next morning, and that the gates
should be shut, so that none might enter thereat.
For the justice doubted that Adam Bel and Clym
of the Clough might gain tidings of their fellow, and
might essay to rescue him from the gallows.
“Not Adam Bel, nor Clym, nor all the devils in
hell," quoth the justice, “shall save thee from the
rope this time.”
Early in the morning, a pair of new gallows was
erected in the market-place, nigh the pillory, and
the gates of Carlisle were locked.
Now Alice, seeing no other remedy, had that same
night that Cloudesley was taken despatched with all
speed to Inglewood the little swineherd, who crept
out unobserved through a crevice in the wall after
dusk, and lost not a moment in finding the two
foresters, where they lay under the greenwood
shade.
“Too long, too long,” cried he, “tarry ye
here, ye good yeomen. Cloudesley is taken, and
to-morrow betimes he shall be hanged on a new
gallows in the market-place.”
“He might have dwelled with us in peace,” said
Adam Bel, “as I prayed him heartily to do, and
now here is a shrewd pass.” And he took his bow in
his hand, and a buck that bounded by was stretched
suddenly on the ground. “That will serve us for
|
|




ADAM BEL. 33 I
our breakfast,” he said, “ere we go. Fetch me my
arrow again, boy; for we shall have need enough.”
Now when these yeomen had eaten their meal
hastily, they girded on their swords, and took their
bows and arrows and bucklers, and sped on their
way, for time pressed, and it was a fair May morn-
ing when they reached the gates of Carlisle.
II.
“We must devise some sleight,” said Clym of the
Clough, “to get in. Let us say that we are mes-
sengers from the king.”
“I have a fair letter,” quoth the other ; “we will
declare that we have the king's signet ; the porter
is, I warrant, no clerk.”
They beat hard at the door, and when the porter
heard that they had the king's seal, he unlocked the
gate, and let them enter.
“Now we are in,” whispered Adam Bel; “but,
by Heaven I do not know how we shall make our
way out again.”
“Let us seize the keys,” whispered Clym.
They beckoned the porter to them, and wrang his
neck, and cast his body into a corner. “Now, am
I porter in his room,” cried Adam, “the worst that
they have had here in Carlisle this hundred year.”
And without more ado they hastened to the market-
place, placing themselves where they might not be
noted. They espied the gallows, and the justice
with his inquest, that had adjudged Cloudesley to
die, and Cloudesley hard by in a cart, bound hand
and foot, with a rope round his neck.
The justice called a boy, and promised him the


332 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
outlaw's clothes, if he would dig his grave against
the time for despatch. Cloudesley cast his eye aside,
where his two brethren stood, and he said to the
justice : “Such wonders have happened ere now as
that a man who diggeth a grave for another lieth
in it himself.”
But the justice answered and said: “Ah! thou
talkest proudly. I will hang thee, fellow, with my
own hand.”
Scarce had the words fallen from him, when an
arrow pierced his breast, and a second the sheriff's ;
the rest began to scatter, and Adam, running up to
the cart, loosed Cloudesley, who wrenched an axe
from a man near him. There was a panic ; the
bells were rung backward, the out-horns were
blown, and the mayor with a strong force behind
him arrived with their bills and their swords.
The foresters, when they saw them, were dis-
mayed by their numbers, and retreated toward the
gate ; and when they could no longer use their
bows, they cut down all that came near with their
swords, till at last they reached the gate, and un-
locked it; and when they were without, Adam Bel
threw the keys at the heads of the mayor's men,
and cried : “I give up my office. Prythee, elect a
new porter.” And they waited not to see what
further befell, but took their way back to Inglewood,
where Cloudesley found fair Alice and his children
three, that had thought him dead; and there was
great rejoicing among them all, and they feasted to
their heart's ease.
Then, when those three bold foresters, with Alice
and her children three, had supped merrily together,
-

ADAM BEL. 333
and they had rested somewhat after that notable work
at Carlisle, quoth Cloudesley to the others: “Brethren
mine, let us even go straightway to London to our
king to seek his grace, ere the tidings come to his
ear, how the justice and sheriff be slain, with many
more; and Alice and two of my children shall repair
to a nunnery hereby, and my eldest son I shall take
with me.”
| So, when they came to London, they sought our
lord the king, pushing bluffly past the porter at the
palace-gate and the usher, and all, who pressed after
them in a body to know what they would have ; and
they said that they had travelled far to obtain from
the king a charter of peace. -
When they were brought into the presence of our
lord the king, they fell on their kness, as the law of
the land was, and each held up his hand ; and they
said: “Lord, we beseech thee to grant us grace,
for we have slain your highness's deer.”
“What are your names 2" asked our lord the
king. -
- “Adam Bel, Clym of the Clough, and William of
Cloudesley.”
“Ah be ye those thieves,” returned our lord the
king, “that men have reported so oft to me?
Gramercy, sirs, I shall see well that ye be hanged
without more ado.”
“We pray your highness,” said they again, “that
you will suffer us to leave you with our arms in our
hands till we are out of this place, and we will seek
no farther grace.”
“You talk rather próudly," quoth our king, “Nay,
nay; ye shall be of a surety hanged all three.”



334 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
Now the queen, hearing the news of these archers
having made so long a journey to see her lord the
king, came to him, praying him, as he had made
promise to her on her marriage to grant the first
boon she should ask, to yield unto her the lives of
those three yeomen; and the king, albeit he was
wroth that she should have begged so mean a thing
when she might have had market-towns, castles,
and forests to her use and pleasure, said unto her :
“I depart not, madam, from my word ; they are
yours.”
“My lord,” she said, “much thanks. I undertake
that they shall become to your grace good men and
true. But, prythee, speak a word to them, that they
may know your bounty to them.”
“You are pardoned, fellows,” our lord the king
said thereupon. “Go now, wash and sit to meat.”
A crafty man was William of Cloudesley, who
thought of fair Alice and his sweet children, and
wist well that the men of Carlisle would send
messengers to London without delay to apprise our
lord the king of what had there befallen; and,
certes, scarcely were those three yeomen assoiled by
our lady the queen's favour, when, as they sat at
meat in the king's kitchen, there came a post from
the north country to disclose the whole thing as
it was.
The messengers kneeled, and presented their
letters, saying, “Lord, your officers of Carlisle in
the north country greet you well." And when our
lord the king brake the seal, he was a sad man ; for
he found that those three yeomen, to whom he had
granted grace, and leave to wash and eat at his

ADAM BEL. 335
board, had slain three hundred and more, with the
justice and the sheriff, and the mayor and many
other, and had ravaged his parks, and killed his
deer, and by all that country were held in dread.
“Take away the meat,” cried the king; “I can
touch no more. What archers be these, that can
do such feats with their bows 2 Marry, I have
none such. Methinks I will see them shoot.” And
his grace commanded that his bowmen and the
queen's should forthwith hold a meeting, and set
up butts. Whereto Adam Bel, Clym of the Clough,
and William of Cloudesley were summoned to
COIn C. -
They all took their turns, and the king's bowmen,
and the queen's, put out their whole strength and
skill before those three yeomen of the north country;
but those three yeomen carried everything; and
there was much marvelling at such archery.
But William of Cloudesley spake and said :
“Gramercy, I hold him no archer that shooteth at
such wide butts.”
“What wouldest thou, then P” demanded the
king.
“Such a butt, lord,” he answered, “as men use
in my country.”
And the king gave him leave that he should shew
his meaning.
Then Cloudesley took two hazel wands in his
hand, and set them up two hundred paces apart,
and he said to the king: “Whoso cleaveth them
both in twain, I hold him an archer indeed.”
No man that was with the king raised his voice
or made a sign, but all were still and silent; and the



336 FEUDAL AND FOREST LEGENDS.
king said: “There is none here who can do such a
thing.”
“I shall try, then,” cried Cloudesley, stepping
forward suddenly ; and fixing a bearing arrow in
his bow, he drew it to the head, and split both the
wands in two.
“Thou art the best archer,” exclaimed the king,
delightedly, “that I ever beheld.”
“Wait a moment, lord,” said Cloudesley, “and I
will shew your grace even more. Here is my little
son, seven years old ; dear enough to his mother and
to me he is. Grieved in our hearts were we if any
misadventure should befall him ; yet, lo! I will bind
him to a stake, and place an apple on his head, and
at sixscore paces I will cut the apple in two.”
None believed that even Cloudesley had the
courage and steadfastness to achieve such a deed.
But he called his son to him, and fastened him with
his back toward him, lest he might wince, to a post,
and the apple was laid upon the child's head, and
sixscore paces were measured out. Cloudesley
stood motionless for an instant, not a breath was
heard throughout all that meeting, and many prayed
for the yeoman, that God would protect him in his
task, and some wept. He drew out a broad shaft,
fixed it in his good bow, and the next moment the
apple had fallen from the child's head, and not a
hair was stirred.
“God forbid ' " cried the king, “that thou
shouldest shoot at me ! I perceive how my officers
in Carlisle sped so ill when they had such a foe.
But I have tried thee sorely, William, and thou art
an exceeding good archer. I give thee eighteen-
ADAM BEL. 337
|
pence a day, and thy clothing, and make thee a
gentleman and chief forester of my north country;
and thy brethren twain shall be yeomen of my
chamber. Thy little son, whom thou so lovest, I
will place in my wine-cellar, and when he cometh to
man's estate, he shall be farther preferred.”
So said the king ; and our lady the queen com-
manded that Alice should be brought to London to
the court, and should be set over her nursery.
So fared those three yeomen excellently well
through the mastery of William of Cloudesley and
the gracious offices of our lady the queen; and
when they had gone on pilgrimage to Rome to our
holy father the pope, to obtain remission of their
sins against God, they returned to their own land,
and lived ever after in ease and worship.

ROMANTIC LEGENDS.






CHEVY CHACE.
(End of Fourteenth Century.)
[7%e circumstances connected with this historica/
incident, so far as Zºey can be ascertained, are se/
ſorſ/ at considerað/e /eng/ in the editions of Percy's
“A’e/i/ues.” 7%e oôject which we had in introducing
// is and one or two more of the Öa//ad's into the
Żresent series was to enaë/e 4/ºe reader to compare
//e rude metrica/ version wit/, a prose rendering
Żrue to the suðsſance and sense, and unſettered 69
7%yme. In Zhe Öa//ad form f/is and of/er narratives
suffer very serious/y from Že necessity of com//iance
with the ſaws of metre, however ſau//y the distriótt-
Žion into /imes and stanzas may be, and every one
must see that, whi/e 4/ºe observance of the arrange-
ment ental/s redundancy and offscurity, Z/ºe Zanguage
emº//oyed by the scribe is des/itute of critica/au//hority
and///i/o/ogica/wa/ue.
In giving a pſace //erefore to “Chevy CAEace” and
//e “Aatºſe of Offeróurm " in a prose book intended
for genera/ readers, Zºe offſecá / as Öeen to present two
famous episodes of ancient border-/ſe more inte/-
/igið/y, without sacrificing the heroic spirit, whic/
ôreat/es #47 oughout. ZZ is on/y to be Zamented that
Žn two such cases we have not purer and more
contemporary ſerás as our guides, and have to defend
34I

342 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
on MSS. copies not far in point of s/ovem/y iſ/iteracy
from the Percy folio.]
THE Percy came forth out of Northumberland, and
he hath made a vow to God, that within the third
day he will hunt in the Cheviot Hills ma/gré
Douglas and all his men, and the fattest harts in
all that country will bear with him away.
He came forth out of Bamborough with fifteen
hundred archers so bold, that from three shires were
chosen, and on a Monday morn began the making
in readiness on the Cheviot for the chase. That
day's hunting may rue the child that is unborn.
The drivers beat the covers for the game, and
the greyhounds were let loose, and on a Monday
against noon a hundred fat harts lay dead.
Then they blew a moot, as they stood on the
ground in the long grass, to call together the hunters
and the bowmen, and the Percy came to see the
quartering of the deer.
Quoth he “The Douglas promised to meet me
here this day, to hinder my hunting, if he might.
But I doubted that he would fail me, by God as
he has done.”
But then spake a squire of Northumberland,
saying that he saw where the Douglas came toward
them with his folk, that were twenty hundred spear-
men, the like whereof were not in Christendom ;
spears, bills, and swords they carried : men bold of
heart and strong of arm.
“Leave off the quartering of the deer,” cried the
Percy, “and stand well to your good bows; for
never since ye were born stood ye in worse need,

CHEVY CHACE. 343
never since ye left your mothers, were ye in so
perilous case.”
The doughty Douglas rode in front of his men,
and his armour glittered in the morning light like
the glowing ember. A bolder child than he was
never Sprang from a woman.
“Tell me what men ye are," quoth he, “ or whose,
and where ye got leave to hunt on the Cheviot in
my despite.”
“We shall not to thee say,” answered him the
Percy, “what men we be, nor whose ; but we will
hunt here at our will, thee and thine notwithstand-
ing. The fattest harts that ran in Cheviot have we
slain, and to bear them home it is our intent.”
The Douglas said: “By my troth that must cost
the life of one of us two this day; yet to kill all
these guiltless men were great pity. Now, Percy,
thou art a great lord, and I in my own country am
called by the name of earl. Let our following stand
aside, and do we betwixt us the battle.”
“Christ's curse light on his head,” said the Percy
then, “who thereto saith nay. There is no man
in England, Scotland, or France, that was born of
woman, but I dare meet him in lawful fray.”
But up and spake a Northumbrian squire, Richard
Witherington was his name: “It shall never be
said in southern England, nor told to king Henry,
for shame's sake, albeit I be a poor squire, and ye
be great lords both, that I saw my captain fight, and
looked idly on. But while I can hold my weapon,
I will fight heart and hand.”
His voice prevailed, and the battle opened ; and
seven score spearmen of the Scotish host fell to
344 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
the English bows. The Douglas came on, parting
his men in three, and took the English on every
side, and many a brave of Percy's liegemen was
pierced by the Scotish spears.
The Englishmen put away their bows, and drew
their blades; and they hewed down many of their
foes, cleaving through helmet, gauntlet, and rich mail.
But at length the Percy and the Douglas met
face to face, and fought, till they sweated, with
swords of Milan steel, and till the blood spouted
out their basenets like rain.
“Hold, Percy,” cried the Douglas, “and I will
bring thee to James, our Scotish king, who shall
bestow on thee an earl's fee, and thou shalt be quit
of any ransom, for thou art of all the men that ever
I met in fight the valiantest.” -
“Nay,” answered the Percy to him, “did not I
say to thee before, that to no man of a woman born
would I yield P’’ -
Then, as they thus spake together, sped an arrow
from a mighty bow, and it hath stricken the Douglas
to the heart, that the only words he could say were,
“Fight on, while ye may,” and he was no more.
Then Percy leaned on his sword, and saw the
Douglas die; and taking his hand, quoth he “Woe
is me! To have saved thee I would have pledged
my broad lands for three years' space, for a better
man and a braver was not in all the north country.”
With that a Scotish knight, Sir Hugh the
Montgomery, that saw how the Douglas had fallen,
rode at his best speed through the battle, and stay-
ing not till he came where the Percy stood, pierced
him through the body.


CHEVY CHACE. 345
-
But an archer of Northumberland set an arrow in
his bow, a cloth-yard long, and drawing it to the
very head, slew Sir Hugh the Montgomery straight-
way thereupon ; and the shaft was so true that the
Swan's feathers were dyed with the red heart's
blood.
Now the Scotish and Englishmen returned to
the fight, and when the bell rang for evensong the
battle yet went on, went on by the light of the
moon, till many could scarce stand on their feet; and

of the fifteen hundred archers of England, and of
the twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland, only fifty
of each side went home to tell the tale.
There fell with the Lord Percy Sir John of
Haggerston, Sir Roger Hartley, Sir William
Heron, Sir George Lovell, Sir Ralph Rokeby, and
Richard Witherington, the brave squire of North-
umberland, that when both his legs were cut off,
fought on his knees.
There fell with Douglas, Sir Hugh the Mont-
gomery, Sir David Liddell, Sir Charles Murray,
and Sir Hugh Maxwell.
On the morrow they brought biers of birch and
hazel to carry away the dead to Christian burial,
and widows came to seek their husbands that had
fallen; and there was like mourning in Teviotdale
and on the English side for that day's work.
Tidings came to Edinborough, to James the
Scotish king, that Douglas, Lieutenant of his
Marches, was slain in the Cheviots; and he Wrang
his hands, and said: “Alas! all Scotland through
shall I never find such another captain as he was
that is dead l’’
346 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Tidings came to fair London, to our king, that
the Lord Percy, Lieutenant of the Marches, lay dead
within the Cheviot Hills, and he said: “God have
mercy on his soul, good Lord, if it be His will
And albeit I have a hundred captains as good as
he, for his death, an' I live, will I have requital.”
Our noble king sware an oath, and kept his faith
as a prince of renown, and in the Battle of Homel-
dondown six and thirty Scotish knights fell in one
day; and so the Lord Percy was avenged.
-
-




THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN.
(End of Fourteenth Century.)
[We have menţioned the reason for inserting a
Žrose version of this stirring ſale, whicſ, in fact,
forms a companion and sequel to the Zast. A/r.
A'offerſ. White's monograp/, on Zhe suffect, Żuð/ished
Žn 1857, should be consu//ed by those desirous of Óe-
coming acquainted with the whoſe of the detai/s.
7%ał writer, who enjoyed 4/ºe ſu//est advantage of
/oca/ Amozwſedge and sympathy, assigns the Öałęſe to
1388, and supposes that it was ſought in the ſu/Z of
the moon in August. The Scotish force is variously
estimated, Öztá /l/r. White arrived at the concſusion
that the AEarl of Douglas Órought into the field 6,600
men, horse and foot.
There seems to Öe Zittle doubt that in this ſight, as
weſ/ as that within the Scotis/: Öorder, the Scots were
entitled to claime the victory. Chevy Chace was
7ather a 6order raid; Oſteröurn may be regarded as
a Öaft/e. But the difficulty attendant on verification
in al/ matters of this Áind at so remote a date ought
to admonis/, us to make an al/owance for exaggeration
and misstatement, due to ignorance or prejudice.
The true and exact relationship between the two
Żroductions forms, in facá, a suffect of great difficulty,
and there is some serious confusion, which it might

347 -

348 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
àe impossible to disentangle with available material.
The two Óa//ads evident/y refer to two actual inci-
dents in successive order: Chevy Chace, a dead/y
skirmish, and Offerðurn, which was suðsequent/y
ſought Óe/ween matc/, /a/ger forces on 60//; sides.
Auá severa/ of Že same names and Žarticulars are
common to 60// engagements, while the concſusion in
the Offeróurn narrative important/y varies. Popular
/iterary composers were aftſ to employ their suðject-
matter rather aróitrarily and loose/y, and ſide/ity to
history was of secondary consequence to recitative
effect. AVeil/er of Že stories seems to be eacéaná in a
contemporary teacá. -
A nearly paral/e/ case of two variant accounts
of an Aistorical event presents itself in the prose
and metrical versions of Flodden Field, the former
Öy an unknown writer, Zhe Zafter by Skelton ; and
a Żarticularly curious point of resemblance is that in
the prose report the Scotish Āing is stated to ſave
Öeen s/ain, while in the poem że is correct/y described
as a prisoner. So in “Chevy Chace." Percy falls;
Öztá 772 &/ºe “O//e7%2,772 ” ba//aaſ f/he /e7°o 7s ſa/e72 and/
earchanged for Sir Hugh the Montgomery.]
I.
IT befell about the Lammas-tide, when the hus-
bandman wins his hay, that the doughty Douglas
prepared to cross the English border to harry the
land of the foe with fire and sword. All that rode
that day may rue the riding.
The Earl of Fife, the Scotish king's son, sailed
across Solway, and entered in by way of Carlisle.
The rest came over Ottercap hill, and down by
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. 349
Rodeley Crag to Green Layton, rousing many a
stag as they went. -
The Scots fell suddenly on Northumberland, and
burnt many a town and village, for the English had
not wist of their purpose; and when they had burnt
Northumberland and all Bamboroughshire they said
that they would ride to Newcastle.
So, on the morrow, when the day dawed, they
raised their standard, and to Newcastle took their
way, where Sir Henry Percy was, that kept the
marches and Berwick-on-the-Tweed.
And when they were under the walls of New-
castle, they challenged Sir Henry Percy to the fight,
and they let him wit that they had harried and
burnt Northumberland and Bamboroughshire, and
spoiled his fair inheritance.
Sir Henry Percy stood on the walls, and cried
to Douglas: “It Sorely grieveth me if ye have
harried and burnt Northumberland ; but an' ye have
wasted Bamboroughshire ye have done me great
trespass, and therefore one of us shall surely die.”
“Where shall I bide you ?” replied Douglas, “ or
where shall we meet P At Otterburn nigh the
Watling Street, ye shall have good lodging. There
ye shall find the roe, the plover, and the pheasant
to do you pleasure.”
“I am content," quoth Sir Harry Percy ; “ye
shall not stay there long ere I come to you.”
And these two valiant men pledged their troth one
to the other, there at Otterburn, nigh the Watling
Street, to meet shortly ; and Sir Harry Percy gave
the Scots a pipe of wine over the walls, that they
might pledge themselves therein.


- - -
350 ROMANTIC LEGENDS. -
Then the Douglas turned back homeward, and
pitched his standard at Otterburn on a Wednesday ;
and he bad his men seek pasture for their geldings.
Now a Scotish man that had been set to watch
hied him full fast to the pavilion of the Douglas,
and warned him that he espied afar off the English
host drawing toward them with seven standards.
But the Douglas deemed it a tale, for he thought
that the Percy would never dare to look on his
colours, since, when he was at Newcastle all the
men the Percy led could not stand up against hiry,
The Douglas stepped out of his pavilion, and
when he beheld the English, as they drew nearer,
he saw that it was no play, and ordered his men
to get ready, and chose those whom he judged meet
to set over the rest.
To his uncle the Earl of Menteth and to the Earl
of Huntly he gave the van, and to the Earl of
Buchan the rear ; and with them were the laird of
Swinton, Sir David Scott, Sir Walter Stuart, and
Sir John Haggerston. And the laird of Johnston
and the laird of Maxwell remained near the Douglas,
who had under arms on that day betwixt six and
seven thousand men, all told.
II.
The Percy drew near to the Douglas, and cried
with a loud voice that whereas he had burnt North-
umberland, and had wrought him great wrong,
one of them should die.
“ Lo!” returned the Douglas, proudly, “I have
twenty to thy one, as thou mayest see.” -
The Percy alighted from his steed, and all his
~ *---
º



*~~ THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. 35 I
men did likewise, and they let their steeds go to
seek pasture, and prepared to fight a-foot; and the
Scots exceeded the English, saith the history, fivefold.
But when the battle was about to begin, there
came a knight with letters for Sir Harry Percy, say-
ing that his father, which was the noble Earl of
Northumberland, desired with the Lord of Grey-
stoke to see the fight, if he might tarry their coming,
which was speedy.
Quoth the Percy again : “Go to my father, and
say thou sawest me not ; for my troth is plighted
to yonder Scotish knight, and his to me, that we
shall fight on this very ground where we stand; and
if I failed I might be called coward, and my man-
hood questioned, than which I had liever die the
worst death.”
Then he dismissed the messenger of the earl, and
commanded the minstrels to play, and the archers to
let fly their arrows. “Let every man,” said the
Percy, “think on his own truelove, and commit
himself to the Trinity; and for me I vow to heaven
I flee not.” -
The Douglas standard floated on high, so that
all might see it, with its Bloody Heart and Three
Stars. And on the English side the Percy shewed
the White Lion with the three Luces and the Silver
Crescent. The Scots called on St. Andrew, and the
Englishmen on St. George, Our Lady's knight.
The two hosts met, and fought fiercely and
stoutly, and there was great slaughter on one side
and the other. Two knights with closed visors
encountered and clashed together, till the sweat
and the blood poured together from their basenets.

352 ROMANTIC LEGENDS. -^ -º
“Yield thee!” cried the Douglas, “ or thou wilt
be slain. For I see by thy bright basenet that thou
art some man of worship, and by thy burnished sword
that thou art an earl or else a knight.”
“By my faith,” answered the other, “and thou
art right, yet will I never surrender to thee while I
may stand.”
Then the Douglas knew that it was no other
than the Percy who was opposed to him, and they
renewed the battle, and smote each other, till they
sweated, and their helms and armour were broken
and dented ; till at length the Percy with his sword
sharp and long struck the Douglas to the heart.
Still they fought the whole day into the night,
till the Percy was taken prisoner. And of the Scots
all save eighteen, saith the chronicle, and of the
English, save five hundred, fell. And besides Sir
James the Douglas, were slain on that side the
Earl of Menteth, Sir David Scott, Sir Walter
Stuart, Sir John of Haggerston, Sir Charles
Murray, and Sir Hugh Maxwell. And Sir Hugh
the Montgomery was taken, and was after exchanged
against Sir Harry Percy. -
There lay dead of the followers of the Percy,
Sir John Fitzhugh, Sir James Harbottle, and the
gentle Sir George Lovell.
They brought biers of the birch and the hazel
tree, and fetched away the dead on the morrow,
and widows came to claim their husbands that had
yielded up their lives in that fight.
Now let us for the Percy pray to Jesus most of
might, that He may bring him to everlasting bliss for
his knightly gentleness!

-
º &
CAULINE.
A N IRISH STORY.
(Fourteenth Century.)
[/ſere we have from the folio M.S. of Bishop
Percy, an incorrect and 7//iterate authority, but in
many cases our sole resource, a legend of /ris/ origin,
or of which, at least, the scene is ſaid in that country.
That was our inducement to se/ect it as the #/ºra!
specimen of a metrica/ marrative of this class reduced
into modern prose from a barðarous and corrupt
Žoetical ſett. Aercy has un/arged and soft/listicated
Žhe particulars, and has ſo//owed the precedent of
Shakespear in his “AZam/eff " of making the event
fragic. AEuá, while this might have been preſerað/e,
Žá is necessary for us to fo//ow the old Öa//ad, such as
it is, and to marry the Aero and heroine after a series
of vicissitudes and narrow escapes. Z'he incident ºf
the ſo/io A/S. of the Zion and the false Steward reads,
Aowever, Zike a clumsy interpolation.]
THERE once on a time dwelled in Ireland, far across
the sea, a bonny king, and with that king a young
and comely knight, who was called Sir Cauline.
Now this king had a daughter of unparalleled
beauty, whom many a prince and noble would fain
have wedded ; but Sir Cauline loved her best of all.
A. L. - 353 A. A

3.54 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Yet durst he not speak his mind to that maiden;
and his passion, nursed up in secret, fretted him
the more, till he wox sick, and could not leave his
bed. -
After mass, the king was wont to dine, and when
the wine had to be served, he said : “Where is Sir
Cauline, that commonly attendeth at the board to
serve me with wine P” .
“Sir,” replied a knight that stood by, “Sir
Cauline sore aileth, and unless some leech may tend
him, belike he will die.” -
The king was grieved at these tidings, and com-
manded them to fetch his daughter, who was a
right cunning leech, and to take him of the venison
and the bread and the red wine; for he, too,
loved Sir Cauline, and loth was that he should be
in jeopardy of his life. -
Then, when the lady Christabel was so bidden
of her father the king, she hied straightway to the
chamber where that knight lay, attended by her
maidens, and she left her maidens at the door, and
entered in, and asked him how he fared.
“Ah! lady,” he said, “sick indeed am I.”
“Now rise for shame, sir,” quoth she ; “for the
tale goes in my father's hall, that you are dying for
the love of Christabel.”
“Fair lady, it is indeed for thy love that I pine.
If thou wert to requite my passion, I should be
whole again.”
To whom she answered : “Sir knight, I am a
king's daughter and my father's heir, and, alas! I
can give thee no hope of espousing me.”
Then Sir Cauline replied : “Thou art a king's
*
CAULINE. • 355
daughter truly, and such as I can never be thy
peer. But let me do some valiant enterprize better
to deserve thy hand.”
The lady Christabel said: “I am content; yet,
O! if any mishap should befall thee, it would be a
sorrow to me for ever. Lo! on the Eldridge downs
I enjoin thee to watch all night till cockcrow. The
Eldridge Knight lieth there in wait for all who come
that way, and never yet has man returned alive from
the encounter with that fell heathen. For he is a
giant, and unless Heaven bestead thee, thou art lost.”
“On the Eldridge hills, lady, for thy fair sake I
will wander, and will either bring you a thorn that
groweth there as a token, or never see thee more.”
The Lady Christabel returned to her chamber
with her maidens, and Sir Cauline incontinently
sprang from his couch, and to the Eldridge hills
rode, there to tarry till daybreak. Up and down
he roamed without beholding any one, and at last
midnight arrived, and the moon rose. Presently
his ear caught the sound of a bugle across the
moors, and he soon espied a warrior of fierce mien
approaching him on horseback, a lady at his side
holding the bridle.
“Fly, or thou diest,” cried the stranger.
“I shall not fly,” returned Sir Cauline; “for I
fear thee not, since thou art no Christian knight.”
They pricked their horses, and ran at each other,
spear in hand, and both stood their ground, yet
were their weapons shivered to atoms. Then they
drew their swords, and met in close combat, till
helmet and hauberk, mail and shield, were well nigh
hewn to pieces. The Eldridge knight held his own ;

356 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
for he was a doughty wight, and had never yet
met his match. But Sir Cauline was not to be
daunted, and by a backward stroke he suddenly
smote off the right hand of his foe, who sank on
the ground, faint from the ebbing of blood.
Then Sir Cauline lifted his sword above his head,
and sware by the Holy Rood that that caitiff should
die. But the lady, who had been standing near,
and had seen all the fray, came and supplicated Sir
Cauline that, for the sake of the maiden whom he
loved best, he would spare her lord's life. “For
the love of the maiden that is to you most dear,
strike not, I beseech ; and whatever you command,
my lord shall perform.” Then Sir Cauline made
the Eldridge knight swear on that very spot where
they stood that he would believe in Christ, that
he would never visit Eldridge again, and that he
would renounce warfare till his dying day. Then
the Eldridge knight was suffered to remount his
horse, and he and his lady have gone to their castle.
Sir Cauline took up the bloody hand, on which
were five rings of gold of foes that the Eldridge
knight had slain in combat, and his sword as hard
as a flint ; and homeward wended he, impatient to
see the lady Christabel.
Down he sank on his knee, when he was admitted
to her and said: “Lady, I have been on the
Eldridge hills, and these tokens have I borne
away.”
She welcomed him, and commended his valour.
“O lady, I am thy own true knight, ready to
obey thy behests, and hopeful to obtain thy love.”
He paused, for he could utter no more.
-



CAULINE. 357
-
The lady Christabel blushed deeply, and sighed,
as she rejoined : “Alas! sir, how may such a thing
be, seeing that my degree is so high P”
The knight appeared to be downcast at these
words, and she continued : “But since thou hast
approved thyself so nobly in my service, I will
promise thee, if I cannot wed thee, I will wed none
other.”
Then she held out her lily-white hand to him,
and he kissed it; and the tears started from his
eyes. She bad him depart, and keep his own
counsel, hºst her father should kill them both ; and
from that day forth the king's daughter, the lady
Christabel, loved that brave and good knight, Sir
Cauline, and oftentimes they met and secretly con-
versed together.
Now, it happened one day, that as these lovers
were in an arbour together, the king, walking out
in the evening to take the air, passed the place
where they were. Lo! an angry man was he, and
what vengeance did he not vow on Sir Cauline !
Into a deep dungeon the knight was cast, and the
lady Christabel was consigned to a lonely tower,
where she endured grievous suspense as to her
lover, whom the king threatened to hang and draw.
But the queen happily befriended Sir Cauline,
and she prevailed on her husband to spare his life,
and banish him from the land. “But,” he declared,
“if ever that false traitor, madam, sets his foot again
in my kingdom, a foul death shall be his lot.”
So that gentle knight departed out of the realm,
more sorrowful at quitting the lady Christabel than
if he had been adjudged to die, and she, the lady

358 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
-
Christabel, released from durance, vowed perpetual
chastity, and refused the suit of many a king and
many a duke, and many a lord of high degree, till
her father, seeing how melancholy she had grown,
proclaimed a tournament to amuse his daughter,
and distract her from her sadness.
There came to it lords and knights from many a
far country to break a spear in honour of the lady
Christabel, and many a lady was there, fair in feature
and rich in apparel, yet none that equalled Chris-
tabel even in her unjoyous mood. The knights
vied with each other in daring and valo r for the
honour of the ladies whom they loved and of the
lady Christabel, the king's daughter; but each day
a stranger, whom none knew, bare away the prize.
Black was his acton, black his hauberk and his
shield. None wist whence he came, or whither he
went when the jousting was done; and it fortuned
on the fourth day that a horrible giant, preceded
by a dwarf, who carried on his shoulder five heads,
presented himself, and challenged any knight pre-
sent to enter the lists with him. He was the cousin
of the Eldridge knight, this giant, and came to
avenge him.
The dwarf said : “My master may only be
appeased in one way. Give him thy daughter, O
king, and he will depart ; or thy castle shall be
burned, and thy head shall be added to those which
I carry, unless thou canst find a champion able to
cope with him.”
The king heard these words, and looked round
the lists; but never a knight stirred a foot. Then
the king said : “Is there not a knight among you
e-

CAULINE. 359
º
all will fight for my daughter and me 2 Whoever
will vanquish this grim paynim shall be my heir,
and shall have fair Christabel to his wife.”
Still no one rose; for when they viewed that
loathly giant, their hearts quaked within them. All
woe-begone was the lady Christabel, when she per-
ceived that no help was near; and she thought of
Cauline, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
Then started to his feet the stranger knight, and
said that for the lady Christabel's sake he would
give battle to the giant, if she would lend him the
Eldridge ºord.
“Fetch forth the Eldridge sword,” exclaimed the
king, with alacrity. “Courteous knight, we give you
great thanks; my daughter shall be your guerdon.”
The Black Knight grasped the sword, which the
lady delivered to him, and entered the lists. The
giant was impatient to begin.
“Ah!” murmured the lady Christabel, “that this
were my own true knight!”
They fought for a season amid breathless silence
and with all eyes fixed on them. The king knew
that his realm and his daughter hung on the issue.
The lady Christabel scarce dared she to turn her
eyes on the spectacle, nor could not bear to look
away. Thrice the cousin of the Eldridge knight
smote the stranger with his sword, and at the third
stroke he sank on his knees. It was a parlous
moment; the lady Christabel shrieked; and all gave
up the Black Knight as lost, when he, summoning
his remaining strength, regained his feet, and plung-
ing his sword into the foe, pierced him to the heart.
Loud and prolonged were the shouts which


360 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
º
greeted the giant's fall. The lady Christabel
thanked Christ that He had freed her from such
a husband. But the king and those about him
hastened toward the Black Knight, in order to see
how he fared, and to tender him their joyful con-
gratulations. Alas ! they found him in a dead
Swoon, weltering in his blood.
The king called his daughter to essay her craft
in leechdom ; “for,” said he, “I would rather lose
half my lands than that this courteous knight should
die.” - - -
The lady Christabel no sooner drew .ear to try
her skill, than she cried, “It is my life—my lord,”
and fainted away. -
Sir Cauline indeed it was, who had returned from
banishment at all hazards to attend the tournament.
He opened his eyes, and gradually recovered his
consciousness ; and the king's daughter, the lady
Christabel, staunched his wounds, and sweetly
ministered to him.
And when his strength had a little returned, the
king told him that he would give him broad lands
in reward.
“Take your lands, sir,” said he ; “you promised
me your daughter to my wife.”
And the king answered, “Let it be so.” And
Sir Cauline and the lady Christabel were married
with great pomp, and after the king's death Sir
Cauline reigned in his stead. For sons the old king
had none.

THE KING AND THE TAN NE R.
[7%is racy /i///e ſa/e may be classed among the
fabliaux, and is in its origina/ form of very great
antiquity. A///ough the name of Edward /l/ is
–41sua//y coup/ed with it, it is more probable //at the
personage who actual/y met with the adventure, if
the re/ation is ſounded on fact, was the second Edward.
In his “Popular Poetry of Ængland,” 1864, the
present writer collected aſ/ //e information re/ative
to this episode and production with which he was
ač/e to meet, and pointed to it and other relics of a
cognate character as forming a class by themse/ves,
and as having probably owed their existence in an
AEng/s/ dress to various foreign and orienta/ mode/s.
7%e ear/iest imitators of anecdotes found in the
/iterature of other countries were aft to be //e most
fo/erað/e, their fo//owers, in the constant search for
someſ/ºing novel, did not /hesitate to commit ana-
chronisms and incongruities, and to change the
Žersonality of the story without regard to historica/ .
or dramatic ſitness.
A broad /ine of distinction should be drawn be-
£ween 4/e origina/, or ał Zeast older, versions of these
stories and Zhose whic/ emanated from the ſafer
ôa//ad-writers, who never studied the costume of the
Žeriod wit/, which they were dealing, nor concerned
themselves with anything beyond the production of a
marketable commodity.
361

362 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Zá is to be remarked, that the closing passage on/y
Žnfers the actua/ Anow/edge on Zºe part of 4/ºe fanner
of the rank of his companions, al//.org/, in an anſe-
cedent //ace, where the roya/ reſinue sa/uſes the King,
the flammer is made to suspect the fruſ/...]
As our comely king Edward once rode with certain
of his lords on hunting in Warwickshire, at such time
as his grace made his progress in those parts, he fell
in with a tanner of Daventry in a quaint array. Then
fellow was jogging along on horseback, some dis-
tance in front, and no other saddle had he than the
black cow-hides, with the horns hanging down on
either side, which he carried to his tan-yard to be
tanned.
Our king chuckled at the sight, and thought that
he would have some sport. He bad his men keep
behind, and he would go on, and ask the tanner
some questions to engage him in talk. “Wait
here,” said our king, “and you shall hear presently
how I have sped.”
He pricked his steed and drew up by the tanner's
side. -
“Sir, God thee Savel" quoth our king.
“Good day,” quoth the tanner.
“Good fellow,” said our king, “one thing I thee
pray: to Drayton-Basset I would ride ; which is the
road P”
“That I can tell thee,” replied the other, “where
I sit. When thou comest to the gallow-tree, turn
to the left hand.”
“Thank you very much, fellow,” said our king.
“I will beg the Lord Basset to requite thee for thy

THE KING AND THE TANNER. 363
courtesy. But, good fellow, I pray thee accompany
me to Drayton-Basset, wilt thou not, eh?”
“Nay, by my faith,” cried the tanner, “I were a
fool if I did. I am in as great haste to get to the
end of my journey as thou art of thine. Ride on,
and find thy way ; thy horse is better than the one
I have.”
The tanner paused and looked at our king, and
presently he said to him : “What sort of a man
art thou, now P”
“A wanderer about,” responded our king, “in
many a country.”
“Ah!” cried the tanner, archly, “I had a brother
who followed that kind of trade, and he came to
an ill end.” -
Our king smiled, but only said: “ Tanner, I pry-
thee ride with me a mile.”
“What the devill” replied the tanner. “Art
thou out of thy wits 2 I must get home to my
dinner. I have had nothing to eat.”
“Good fellow,” said our king, “ trouble not thy-
self about thy meat; thou shalt have enough to-
night, I warrant thee, if thou wilt eat.” -
The tanner looked hard at him, and then he said
scornfully: “By Christ's passion, I trow I have more
money in my purse than thou hast in thine. Dost
thou think I am going to be out o' night P. By
God I was never out o' night since I was born.”
He heard sounds behind him, the tanner did, and
cast his eyes back, and the cow-hides began to slip
down ; for he was aware of the king's men, who
came riding up at full speed.
“This is a thief,” thought the tanner; “and he

364 ROMANTIC I,EGENDS.
and his fellows will have my horse, my hides, and
my money.” He judged it wise to dissemble.
“For fellowship, then,” he said to our king, “I
will ride with thee; if we meet again, thou must do
as much for me.”
“God-a-mercy " said our king, “I shall pray the
Lord Basset to thank thee anon. Now," quoth he,
“ thou ridest hereabout pretty much. What news
hast thou for me P”
“No news,” quoth the tanner, as they rode side
by side, “save that of all the goods that be, cow-
hides are the costliest.” --
“One thing tell me,” said our king (for the rest
had not yet come up); “what dost thou hear tell of
the Lord Basset in this part 2"
“I know him not,” answered the other ; “I have
little enough to do him-with ; he doth not buy of
me the leather wherewithal to clout his shoon.”
“I love thee well,” said our king; “one thing
more tell me now. Thou hast heard his servants
speaking of him. What do they say P”
“Ay, by God!” said the tanner, “that I can
resolve thee. They know him well, and say he is
a good man.” -
So they rode together and talked till the Lord
Basset and the rest overtook them, and, dismount-
ing, fell on their knees.
“Alack l’ thought the tanner, “this must be the
king ; and Surely I shall be hanged on a high gal-
lows, that all men may me see.”
He quaked for very dread, and would have stolen
away while the others were in converse. But our
king kept his eye upon him, and presently he said:


- THE KING AND THE TANNER. 365
“Good fellow, thou must abide here with me, for
thou and I are going on hunting together.”
So the tanner had no choice but to ride on, and
when the party came to the king's chace, our king
said : “Fellow, what shall I do 2 My horse stands
so high. Good friend, let us exchange. Have
thou my horse, and I will take thine.”
The tanner dismounted, and cast down his hides,
and up gat the king. The tanner laid his hides, for
that he would not lose them, over the king's saddle,
" and off he galloped after our king, for fear he should
steal his horse.
But our king's horse, catching a glimpse of the
black cow-hides, weened he had the Devil on his
back, and flew like the wind. He lacked no spurs.
Our king was intent on following the deer ; but he
looked aside and saw how it went with the tanner,
and he feared lest harm should befall him ; and
anon the tanner's head struck the bough of an oak,
and down he fell sprawling on the ground.
Our king laughed and said: “Tanner, thou
rodest too fast. By St. John such another horse-
man saw I never. By St. James I could not help
laughing, wert thou my own mother.”
“I beshrew the son,” said the tanner ruefully,
“who could make sport of his mother so.”
When the chace was concluded, our king changed
horses again, and each had his own, whereof the
tanner was glad.
“God-a-mercy!” said our king, “if I can do ought
for thee after this day's adventure, trust to me. I
will be thy friend for ever.” -
“God-a-mercy " said the tanner, “thou seemest


366 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
a good fellow; if we meet in Daventry, I will give
thee to drink.”
“By my troth !” said our king, “if I meet thee in
Lichfield, I will do for thee as much.”
So they went on talking merrily till they came to
Drayton-Basset, and there the tanner knew certainly
that it was our king with whom he had fortuned
to meet ; and our king commanded that a hundred
shillings should be given to him to recompense him
for the damage to his head and his black cow-hides
after his parlous ride on our king's horse.
And so our king and the tanner of Daventry
parted good friends at last.
*
-
-

THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE.
(Fifteenth Century.)
[7%is is not a mere Örief Séeſch, or more or less
fragmentary account of a sing/e incident, Öuß an
elaborate and artistical/y constructed story of English
origin, al/ºugh the scene is ſaid elsewhere. It
aspires to the dignity of a romance of chiva/ry, and
of those which we possess it would be difficult indeed!
to specify one more rich/y descriptive, so unusua//y :
dramatic and varied, and so fu/Z of curious iſ/us-
Żrative detai/, 7%e anonymous author /as avoided
//e common error of making his work Zoo tedious
ôy proſitity and du// interlocutions; his enumeration
of Óirds, trees, and dishes, and the particulars into
which he enters ačout architecture, furniture, and
costume, abound with interest for the student under
many aspects.
The descriptions of natura/ /istory and scenezy
Četray the employment of foreign materia/, inasmuch
as AEmg/isſ, arðoriculture was, even in the sixteent/.
century, in a very imperfect state of development,
and from 4%e a//usions to certain heroes of chiva/y
or romance, as Sir Gawaym and Sir Guy, Zyóius
Discomus (Le Beau Inconnu), and the giant Co/-
ôrand, it is manifest that its composition was fos-
ſerior in date to the works in which their eaft/oits
are ce/effzałed.

367
368 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
7%e steward, who is introduced as a ſoil to tº
Aero of the piece, is to Če distinguished from the
cognomina/ character in the “AZeir of Zimme,” the
“Alord of Zorn,” and elsewhere, as he was evident/y
#/ºe /*g/ steward of the Áingdom, or grand semesc/a/.
/*e the officer of state in Scot/and in whom Zhe
7-eigning house of Sºuaré originated, and who survives
in the Prince of Wales for the time being.
The weakest and /east satisfactory Żarf is the
attempt at tragic pat/0s, where the Áing's daughter
mistakes the corpse of the false steward for that of
Aer ſover, and ſays it ſºmera/ honours. This mis-
conception is more ſaffering to the Zady's virtue
#/han to her instinctive discernment. Auf /aere, as
we// as elsewhere in the narrative, ſhe writer has
/ost the thread, and is guilty of some amount of
confusion, whicſ, it ſeas Öeen judged desirable to
7"emove &y a s/ight reconstruction of the teacá.
Affenſion need scarce/y Óe directed to the scene
where the Áing's daughter issues from her chamóer
“as naked as She was Óorm " in Search of the squire.
This expression, or “ffe//y-maked,” was former/y con-
sidered imperative to signify a complete state of
nudity, since a person was fermed naked if he or she
was desłłłuſe of the ºffer c/ot/ºing, and was reduced
to the S/.77% or chemise. A/umerous examg//es of this
might be adduced from our early ſiterature.
We have left this and two other passages, where
the steward aſ/eges to the Áing that, had it not been
ſor /ćis presence, the squire would have /ain wiłż że
Żrincess, and the Áing repeats the conversation to Žis
daughter, Čecause they are characteristic of the mas-
cuſine framáness of the o/ā time, and are surviva/s
-

THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. 369
º
Aſ ºf the language employed in the mediaeva/ fabliaux,
and in such works as //e “Aook of the Anight of
// e Zower.”]
A squir E of low degree loved the king's daughter.
He was a man for whom every one had a kind
word, for he was courteous and debonnair, and he
was marshal of the royal hall, who set the king's
guests in the order which they should keep when
they met together to dine or to feast.
N ow ill marked how, whatever he did to conceal
it, this squirefigrew more and more oppressed by
melancholy, and none knew what the occasion and
reason of the same were ; but it was for that this
squire secretly loved the king's only daughter and
heir, namely, the king of Hungary. Not a soul
wist how well he loved her. He had privily nursed
his passion for that lady seven years, and not a whit
nigher was he yet to a fulfilment of his dreams.
Oftentimes he wandered out of the king's hall,
or out of his own chamber into the palace garden,
where the birds were singing upon the trees, as if
it might be that they sought by their sweet melody
to assuage his distress and brighten his cheer;
and he was wont to seat himself in an arbour, hard
by that princess's window-casement, and make his
lament to the creatures of the air.
“O, that I were rich " he cried, “ or high-born—
nay, or a king's son, that I might be worthy of that
dear lady O, that I could do some enterprize to
deserve her hand, like Sir Gawayn or Sir Guy of
Warwick | Then should no man win her from
A. L. B B


37O ROMANTIC I,EGENDS.
But it was of no avail, for he was poor and *
unknown, and only the marshal of the king her
father's hall; and one day it happened that he was
in the arbour, just below the lady's casement, when
he was so troubled in spirit, that he lifted up his
voice in piteous wise, and at length sank down in a
SWOO11.
In her oriel, fair with painted glass, the king's
daughter stood ; and when she heard the sound of
that squire's voice, as he thus bemoaned his fate, º
she removed one of the ivory pins where with the
casements of the oriel were made fººt, and threw
the casement wide open.
The sun was clearly shining through the rich
glass windows, and upon the garden, and upon the
arbour, and that lady saw the squire, as he lay
on the ground, and said unto him : “Sir, why
lamentest thou in this manner night and day I
prythee discover to me the cause, and, an' I may
without reproach, I will seek to lighten thy sorrow.”
The squire rose to his feet, and knelt on one
knee, and answered so : “Lady, my grief, be avised,
so it please you, is all for the love of you. Seven
years have I kept my secret, and I know that you
are of such high lineage that I cannot hope to gain
your hand. But a word from you might be to me
a comfort and a joy, and if, as I Sorely doubt, you
deny me, I will forsake this land, and my kith and
kin, and go as a pilgrim into foreign countries,
using my spear as a staff, and beg my bread, where
Christ Jesus was born and crucified ; nor no other
mistress, to my life's end, will I have | Therefore,
sweet lady, by Him that died on Good Friday for
%
*

THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. 37 I
us all, and harrowed hell, I beseech you to speak
truly to me, and let me not be deceived.”
Then the king's daughter replied to him, as she
stood in the sunlight in the painted oriel above the
arbour: “Squire, thou shalt have my love; but thou
must make no man privy thereto, and thou must go
forth and serve my royal father in his wars and cast
away thy brooding over thy fate; and thus all may
peradventure be well hereafter. But I warn thee
against my father's steward, for he hath an evil
tongue, and misliketh thee; and if he betrays thee to
the king, thou must suffer the law, whereof I should
be sorely ill-content. To deserve my love, thou art
to engage in deeds of chivalry and perilous adventures
across the seas, in Lombardy and at Rhodes. And
I straitly charge thee that thou must fight at Rhodes
three Good Fridays; and if thou so doest, thou art
worthy to wear thy spurs, and thou shalt get a shield
of blue, in token of thy loyalty, with vine leaves fes-
tooned, and a white baudrick, and a red cross, and all
other things to knighthood appurtenant. And thou
art to go everywhere, with six yeomen upon thee
attending, and for thy cost I will give thee a thousand
pounds, so that thou mayest lack for nought ; for it
is not enough to say, “Go, and fear not "; a man
of worship must have wherewithal he may maintain
his quality and estate ; and thou wilt return and pre-
sent thyself to the king my father as a knight that
hath (like Sir Guy or the Comely Unknown, as I
have read in the Book of Arthur) ever upheld the
right, and is worthy to seek in the way of marriage
his daughter and heir. Therefore, sir, go thy way,
and God prosper thee! Seven years I shall await


37.2 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
thy coming back, and shall remain in my solitary -
maidenhood " - -
So the squire joyfully departed, and prepared to
take his leave of the king and the queen, and all
the court, that he might speed on his journey; for he
was impatient to begin to deserve the love and the
hand of that great lady, who would make him, for
that she was her father's heir, king of that country,
when the old king should die.
Now, while the squire thus discoursed with the
king's daughter, the steward was hard by, and they
wist it not, and every word that fell from their lips
he heard well; and he began to devise in his mind
how he might best make the case known to the king
his master, and cross that squire, of whom he was
full jealous, for he also loved that lady, and longed
to gain her for his wife, that he might reign in that
country after the king that now was. And it was
of this false steward that the lady bad the squire
beware, lest he might come to a knowledge of their
intent, and denounce him to her father.
The squire yet did service in the hall, until such
time as it was convenient to depart, and by his
gentleness and courtesy took all hearts; and the
king looked upon him, as he knelt to tender him
the dishes, and thought within himself that he was
the seemliest man he had ever viewed.
But the steward, at the first Occasion, sought his
master, and opened to him the matter, leaving
nothing untold, and saying how the princess had
made promise to him thus and thus, and, “Sir,"
quoth he, “had they not espied me at last, I ween
verily they would have lain together.”


THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. 373
The king refused to believe the tale, for he said
to the steward that the squire had served him in
his hall his whole life, and he could not be guilty
of so foul a deed, nor did he think that his daughter
would consent thereto; for he might come to win
that lady in wedlock, since many men rise from
lowly station to high degree, nay, to a crown, by
valour, or by good fortune, or by marriage ; and he
warned the steward not to defame the squire, for
^ that, if he found that he bare false witness against
him, he would cast him into prison, and a shameful
death he should die.
Then the steward stood firm in what he had
declared, and said that he would lose his life if it
were not as he had avouched. “Sir,” quoth he,
“if you will grant unto me certain armed men, I
will take this squire to-night in the princess's
chamber and bring him to you.”
“Steward,” the king replied, “you shall have as
many as you desire. Be in readiness against he
comes, but be not seen ; for I command you in
nowise to hinder him, if he merely speak with the
lady my daughter, yea, if he even kiss her. But if
he do offer to break her chamber, shew yourself
incontinently, and take him in my name, and hold
him, till you know my pleasure.”
The steward answered that he would fulfil what
the king bad him ; and anon the hour for dinner
came, and then all assembled in the hall, the king
and his court. Now, when the squire had, as he was
wont, served the king on his knee, he departed, and
coming again knelt down, craving leave to pass the
sea, that he might enact deeds of chivalry in divers

374 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
countries, and become a true knight. And the king
assented to his prayer, and promised him gold and
men to bear him company, saying that he trusted
he would ever remain loyal to him, as he had here-
tofore done.
Now, when the squire and his companions had
taken their departure, and had reached a certain
village a mile away, the squire sorely longed once
again to speak with his dear lady, the king's daugh-
tº
ter. So, leaving the rest, he hastened back alone,
and entered the postern-gate, and approached the
tower where the princess lodged ; and as he went
along he noted how men hung about him as they
would watch him. But he did not yet know that
the steward had played false; and when he came
to the chamber of the king's daughter, “Thy door,”
he cried, “undo ; for I am beset round about with
spies. O, undo thy door, my betrothed l’’
The king's daughter slept ; and when at length
the sound of a voice outside awoke her, she took it
to be some rude trespasser on her privacy, for she
knew her truelove to be far away. But when she
demanded who it was, and the voice answered, “Un-
do thy door, it is thy own squire, who cometh once
more to bid thee adieu,” she opened the door, and
kindly greeted him, and again exhorted the squire
to comport himself so, that her royal father might,
on his return from the wars, see fit to wed them
straight one to the other. Then he saluted her
tenderly, and took his leave.
Now, meanwhile, the steward was lying in wait
for that Squire, as he issued forth from the princess's
chamber, and at a convenient point they encompassed
---


THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. 375
and attacked him, thirty and four all told. The
squire laid some of them dead at his feet, and then,
after a fierce combat, nearly severed the steward's
head from his body. But he was outnumbered, and
taken captive ; and they stripped him of his surcoat,
and arrayed in it the dead steward, whom they left
at that lady's door, when they had slashed his face,
so that none might know that it was not the squire.
Then they took him before the king, and the
king commanded that he should be cast into a
deep dungeon ; and so it was done. But it hap-
pened shortly after that, that the king himself
privily went to the prison, and said to the squire :
“I am content that thou shouldest go forth, and
cross the sea, and approve thyself a true knight in
the eyes of all men ; and when thou dost return, it
may be that thou shalt yet wed my daughter. But
I charge thee, go secretly, and let no man weet thy
counsel.”
And the king at that time had knowledge how
the steward's guard had wrought a deceit on his
daughter, and had stripped the surcoat from the
Squire, to put it on the dead body of their master.
The squire was fain enough, and the king gave
him of his own treasure all that he needed ; and he
went on his way, and performed many valiant acts
in Tuscany, Lombardy, Portugal, and Spain, and
made his offering at the Holy Sepulchre, as his lady
had enjoined upon him.
Now, it happened that, when the king's daughter
undid the door of her chamber, and stood forth
there, as she rose from her bed, as naked as she
was born, she beheld the body of the false steward ;


376 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
but because it was arrayed in the squire's garment,
and his visage was disfigured, she took it to be
indeed her own true lord, and threw herself down
upon the corpse, and bitterly wept. But presently,
lest any should come upon her at unawares, she
lifted the body up, and took it and laid it in a secret
place, where none should surmise, and anointed and
embalmed it, inclosing it in a sweet-smelling coffin ;
and she set it at her bed's head, and every night
and every morning she kissed it and prayed by it.
This she did seven years together, and kept her
counsel, and none wist wherefore she mourned so
long. But her royal father feared lest such sorrow
might bring her to her end, and he sought to yield
her diversion by hawking, hunting, and fishing, if
he might prevail on her to accompany him. But
she prayed him not to persuade her, for she listed
not to turn to any such things, for she mourned
for one, no man should know whom. Yet her
father the king guessed well how the case stood,
and said nevertheless not a word to her.
At last after seven years, the squire, who had
become the flower of chivalry, bad farewell to the
strange lands which he had visited, and returned
secretly to his own country, that none was privy to
his return save the king only ; and the king was
overjoyed to see him again, and after a while com-
manded him to abide in his own house, till he the
king had avised himself of what his daughter's mind
was, and had communed with her.
So the king repaired to the tower where his
daughter's chamber lay, and when he came near, he
heard her lamentations, albeit seven years had come


THE SQUIRE OF LOW DEGREE. 377
and gone since the squire, as she thought, was slain
by the false steward ; and when he had listened for
a season, he came to the door, and desired that it
might be opened to him.
“O father,” quoth she, “thou hast heard all
that I spake l’’
“Daughter,” he said, “grieve no longer. Thou
art to be wedded to a king.”
Then he unfolded to her the story. How the
steward had accused the squire of unknightly dis-
courtesy toward her, and had held him in hand, that
had he the steward not been by, the squire would
have lain with her ; and how after, when the squire,
her own truelove, had slain the steward, and was
fain to yield to force of numbers, and was taken,
the body of the steward, wrapped in her lord's
surcoat, was laid at her chamber door to beguile
her; then again how, when they who were with
the steward brought the squire to prison, he the
king had with his own hand privily enlarged him,
and sent him across the sea to seek his fortune,
and he repeated : “And now, daughter, weep not,
for thou shalt espouse a king, or may-be an emperor.”
The king's daughter replied, that she cared not
to wed any man, seeing that her own truelove was
dead; and as she uttered these words, she fell into
a SWOO11.
The king her father raised her up, and bare her
in his arms, breathing into her ear as they went
along : “Thy sweetheart liveth, and is here, lady.
He hath been in foreign lands, and hath won much
renown. I shall make him knight, and one of my
great lords, and after me he shall wear the crown.”

-
-
378 ROMANTIC LEGENIOS.
“O, why, then,” asked she, “if thou diddest know
all this, diddest thou not discover it to me 2 But
if the squire be truly here, let me see him.”
Then when she was brought where he was, and
she perceived that he was whole in limb and health,
she uttered a loud cry, and again fainted away.
The squire caught her in his arms, and kissed her
Over and over again, till she rallied, and became
sensible of her unexpected happiness. Her father
the king spake unto her and said: “Daughter,
have herewithal thy own truelove, and let no one
seek to depart you two, under pain of God's dis-
pleasure.” And he drew her tenderly toward him,
and kissed her once, twice, and thrice.
The country was full of rejoicing at the glad
tidings of the safety of the squire, and his forth-
coming nuptials with the king's daughter. There
was banqueting, music, and minstrelsy ; and the
king gave order, that all the chivalry of Hungary
should be summoned to honour the marriage of the
squire and his lady with a tournament, and jousts,
and merry-making; and the story says that the
festivities lasted forty days.
At the end whereof the king called his twelve
councillors unto him, and his son, the squire of low
degree, and his daughter whom that squire had
espoused, and in the midst of them all he yielded
up the crown, and made the squire king in his room,
and all did him homage.



THE HEIR OF LIN NE.
[7%is charming tale conveys the burden of many a
ºrue story of the olden time, with the exception that
it invo/vº a more auspicious conclusion than was
generally accorded to the actors of such parts in real
/.../e. Ætſerience is here a//owed to prevail, and the
Żrodiga/, reinstated in Žis patrimony by Žis father's
goodness and foresight, remains steadfast to Ais reso-
/ution never to compromise / is honour again.
7%e earliest Ánown version of the “Aſeir of Zimme”
is a very defective one in the Percy fo/io M.S.,
written ſafe in the reign of Charles //, by some
7//iterate Scriòe, who has mang/ed everything whicſ,
/*e fouched.
An A/e episode of the Knight in the Æobin Hood
Öa//ads, we meet with an incident of a somewhat
cognate character, except that there the estate is
mortgaged to the Church, and through the instru-
menta/ity of Żhe oil/ſaw Žs not on/y redeemed from
foreclosure, Čuč, as it eventua//y /a/fems, with money
£ažen from two ecc/esiastics passing 4/ºrough Barns-
da/e just after the departure of Sir A'ichard at the
– Zee with the loan to enable him to £eeſ his day at
Yoyº.
A/ere it is the treacherous steward, who strifts the
Aeir of his estate by offering him, under pressure
of Žoverſy arising from Žis improvidence, a s?”
379
38o ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
of ready money for Z/ºe froßerſy ; and Zºe /a/ºy -
denouement, by w/ic/, //e lord, or /aird, wins bacá
Ais own, is /rincipa//y remarkaðle for the ſºure/y
casua/ occurrence of the o/ffortunity, so far as we
are enabled to judge, for re-entrance and Že S/Sg//-
mess of the efforé made Öy &/ºe steward ſo ſºo/a/ / is
ground.
AVevert/e/ess, it is a pretty iſ/us/ration of a //ase
of Öygone AEmg/isſ, and Scotis/: /i/e, when such ſºngs
were constantly /a/pening without the ſºunate in-
ſervention of the romancisº ſo ſend them, a dramatic
development. -
Ajar/y Scotis/: /andowners were in many cases
recipients of a scandy rent-ro//, with much ſaid in
Áind, even when Z/e estate was ferritoria//y consider-
aff/e. 7%e Aero in the present instance carried in
a coup/e of Öags or so the redemption-money of /, is
property, Žer/afts a few hundred founds of Z/ºe cur-
7 ency of the period.
On/ess the narrative which we have used is corrupt
or imperfect in thał Ż/ace, a curious point of old
Scotis/: custome seems to ſeeſ out, where Zºe /rincipa/
Žerson of Že /i///e drama, when he has received a
Žittance from one of the company in the /a//, sits
down zwiſſ/, //e 7esſ, as we take it, and drinks wine,
as if some paymzené were a necessary Żre/ude, and
Že bouche or Čable were maintained by a common
ſund.
OF all the lords in fair Scotland one was the un-
thrifty Heir of Linne; and of him is my song.
His father and mother were dead, and he was
the head of his clan. Long time he resorted to the


THE HEIR OF LINNE. 38 I
cards and the dice; and at his table good fellows
sat, and made merry, and drank the clear wine.
None that would play and drink was unwelcome
to him. -
In whose coffers at last the red gold waxed scant
enough, and he wist not where to go to seek money,
wherewith he might continue in his folly.
To whom came John of the Scales, his steward,
and thus spake he “An', Lord of Linne, thou doest
stand in need of the red gold, I will gladly bestead
thee. Nay, wilt thou not sell to me for broad
money in hand thy father's lands 2"
The Heir of Linne was in his hall in the midst
of the other lords his very friends, and John of the
Scales spake to him these words aside, and they
gladdened his heart.
For he perceived how the money he should get
thereby the which would pay the cost of many a
feast and many a bout ; and thereto he saw no end.
Therefore he assented to the surrender of the
fair estate that he had received down from his
father, albeit the price which the steward in his
deceit offered was unjust.
“I agree,” quoth he, “John o' the Scales, to sell
thee my land; here take it to thee.”
“I draw you to record, lords all,” cried John o'
the Scales, “and a God's penny, lo! I cast to the
Heir of Linne.”
He went away, and shortly he came again, and
counted out the gold upon the board; to the last
piece he counted it out. And then he said : “The
gold is thine, the land is mine; and now I am the
lord of Linne.”


3ö2 ROMANTIC LEGENIDS.
O
“Here is money enough,” said the Heir of Linne,
“for many a day to come, to keep me and mine in
merry sort.” And he drank and he diced, and he
played the wanton, with all his company. Till it
happened in three quarters of a year that his store,
which he had received from John o' the Scales,
shrank to nought, so that he had but three pennies
all told left to him, and his friends forsook him,
every each one, till he was left alone. _-
“Now, well-a-day,” he sorrowfully cried, “when-
as I was the lord of Linne, I lacked nothing, and
had gold and fee; but now I have sold my lands
so broad, I must fain go to Edinborough to beg my
bread.” -
To whom, asking alms, some gave, and some not,
and others bad him to the foul fiend go ; and, quoth
they, “an' we should hang any thief, we would even
begin with thee.” -
So he sojourned in Edinborough it was three
quarters of a year, and he waxed exceeding melan-
choly. “Well-a-day, and woe is me !” he said.
“Now that I have parted with my land, every man
is against me; but whenas I was the lord of Linne,
I lived passing well, as my father, God be with
him I did before me during his whole life.”
He stood pensive and sad, the Heir of Linne;
and money had he none. But he bethought him
suddenly of a paper, that his father had left with
him, and had commanded that, unless he were in
extreme need, he should in no wise open the same.
“Now, by my troth,” said the Heir of Linne, “I
may well do it; for never was I yet pressed so sore.”
He sought out the paper, and read it, and it
-

THE HEIR OF LINNE. 383
enjoined him to repair to a lodge in the forest, where
he should find in a secret place a key, and in the
thickness of the wall, where no man might surmise,
three chests, two filled with gold and one with silver;
and his father, that was the lord of Linne before
him, forgave him his trespasses against God, and
him, and the world, and once more set him free.
The unthrifty Heir of Linne wept with joy at the
happy tidings; and whenas he had privily resorted
to the lodge, and found the treasure, as his father
had truly set out, to his infinite pleasure and solace,
then he filled certain bags therewith, and made all
speed to gain the house of John O' the Scales.
He laid his bags in a corner, saying forsooth to
the serving-men that they held bread given of
charitable folk to his asking, and went into the hall,
where three lords sat at a board in a row, and
the middle one was John o' the Scales, for he was
lord of Linne, and the lady of Linne, his wife, sat
hard by.
Then spake the Heir of Linne to her, praying
her of her courtesy that she would bestow upon him
one penny, for that he was exceeding poor.
But the dame answered and said : “Christ's
curse light on my head, if I give thee Ought, as thou
art an unthrifty loon.”
Then a good fellow, that sat near John o' the
Scales, “Have thou here,” quoth he, “thou Heir of
Linne. I will lend thee forty pence, for that thou
wast in thy time kind of heart, and other forty to
them, if need be.”
The Heir of Linne gave him great thanks, and
waxed wroth with John o' the Scales, for that,


384 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
seeing he had gotten his land so good cheap, he
would not even an alms-penny afford unto him in
his necessity.
Said John o' the Scales: “Certes, a fair price I
paid thee for thy land, and thou shalt have it back
better cheap by an hundred pound, an' thou wilt.”
John o' the Scales wist not of the matter that has
been said of the chests of gold and silver, which the
careful father of the Heir of Linne had put away to
be a saving grace in the hour of extremity, and he
deemed that he might safely challenge him to the
bargain.
But the Heir of Linne drew from his pouch a
God's penny and cried with a loud voice, “I hold
you to record, lords.” And he presently fetched the
bags, and lo! they were filled, in place of bread,
with the red gold; and he counted out the pieces
on the board.
He counted the pieces on the board, and never
a piece was wanting; and he said: “The gold is
thine, the land is mine ; and I am once more the
lord of Linne.”
“Have you here, you good fellow, that lately
lent me forty pence: lo! I give you forty pounds
therefore, and make you keeper of my forests and
my chaces.”
Quoth John o' the Scales his wife : “Alas ! this is
a shrewd turn. Yesterday I was the lady of Linne.
To-day I am but Joan o' the Scales.”
Quoth the lord of Linne: “If ever again I put
my land in jeopardy, Christ's curse light on my
head | "

ROSWAL AND LILIAN.
[7%is is a story of //a/ian, or at least foreign,
origin, whic/ ſârst / resents itse// in a Scotish garð aſ
a period ſong posſerior to f/at to which it appertains
Öy its costume and character. The close and cordia/
relations, which suðsisted between Scotland and the
Continent at an early date and down to the time of
Mary Stuart, favoured the transmission of fiction
and ſo/A-/ore thiſ/her from France and //a/y. The
au//or of Zhe romance of “Sir AEger” oftems the
scene in Bea/m2 or Æeaum, down to much /a/er
times an important province of France, but never
a separate Aingdom.
7%e story on/y exists ał Żresent in a ſafe seventeenth
century version (1663), but the wholesale destruction
of ancient Scotisſ, popular literature permits us to
sus/ecá č/.at we have Zost the prior editions, more
especia//y as a froduction entitled the “Zord of
Zorn,” which is formed from it, was already current,
even in Żng/and, in 4/ºe reign of Æ/izabeth, and is
included in Bishop Percy's ſo/io A/S., unless, of course,
# should be the case //a/ //e a/Čered £aſe preceded //;e
origina/ in order of Żuð/ication in this country.
“A'oswa/ and Zi/ian,” ſhowever, most probab/y
dates čacá to a period anterior to 1580, when the
“Zord of Zorn " was ſirst licensed at Stationers'
A. L. 385 C C



386 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Aſa/Z, and, /i/ºe many other favourite compositions,
may ſave passed 4/ºrough a series of impressions
wiłżouá /eaving a vestige Óe/ind, since these of 1663
and 1679 seem to survive in so/iſſary copies.
Zá is curious //a/ Fie/al in Žis “Amend's for
Zadies,” written in the reign of /ames /., employs
a “Zord of Zorn’’ as a synonym for a ſºrodiga/,
w/ereas that story offers in its fºresent s/affe no
ground for the a//usion. 7%e / assage in Z/ne //ay
may indicate the existence aſ one time of an early
Żrinted copy of the ſale of the //eir of Zimme, the
Scotis/, /7′odiga/–a character, by the way, sufficient/y
exceptiona/ to merić commemoration—and Lorn for
Linne may be the dramatist's s/º.
The rifacimento under the title of Z/e “Zord
of Zorn' in the Percy MS. is dep/orać/y corrupſ,
and in every respect inſerior to the Scotis/: #eré;
and Že Ö/acá-/effer copies in the Pepys and A'ot-
&urghe co//ections exhibit still furt/er debasement
and a still wider departure from the true /egend.
Z%e incident of Že ſhorses and armour may ſave
Čeen borrowed from the romance of “A'offerſ the
ZJewiſ,” in one of its varied forms, but there is the
zemza7%að/e ſeculiarity in Že present ſiction, that the
Žemºorazy Żossession of £/e changers and £raftings
of Že #/ºree Anights conſers on A'oswa/ //e gifts or
gua/i/?cations of Žeir true owners. 7% is appears to
Öe an unusual form of delegation.
7%e motion of £4e gray and green armour was per-
/afts suggested by the stories of “Sir AEger, Sir Grime,
and Sir Grey-Steel,” and “Sir Gawayne and the
Green. A night.”
On the whoſe, “A'oswa/ and Zi/ian " may be pro-


ROSWAL AND LILIAN. 387
nounced an interesting /ī///e novel, and fairly
dramatic in its structure and//o/.]
I.
THERE was once in the realm of Naples a worthy
king, that was nevertheless somewhat distrustful and
overbearing in his conditions. Who by his queen
had an only son, called ROswal, a paragon of beauty
and valour.
Now this worthy king had in his council three
knights, and because they gainsaid his authority he
cast them into a deep dungeon beneath his palace,
there to be their lives during ; and of that dun-
geon he kept the key by day and by night.
Young Roswal, who lay in a chamber over the
prison, heard the groans of these ill-fated men, and
it stirred him to compassion when he thought how
stern and hopeless a doom was theirs; and one
night, while his father the king slept, he came
privily in, and taking the key from beneath his
pillow, set free those three gallant knights, and
restored the key again to its place unmarked.
The gaoler marvelled when, in the morning, he
went to take his prisoners their scanty meal, and
found the dungeon empty; and when he had re-
ported to the king this strange accident, the king
waxed exceeding wrath, and swore by the rood that
whoso had done that deed should die the death; yet,
inasmuch as none had had the key, as it seemed, all
held it to be some miracle whereby those three
knights were thus enlarged.
Till young Roswal came to the king his father,
and made open confession that it was he who had

388 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
perpetrated the act; and thereupon, for that the
king was hard of heart, and brooked not at all that
insolency, the fair young prince was adjudged to
die, nor might the tears of his mother, nor a regard
for the youth of the guilty one, effect more than a
change from death to banishment.
Attended by the high steward of the kingdom,
and furnished with every royal appointment, he set
out for the court of the king of Beaune, to whom
his father gave him letters, making known who he
was, and praying him of his courtesy to entertain
him for a season.
But the steward, noting well that Roswal was
richly provided with money and jewels, and con-
sidering that they were both of years to answer to
the king's letters, thought within himself that he
might do well to despatch the prince on the way,
and whereas the king of Beaune knew not the heir
of Naples, counterfeit that unhappy boy in his
presence.
Nevertheless, in the event, he slew not Roswal,
whom he yet bound to secrecy, and stripped of all
that he had, his princely clothing, his jewels, his
money, and his letters, and left naked and hungry
by the wayside ; and he spurred his steed, and came
to the court of Beaune, where he was received with
all honour beseeming the letters that he bore in his
hand.
For the king of Beaune, when he saw how the
friendship of the king of Naples might be profitable
unto him, was mighty content at the visit of his son,
and joyfully assented to his suit, when the prince
that was indeed the false steward, sought after a

ROSWAL AND LILIAN. 389
while the hand of Lilian, the king's daughter; and
when the contract of marriage was signed between
the ambassadors of these two kings, the day was
fixed for the solemnities, and a tournament was
proclaimed in honour of the bride.
II.
Let us leave the false steward, and speak of young
ROswal, whom he would have drowned in a brook,
as he stooped to drink, in the journey from Naples,
but desisted only because the youth sware upon his
honour never to reveal the secret, and surrendered
to the steward his treasure and letters, with all that
he had.
He wandered he wist not where, when the false
steward had gone, and came to a poor cottage, where
a kind woman received him, and lent him food and
shelter. To whom, seeking his birth and name, he
answered and said, “I come from a far country, and
my name is /Jisaware.”
The good wife, perceiving how debonnair he was,
and how in feature and disposition he favoured her
own son, sent him to the same school, and thought
to rear them together as brethren ; and Roswal, that
had been well nurtured, moved the schoolmaster to
wonder, for that he knew more than he did, and his
learning did not reach to the instruction of the
strange youth in any science that the boy kenned
not already well enough. -
It came to pass that the high steward of Beaune,
understanding these rare qualities, took Disaware
for his page, and carried him to court, where the

39C - ROMANTIC LEGENDS. -
eye of Lilian the princess observed him ; and in
process of time, while the prince of Naples, that was
truly the false steward, was already affianced to her,
this royal maiden grew privily enamoured of the
page, and less and less in conceit of him who was
appointed in due time to be her spouse.
But all the while, who Disaware was, and whence
he came, she knew not, nor would he break his vow
to the wicked steward of his father the king. And
as the time for the tournament approached, which
was to endure three days, Disaware became melan-
choly and absorbed, and the princess urged him to
make her privy to the cause of his discontent, and
asked why he should not let his name stand among
the jousters. But he resolved her nought, and as
touching the tournament he was not expert in such
exercises. The nearer it drew to the day he waxed
the sadder, and on the morning of the tilting
he rose with the dawn, and repaired to the forest
with his dogs on hunting. For he could not bear
the sorrow that his secret passion for Lilian the
princess bred in his mind.
Yet he had no heart to follow the chace, and rode
listlessly about, when he was suddenly accosted by
a venerable figure in the likeness of a knight, who
led by the bridle a white charger, carrying at the
saddle-bow a suit of white armour.
He was the more amazed when the figure stood
before him, and addressed him in these words:
“Prince, don this harness, and mount this horse,
and so clad resort to the tournament. At thy return
thou wilt find me here. I will hunt the deer with
thy hounds, and present unto thee the game.”

ROSWAL AND LILIAN. 39 I
Disaware, not presuming to question or disobey
so lofty a summons, armed himself, leaped into the
saddle, and entered the lists, where he overcame all
foes without breaking his own spear, and at last,
preparing to charge the prince of Naples, that was
the false steward, and seeing him motionless with
fear and astonishment, checked his steed in mid-
career, and vanished from sight.
The king of Beaune and all present were trans-
ported with wonder and admiration of the prowess of
the White Knight, and the king vowed that he would
make him an earl, an' he knew who he was. But
Disaware had returned to the forest, and unarmed
himself, and when they repaired to the palace, he
was already in the hall, laden with the fruits of the
chace.
III.
Lilian the princess was angry because Disaware,
in place of doing his enterprize for her honour in
the tournament, contented himself with the humbler
trophies of the forest; and while she spake at large
of the valour of the White Knight, she besought and
enjoined him to attend the second day's tournament,
and signalise his valour for her sake. He bowed,
but gave that gentle lady no pledge; and he mused
whether he should again meet with a like adventure
in the forest, and who the stranger could be that
had so befriended him, and called him by his princely
title. Nor did he deem him a mortal, but rather
some spirit of the woods.
A second knight, clad like the former, met Dis-
aware on the following day, leading a gray horse,

392 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
charged with a suit of gray armour, and greeted him
in like manner as the first knight had done; and the
prince of Naples, that was in verity the false steward,
not seeing the White Knight, rejoiced at his coming
triumph in the tilt. But the Gray Knight, chal-
lenging him, laid him senseless on the ground, and
then engaged all the others there present, and when
he had vanquished them by turn, disappeared as
before.
Lilian the princess was, among the rest, greatly
astonished by these feats of chivalry, yet she
imagined, when she viewed the Gray Knight, as he
fought in the lists, that he something resembled her
own Disaware. But when she hastened back to the
palace, Disaware had just returned from hunting,
and of all the doings in the tournament wist nought.
On the third day, not the White Knight nor the
Gray, but one mounted on a bay steed, clad in green
armour, with a red shield and a golden helmet,
defied all comers, and threw the false steward that
he was wounded nigh to death ; and when all was
done, he cast, as he rode past her place, a gold ring
into the lap of Lilian the princess, and so vanished.
Now, when he returned a third time to the forest
to restore his horse and armour, he was met, to his
great amazement and joy, by the three knights that
he had delivered from prison, and were the cause of
his exile from the court of his father the king ; and
they shewed him that, because he had so suffered for
their sakes, therefore they had done him this good
office, and would yet do more, to the intent that the
false steward might not fulfil his wedding with
Lilian the princess.


ROSWAL AND LILIAN. 393
IV.
Now as the season for the nuptials approached,
Lilian the princess had been filled with despair, and
wist not what she should do; but she at length
made confession to her father, the king of Beaune,
NA- that she loved not the prince of Naples, and that
her heart was entirely set on Disaware, whom she
believed to be fully as noble by his birth as the
* prince. Her tears and prayers were bootless, how-
ever; and that gentle lady was married in the
church to the prince of Naples, who was the false
steward ; and after the celebration of the marriage,
the bride and the bridegroom sat in the hall on the
dais, side by side, to receive the guests as they
passed before them, and saluted them, to do them
w worship.
- There was a great throng to wish them God-
speed ere they departed ; and among the others
three strangers, magnificently clad, appeared, and
did reverence to the king and to Lilian the princess,
but the prince of Naples they marked not. Then
the king demanded of them wherefore they marked
not the prince, that was his daughter's wedded
husband ; and they answered and said that they
perceived not the prince. At which answer the
- king and all that were there present wondered ;
but anon entered the hall Disaware, to whom the
\ knights drew near and made obeisance, falling on
| their knees and kissing his hand.
This strange spectacle struck the assembly speech-
less. The false steward was persuaded that all his
misdeeds and deceit were on the eve of discovery :



394 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
and in fact the three knights that had paid homage
to their lawful prince proceeded to unfold the whole
story, while Roswal, that kept no longer his feigned
name, and yet had not broken his vow, acknow-
ledged all his obligations to his benefactors.
The false steward was straightway hanged, and
the true Roswal was united to Lilian the princess.
The feast lasted twenty days, and the prince of
Naples gave largess to the minstrels ere he and his
dear lady, whom he had so hardly won, went their
way back to Naples to his father's kingdom. He
approved himself good lord to all those who had
served him in adversity : the good wife and her son,
and the schoolmaster, and the good steward, who
promoted him to be his page. They were richly
requited, and, as the story saith, the boy with whom
he learned his book died a bishop.
After the death of his father and of the father
of Lilian, the prince Roswal became king of Naples
and Beaune; and when God called him at length
away, of his three sons, the eldest was king of
Naples, the second king of Beaune, and the third
pope of Rome; and his two daughters married the
king of France and the prince of Apulia.
!
º

~ THE BLIN D BEGGAR OF BETH NAL
GREEN.
[We have ranged #4 is famous tradition among
Zhose connected wit/ foreign adventure, because the
Aero won / is fame, and the story owes its interest in
the climax, to the military achievements of the Eng/isſ.
£n France. lī’e are entitled to inſer and Öe/ieve //a/
//e narrative was in existence either as a prose chaft-
ãook ox a bal/ad before 16OO, when /o/n Day and
others produced a drama on the suffect in three parts,
Öut without using //e fearſ, as we aſ al/ events now
Žossess it, nor is there any reference in the Stationers'
Aegister to the publication of the work aſ an early
date, so that the play was perhaps founded on ora/
/earsay, and the title conferred on it when it was
Žuć into ???ná, ſong after its production, in Żreference
to that of “ 7%omas S/rowd,” the name of Že AVor-
fo/* Veoman, who is made guite as prominent a
character in the performance as the Beggar himself.
In the //ay of “George & Green, the Pinner of
Wakefield” (1599), the AEarl of Áendal, who is made
to aspire to the crown, Öears the name of Henry
Montfort. -
Zá is evident that we have this Zegend transmitted
to us in a singular/y corrupt and degraded state, and
Bishop Percy and others have bestowed upon it a fair



396 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
share of their coöð/ing ingenuity. The accepted
accounts in prose and verse were fročač/y ſounded
on some o/ā tradition of the mysterious preservation
and survival of the son of Simon de Montſorſ after
Że Öałłſe of Æves/ame. Auf it is Z/e work of some
ôa/aa-monger, who has supp/ied Zºe deficiencies in
the //ot from Ais own not very opulent fancy, and
we have of course no a//ernative Óuff an acquiescence in
#/ºe slender sa/vage of Zimze, and in the Žopular view
of the suffect so far bacž as the reign of Æ/izabeth.
Z%e prose chaft-book seems to exist only in very
Załe impressions, and differs in some respects from
#/e metrica/ /a/e. // attempás do sºft/y certain
ôiographical details, which are elsewhere deſicient,
and more ſu//y explains //e origin of the wea/ſ/.
accumulated by the Aero of the Zegend.
Zºuf iſ seems to be remarkað/e 4/ºat of so romantic
an effisode we have received from earlier writers no
credióſe record, and have to re/y on a meagre out/ine
in doggere/ 7%yme or /rose.]
I.
IN former days, when the rose of England eclipsed
the lilies of France, and true English valour made
that nation bow to us, among other brave gallants
that went over to try their fortune was one Mont-
fort, a person well descended, and who was not to
be turned from his purpose either by the entreaties
of friends or the tears of a kind and beautiful wife,
so naturally was he inclined to war and so greedy
of fame.
So, taking his lady, who would by no means stay
º
--
.
!

THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BETHNAL GREEN. 397
behind, and who accompanied him in man's attire,
he, with many hundreds more, crossed to Calais,
and engaged in all the battles and skirmishes that
arose between the French and English, and was
more than once saved from capture by the courage
of his wife, till it chanced in a great fight that
~ Montfort fell, and was left for dead among the slain.
But his wife, since he returned not in the evening
to their home, sought him out on the field of battle,
and there found him by the aid of the moon's light
almost at the last gasp. Whom this noble lady
raised gently up, and bore to a shepherd's cottage,
where she dressed his wounds, and by administering
cordials and by carefully tending him she brought
him back to life, to his great amazement and her
unspeakable joy. -
Unhappily, through a blow which he had received,
his eyesight was lost, and he was condemned to
endure blindness during the whole remainder of his
days. With such money as she had left, however,
his wife took him back to England, where, after a
perilous voyage, they arrived, and settled at Bethnal
Green, which is beside London.
While Montfort was abroad in the wars of France
his parents died, and his kindred had taken and
wasted much of his patrimony; and because they
deemed, as indeed they hoped, him dead, they
looked coldly and shrewdly upon him when he
sought alms at their hands. Whereupon Montfort,
because he was blind, and could follow no craft,
resolved to live by begging of charitable people,
while his goodwife plied her spinning-wheel; and
he awakened in the breasts of many well-disposed

398 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
passengers a lively interest in the strange and
stirring scenes that he had witnessed in France, and
gat much money thereby. Yet none wist who he
was nor whence descended ; and he was commonly
called the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green.
II.
This Montfort, in his rambles, shortly contracted
acquaintance with others who pursued a like in-
dustry, and one day he came home, seeking his way
with his staff, as he was wont, and told his wife that
he had been bidden as a guest to a certain house
in White-chapel, which was a beggars' hospital or
home ; and when he went there, accompanied by
the faithful partner of all his joys and sorrows, they
were something at first abashed, for that all those
present wore such gay clothes and made so merry.
He, however, that of all the rest had specially bidden
them stood forward, and made them both welcome,
and prayed them to share their good cheer, which
they were accustomed to make on that their yearly
meeting; and at their departure they chose Montfort
to be one of them, and presented him with a dog
and a bell, which he found ever after, so long as he
exercised that calling, very serviceable to him in his
travels.
His success in the begging trade waxed so great
by reason of the greater curiosity that people enter-
tained about his strange fortune, that he no longer
remained content with frequenting Bethnal Green
and White-chapel, but went up to London, where he
never returned without plenty of coin in his pouch,

THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BETHNAL GREEN. 399
till he and his good wife exchanged a bed of straw
for one of down, and began to live more freely; and
in due time it happened that God blessed them with
a daughter, whom they baptized under the name of
Elizabeth,
Montfort resolved, his employment as a beggar
_^notwithstanding, that their child should be educated
n all arts and accomplishments becoming her birth,
f which none yet knew the secret; and pretty
Sessy, for so she grew to be called by virtue of her
Jeauty, gradually excelled in music, singing, dancing,
and all other matters all the virgins of that neigh-
bourhood of what degree soever. Whose envy was
thereby moved toward her, that they mocked her
in the street, and asked what a beggar's child should
do with so much learning. But Bessy bore their
cruel taunts meekly, and only reproved them by
saying that, if they had been born as she was, they
would not have wished to be so evil intreated.
Albeit Montfort thus caused his daughter to be
instructed in all the sciences befitting a woman to
know, he did not refuse her suit when she fell on
her knees one day and begged his blessing and
leave to seek her fortune. Yet she had gone no
farther than Romford in Essex when, frequenting
an inn there to get refreshment, the mistress looked
kindly upon her, and hearing her history, and that
she was of honest parents, persuaded her to abide
with her, and take service, telling her that she
should be to her as a daughter rather than a servant.




4OO ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
III.
This accident brought unlooked for fruit, for a
great multitude of persons resorted to that house,
where Bessy the beggar's daughter lay, and certain
courted her in the way of marriage. To all of
whom she pleaded the meanness of her birth and
the inequality of fortune. But in especial she was
sought by four, to wit, her master's son, a Londo.
merchant, a gentleman of fair estate, and a knight
and they offered her rings and rich jewels to prevail
upon her, which she refused, praying them of their
courtesy to spare the blushes of an innocent maid.
This backwardness still further inflamed their
desire to possess and enjoy her ; and then she
resolved, in order to make trial of their constancy,
to enter upon a further discovery of her parentage.
So, when she had on a certain day asked those
four to be present together to enable her to choose
truly which she would have to her spouse, she spake
as follows: “My parents, worthy sirs, live at
Bethnal Green. My father is a beggar, who is led,
for that he is blind, by a dog and a bell; and my
mother plies her spinning-wheel. Without their
consent cannot I wed no man.”
These words struck the inn-keeper's son, the
merchant, and the gentleman dumb ; and they found
cause to excuse themselves, leaving the maid alone
with the knight. Who shewed her how the others
had courted her for her beauty and youth, yet when
they heard her low birth eschewed her, and proved
untrue; while he, being possessed of a good fortune,
loved her for her excellent qualities, and was ready
-
`--

THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BETHNAL GREEN. 4OI
straightway to make her the mistress of all that he
owned.
Nevertheless, Bessy refused to accept his hand
until such time as he had seen her parents, and
obtained their agreement to the marriage. But she
ºacquainted him with her favourable feeling toward
im, whom from the beginning she had secretly pre-
:rred to all the rest.
IV.
It was accordingly agreed that Bessy should ride
behind the knight to Bethnal Green ; but they had
scarcely started on their way when the knight's
uncle, with many of his friends, came to the inn to
inquire for him, and, finding that he had departed
with the beggar's daughter, pursued and overtook
them hard by Montfort's little house on the Green.
The knight's uncle was loth that he should marry
below his degree, and some of those that were with
him coveted the hand of Bessy for themselves ; so
that there was a sharp skirmish outside the house,
which Montfort hearing, came to learn what it
signified. -
Then, when he understood that pretty Bessy was
without, and that a knight had brought her thither
to gain his consent to their marriage, he waxed
wroth at the tumult which they raised at his door,
and advancing toward the knight's uncle said to him
so : “Sir, I cannot see you, for I am blind; but
I hear more than is customary among civil people,
nor is my daughter so mean that she should be
thus accosted and affronted on my own threshold.
A. L. - D D
492 RUMANTIC LEGENDS.
Wherefore I pray you, sir, desist from your brawling,
or I may seek you out with my staff. I have known
the day when a taller fellow than you durst not
rouse me. If your kinsmen or you do not hold my
child a fit match for you, even let her alone. In
beauty and good breeding she is not much wanting ;
and, as for money, her father is ready to drop angels
with any man for her. So mark me, sir.”
The old beggar's speech confounded the knight'
uncle, who nevertheless sent for his bag of gold tha
he had with him by his servant; and when he gal
it, out from under rags and old shoes fetched
Montfort two coney-skins crammed with coins.
Then they began to drop their money, angel for
angel; but the knight's uncle shortly yielded the
palm to the beggar, for his store was spent, and
Montfort had plenty left.
“I think you have the philosopher's stone, good
sir," quoth the other, “ or keep a familiar to bring
you treasure from the Golden Mountains. But
I withdraw my objection to the marriage of my
nephew, and the sooner they go to church the
better.” -
The knight's uncle was in truth afeard lest the
knowledge of the beggar's riches should rob his
kinsman of so great a prize, and the other suitors
were mad enough to miss Bessy, as soon as they
understood that she was to be wedded to the
knight.
The old beggar spared no cost to make the
ceremony sumptuous and becoming the dignity of
the husband of his pretty Bessy; and a rich feast
was appointed, with music and dancing and all

THE BLIND BEGGAR OF BETHNAL GREEN. 4O3
kinds of merriment; and the bride was dressed in
the choicest stuffs, and wore the most splendid
jewels that could be bought against gold.
At the banquet the guests drank to the health
and happiness of the knight and his lady; and while
they were all assembled there, and merry over their
cups, the old beggar rose from his seat, and craved
the attention of as many as were present to what he
had to tell them. Whereupon, amid a deep silence,
he described to them his illustrious descent from
that Simon de Montfort who had been one of the
most powerful barons in England, his own exploits
in the wars of France, his wonderful rescue from
death on the field of battle, and his resort, when he
came back to his own country, to a beggar's life at
Bethnal Green.
When he sat down, after he had recounted these
things, the company loudly applauded all that had
fallen from him; and the knight and his friends were
overjoyed to find that Bessy, as she had Simon de
Montfort to her grandsire, not only surpassed her
husband in fortune, but at least equalled him in
birth.

WHITTINGTON.
(1350–1424.)
[7%is tale is one of the series whicſ, every ſitera-
Żure creates and fossesses wit/, //e twofold offect of
supplying the immediate demand for move//ies, and
of Żroviding Aistorical personages of more or ſess
remoſe date and anteceden/s with a 6iograft/y. 7%e
most familiar example of Žis mode of £rea/mem/ is
Že romantic particulars w/ic/, aſsed to pass current
for incidents in the Zife of S/a/.es/ear, even after
critics /ad abandoned in despair Z/e attempt to #47 ow
much rea/ /g/.4 on Ais career. We cannot wonder
therefore that, in the case of a man who died in the
first /a/f of the ſºfteen// century, and whose trans-
actions were chiefly recorded in unpublished civic
munimen/s, we encounter a puzz/ing mosaic of mayáž
and /ru//, whicſ, on ama/ysis is shown to contain a
wery sma// residuum of frustworthy matter.
We may take it as esta/isſed Z/a/ Sir Richard
Whittington was the son of Sir Wil/iam Whitfington,
member of an ancient ſa/27/y in G/oucesters/ºire, and
dayze /oan Žis wife, and //a/ /e was Óorn in Zondon
in or about 1350. He married A/ice, daughter of
Aſug/. Fitzwarren. An 1379 we find /ºim contribut-
ing to a City loan, and ten years later giving surety
to the chamberlain for £10 toward a fund for the


4O4.

WHITTINGTON. 405
defence of Zondon. //e was successive/y common-
counci/man for Coleman S/reeſ, and alderman for
Aroad Sáreef, Ward.
/* I 393, being //en on //e courſ of a/dermen, ſhe
was chosen to Öe one of Z/e s/eriffs of Zondon, and
aſ nearly Z/e same time /e became a member of Z/e
Mercers' Company, incom/ora!ed by Æic/ard //, in
//e year just named, not improðað/y // rough his or
/*is father's agency. Ay ſeſſers żałent of /une 8//,
1397, on 4/ºe deaſ/, of Adamº Zamme in office, ſhe
was aſſointed by Z/e Áing / ord! //ayor of Zondon
ad interim, and ał ż/e ensuing A/ic/ae/mas was
forma//y elected by Že City for Z/ºe mea'ſ year. Zm
1406 and 1419 /*e again served £/e office, froceed-
ing on A/ºe /asſ occasion to Wes/mainster to Če a//roved
and admitted by the Barons of f/e Etche/iter. In
1415 Że formed one of Z/e civic procession w/ic/.
went on foot to Wes/mins/er ſo return Z/anks for
//he victory at Agincourſ.
Zn 1393 Wºłłingſon was probably already a
wea///y and influentia/ man, and we have it on
zºndomlóſed au//hority //ał Że zvas /a/romised 60//, Öy
/*ic/ard // (de/osed in 1399) and / is uncle 7%omas
of Wood'sſocá, Duke of G/oucester, Zord //g/.
Constable of Æng/and (murdered in 1397). Zá was
toward #e close of his ſong and usefu/ /ă/e 4/ºat Že
formed //;e design of Żeſ/e/uating / is name Öy certain
monumental works. An I I //enzy ſlº. (1409–10) we
find Aim receiving the roya/ /eave for the ſoundation
Žn St. Michael's Palermosſer in the A’ed/e or /ćoya/
of his Aosſita/ or Domus Dei for thirteen Žoor
men, who were ſo fºray for / is good esſage and #4a/
of his family and friends, and in Že ſo//owing year
4O6 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
łże com/oration gave /º/, //e ground for his Co//cgc.
Sãow, in one //ace, s/a/es //a/ /e began to </d #e
Æðrazy of Z/ºe Grey/riars in 142 I aſ a cosé of 4400,
Öut it seems to be doub//u/ w/eſ/er / e /ived to com-
//eſe a/Z / is grand /rojects of improvemenſ and
goodness. For /će died in Že Öeginning of Z/e year
1423, Žis wiſ/ &eing / 7-oved in A/arcſ, and / is ſour
executors aft/ear Zo ſave aſ al/ events ſini's/ed Z/e
Co//ege, and ſo have ſaid for Z/e repairs of St.
Bart/o/omew's Hospita/ and Gui/a/a//, // was in
Žis /asſ mayora/y Z/a/ /e zeo/emed Zudgate as a
deſ/ors' /rison, in com/assionale regard /or refuſa&ſe
citizens, whose Aea///, was endangered by the moisome
s/aſe of AVewgate, and where £4e old Aistorian of
Zondon speaks of him ſaving Özi// AWewgate, we are
sure/y to understand its restoration or 7 econstruction
on an improved mode/.
Whittington was buried in Z/e church of St. John
Že Baptist, or St. /o/n upon Wal/rooA, and /ºis
yemains were twice disturbed: first, for the sake of
ascertaining w/eſ/er some great &reasure was moč
origina//y deposited in Žis ſomó, and, second/y, Zo
encase &/ºe &omes in a more secure and becoming
772 (2.7272.627.
The professiona/ occupa/ion of Wºłłingſon as a
mercer, Žer/afts in succession to ſºis father, was
a/most unquestionaö/y Z/he source of his manifest
of 24/ence, and if /as been suggested £/a/ //e cat Sãozy,
w/ic/, was in existence before his time, arose from
an imperſect affºre/ension of 4/ºe import of Že word!
achat or acat, Z/ºe ſermº &/ºem common/y emp/oyed in
AErench for the sa/e of merchandize or mercam/i/e
#7-azzsac/Zozas. 7%e 772eze czzczzyzsfazzae //a/ W/ºff-


WHITTINGTON. 4O7
fington's father was a Knight Óespeaks him a person
of some consideration and Standing, and #/e reference
to A'ic/ard //, and //e /Dal/e of G/oucester in con-
nearion wił/, //e younger Wºłłing/on's éeme/actions
may s/hew Z/a/ //e /a/ei/y rendered ſºnancia/ assis-
Zance to 4%e Crown, and 06/ained some equiva/en/.
Auá iſ ſetts/ sârike any one, who reſ/ec/s for and
£ns/anſ, as a strange caprice of fortune 4/aff in Že
common/y acceſſed accounts of Wºłłington we /ear
of many things whic/ / e never did, with an altogether
ſa/se conce/Zion of his origin, and, granted 4/ke pre-
mises Z/a/ /*e rose from a very /ow s/aſion Zo power
and riches, are left very imperſect/y informed of Žis
//hi/amážropic mazºniſ.cence and exemp/azy 7.06:/ićy of
character. In ſºme &/ºe Gi/d of //ercers /ad and
/ave //eir mosé iſ/us/rious member and one of Že
most important contributors to Zheir aggrandisement.
The earliest al/usion to Whittington in our litera-
ture appears to be a story of a dream which ſhe had
after //e ſoundațion of Žis college, and which is
Żreserved in a ſesſ-book of 1526. // is not worſ/
ſepeating, and down to the reign of Æ/izabet/,
when Sãow Żuð/ished his Survey and Anna/s,
moſ/ºing beyond a vague /egendary impression of
//he man Żrevailed. Stow eaff/icit/y refers to the
cozza'izzozzs affezadazzá 072 adſ/27sszozz Zmazo Z/he a/m2s-
Aouses, and Aſeywood #/.e dramatist, about the same
time, in Z/e “A”st Aart of Queen Æ/izabet/!'s
Troubles (1605),” repeats Stow's account almost in
so many words. Yet in 4/ºe face of Żis evidence a
//ay was produced, in whicſ, the anonymous aud/or
ſounded /ºis //off on Wºłłington's Zow Óiráž and
great fortune, and down to the present instant the


408 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
ſavouriſe motion is that which is fostered by //e chaft-
ôooA and the fanſomime. The strićing an/i//esis
was not to be /*g///y surrendered. -
Zeff ats see #/a/ Whittington constitutes a rare
type of Zegend. We can understand //e super-
structure or incrus/aſion of ſa&ſe on Z/e genuine
Aistories, such as Z/ey may be, of Z/e god's and heroes
of antiguity, of Żre/istoric Áings, of greaf warriors
in the age of chiva/ry, of early navigators and
eaflorers, of students of /iferaſure and science in
7//iterate and unscientific times, and of enemies of
the Church in various ways, but here we are
confronted with a soffer Zondon merchant of the
Plantageneſ period, for the leading events of whose
Öemeſicenſ /ăſe we have fair/y re/ia&ſe data, and whose
memory is preserved in the popular mind Öy a mur-
sery tale, Čare/y entić/ed to serious discussion. // was
Že usua/ incidence of Æastern romance to accom//is/.
resu//s ày a coup de main ; it suited 4/ºe dreamy,
des/offic, and inerſ. Orien/a/ temperament. 7%e
A 7-affzazz 2777/e72/07, Zvozz/a/ 7zoſ /*aze sºcceeded! So zve//
Žf he had depicted fortunes acquired by /ă/e-ſong
industry; and even we in the West cheris/, // is sor/
of imaginative i//usion, when it is Órought ſºome to
als, when it is affi/iaſed on a veritable a/aerman and
mayor of Zondon, on some actual and Öreaſ/ºing
merchant-prince, a practica/ man of Čusiness, a bene-
factor of Žis species. Aſe mºst owe a// ?/a/ / e /ad
and was to wedges of Barðary gold, earned for him
ôy a cał Ż - - -
The chaft-600A to which we have above referred,
and 70/ic/, / as Öeen employed in the fo//owing account,
adopts Zºe view of the Aero a/ready ſaid Óefore the
WIHITTINGTON. 4O9
ſºuð/ic in a //ay no longer Ánown, al//ough Zhe writer
guotes Fabian, Harding, and Stow, and, in fact, Żads
Aïs /i///e book free/y with maſter not direct/y relevant
to Whittingſon from the amma/ists of Zondon. At
Že same time Heywood, in a drama printed in 1605,
and acted earlier, repudiates the ſic/ion as to Iſ/Ai/-
ſington's origin, and /o//ows Stow.
Zvezy ſame?/y must have a beginning. 7%ere is a
fossibility &/ºat we ſave to go a generation back in
guesſ of £/e poor boy who attained riches and spurs
Öy his commercia/ enterprize, and //;at it was rea/y
Sir Wi//iam Whittington whose birth was humble,
w/º:/e it does not ſo//ow //a/ #/ºe caä legend might
afterſain ſo ſºme any more &/ºan Žo / is son, the
Whittingſon of Žistory. The confusion àetween him
and /ºis father is rendered more //ausióſe by the
aôsence of Že name of the Załłer in any ſist of civic
officers and /roceedings. He may have been mere/y
a Żrosſerous, se/f-raised merchant.]
I.
RICHARD WHITTINGTON was so obscurely bred that
he could scarce say who his parents were; and
being well-nigh starved in the country, it appears
that he came up to London, where he expected to
meet with greater charity.
He was ashamed to beg, and the thought of
stealing he abhorred ; and during two days he
wandered about the streets, gazing on the shops,
with next to nought to eat.
At length he waxed so faint, that he seated
himself on a bench beside a merchant's gateway in

4 IO ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Leadenhall Street, and had not rested there long
when the merchant himself, going forth for his
Occasions into the city, looked on him, and, not
knowing his hard case, demanded why he loitered
there sooner than busy himself with earning his
living in some lawful vocation ; and he threatened
him with the stocks or the whipping-post.
But Whittington made legs to his worship, and
shewed how it stood with him, saying that there
was no employment, how mean and poor soever,
that he would not take, if it should offer. The
merchant, thereupon eyeing him more favourably,
called to one of his servants, and desired him to
give the youth victual such as the house afforded,
and on his return he would have further speech with
him. And the servant did so.
While the merchant, then, was absent at the
exchange in Lombard Street, Whittington sat by
the fire in the kitchen to warm himself (for it was
the winter season), and plenty of good food being
presently brought, he fed like a farmer, and the
colour returned into his cheeks ; so that when the
merchant's daughter, learning that a new visitor had
arrived, came into the place where he was, she was
greatly taken by his fair looks and by his honest
answers to the questions she put to him concerning
the country whence he had travelled up.
The dinner hour arrived, and Master Fitzwarren
(for this was the merchant's name) brought home
one or two friends to partake of his good cheer ;
and the servants table was also set out, at which
Whittington was prayed to sit, albeit he had SO
newly broken his fast; for all liked his company


WHITTINGTON. 4 II
well, some being pleased with his country speech,
and others entertained by his simplicity.
II.
Now when Master Fitzwarren's guests had de-
parted, and he and his daughter remained alone, she
commended his charity in that he had befriended
the poor fellow that now sat in the kitchen. To
whom ; “God-a-mercy! daughter," quoth he, “right
glad am I that thou hast remembered me thereof:
for I commanded my servants to care for him, and
I marvel if they have so done.”
His daughter answered and said: “Father, I
even bad them let him stay dinner, nor dismiss
him, till you could have conference with him.”
Master Fitzwarren rose, and with his daughter
passed into the hall, where they called Whittington
to them. Whose address was so lowly and modest,
that he enlisted in his favour that gentle lady, the
merchant's daughter; and in the end he was admitted
into the household to do what labour was enjoined
to him, and to have bed and board, and clothing.
Wages he had as yet none; yet with a penny, that
some kind man gave him for a service, he bought
a young cat, which he made his companion ; and it
had the leaving of his plate, and slept in the same
garret with its master.
The merchant was accustomed from time to time
to adventure ships upon the sea to distant lands
with merchandize and goods; and it entered into
his practice (for he was a generous man) to suffer
all his household and servants to put in somewhat ;

4 I 2 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
and now it was the case that a ship was in course
of fitting out for a long voyage, and all had license
to join to their power.
Only Whittington, albeit Master Fitzwarren gave
him leave, had nought to send ; and when his kind
mistress, the merchant's daughter, made offer to
lend him money out of her purse, her father replied,
saying that each must give out of his own proper
chattels. So he prayed Whittington to consider
well if he had anything his very own which he
might put to hazard, for the Onicorn was lying at
Blackwall, and was ready to set sail.
Whittington could only offer his cat, and loth
enough he was to part with so dear a playmate ;
yet, because he was urged, he let it go, and right
glad the captain was of it, for it destroyed the rats
and mice wherewith the ship abounded, and which
damaged the cargo and other commodities.
III.
Meanwhile, it happened that Whittington and the
kitchenmaid at Master Fitzwarren's proved no good
friends, and she so evil-intreated him, because he
was too honest to plunder, that at last he could bear
his life no longer, and, gathering up the few clothes
he had, ran away. He ran toward Bun-Hill, and
it being All Hallows' Day, the bells of Bow Church
began to ring, and they were, as it seemed to him,
tuned to this ditty:
- “Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London :
Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London l’

WHITTINGTON. 4 I 3
3.
This made a deep impression on his mind, and
because it was so early, that he might return ere
the family had risen, he resolved to go back, and
found everything as he had left it, and none cog-
nizant of his departure and flight.
Let us leave Whittington, who grew to be beloved
of all, save the shrewd kitchen-wench, and speak
of what befell the Omicorn, which, driven by con-
trary winds, was enforced to land on the shores
of Barbary, where no Englishman had ever traded
before; and the Moors, when they perceived such
an unwonted sight, hastened down in great numbers,
and bought all the rich goods which Master Fitz-
warren had despatched by his factor; and the king
of that country, when he understood the matter,
sent for the Englishmen, and likewise purchased
from them, and bad them to a great feast.
The custom was among this people, which were
not Christians, but heathens, worshipping Mahomet,
to sit at meat, not round a table as our use is, but
on a carpet, like tailors on a shop-board ; and when
the viands were spread, and all were prepared to
partake of the good cheer, a swarm of rats and mice
settled upon the dishes and consumed everything,
to the meat on the trenchers of the king and the
Queen.
This spectacle annoyed the Englishmen, and the
king to their asking replied that he would gladly
give half the revenues of his dominion, if he might
be quit of this terrible visitation, since he could not
lay down his head on his pillow at night, unless a
watch were set to guard him from destruction.
The factor thereupon made known to the king


4 I4 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
that, it being so, they had a strange beast on board
their ship which would speedily rid the kingdom of
this plague; and his grace said that he would lade
the vessel with gold, silver, and pearls to have so
rare a treasure. The Englishmen doubted if they
might spare the beast from the ship, for that, while
they slept, it kept the vermin from their merchandize
and their diet.
All the more the king desired to see and possess
such a blessing; and at last the Englishmen went
and fetched the cat, which, when the dishes that
had been devoured were renewed, and the rats and
mice again made their entrance, no sooner shewed
itself, and seized on such as were nighest, but they
all fled, and were seen no more.
Greatly the king and the nobility rejoiced when
they had witnessed this sport, and vowed that the
hunting of the lion was not comparable with it; and
because the cat looked to have kittens, which would
in short time people the whole realm, the king made
it so, that the price of the cat by far exceeded all
the other lading of the ship.
When they had set sail from Barbary, and safely
arrived at Blackwall once again, Master Fitzwarren,
when he learned what fortune poor Whittington had
met withal, sent for him when he was scouring the
pots in the kitchen ; and whereas he at first excused
himself, saying that his shoes were soiled, and the
floor of the parlour but newly rubbed, to the repeated
calls of the merchant he in the end answered, and
presented himself before Master Fitzwarren, with
whom were his daughter, the factor of the ship, and
her pilot.
-

WHITTINGTON. 4. I 5
Whereupon to Whittington making humble obei-
sance as before, the good merchant spake graciously
and heartily, saluting him by the title of Master
Whittington; and he caused chairs to be brought,
and placed Master Whittington by his side. But
he, moved by this strange exaltation, wept, and
asked the meaning thereof. To whom his master
replied, that he was now a better and richer man
than himself, and exhibited to him the prodigious
wealth that he had gotten through his cat in such
unlooked for sort.

IV.
Master Whittington bestowed of his exceeding
great substance on the factor, and all others that
had shown him courtesy; and when he was sump-
tuously clothed, and went in all things like a gentle-
man, the merchant's daughter, that before had pitied
him, began to cast an eye upon him, as upon one
whom she would fain have for a suitor, and to her
father's singular content, who designed a match
betwixt these two.
Now it was not long ere Master Whittington
sought that lady, his kind mistress when he was
poor and hungry, in marriage; and Master Fitz-
warren spared no cost at the wedding, whereto
were bidden the lord mayor and aldermen, and all
the chief merchants of the city of London, and
shortly after he was pricked for sheriff, and acquitted
himself in that office with infinite credit.
At length, that the words which the bells of Bow
Church had rung out might be fulfilled, in the one
and twentieth year of king Richard the Second,
416 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Master Whittington was chosen mayor, and was
knighted by the king's grace. During the term
of whose mayoralty there arose great discord and
trouble in England, and grievous pride and riotous
excess in living by reason, as it was deemed, of the
singular growth of commerce with foreign countries
through Sir Richard Whittington and other mer-
chants his very friends encouraging strange new
fashions and vain wantonness in diet.
Which Sir Richard Whittington was four times
mayor of London, and as in his life he founded
divers noble charities in remembrance of the grati-
tude that he owed to Almighty God for having
raised him, so mean a creature, to so great a fortune
and dignity, so his executors by his ordinance after
his death continued that good work for the souls'
health of the said Sir Richard and dame Alice his
wife.

THE PINNER OF WAKE FIELD.
[7%e present is a mort/4-country story, and seems
to ſave a certain measure of support from tradition,
#/ough the exact period when the hero ſourished is
moſ at Aresent to be ascertained. We find //;e suffect
Žoffº/ar enough to induce an AE/izabethan theatrica/
manager to accepé and/roduce a play embodying the
Ża/e, and #/ºs performance was repeated/y //aced
2% on the stage about 1594. The drama was firinted
in 1599, and was ſºročaff/y founded in Żarſ on 4/ºe
Żrose fiction, of which numerous editions meusz /ave
afteared prior to the date of any now eactant, but at
#e same time, as a comparison will establish, the
Ž/aywright has by no means implicitly fo//owed the
#/ºread of the narrative, as here given, and even
Ž/aces the events in the reign of one of the Ædward's.
7%ere is almost to a certainty no authority or pre-
fence whatever for assigning the Pinner or Pound-
A'eeffer of Wakefie/al to Z/e same effock as /ēoffin.
Aſood. The two celebrities were perhaps ſe//ow
Žozºmsmen, Özlf doztóż/ess aſ a considerað/e inſerva/,
and //;e socia/grade of Æoffin and his politica//ar-
£izams/º/, /ave conferred on ſºme a more caſ/o/ic and
enduring ſame than that of the ſo/ſy Pinder, who,
reduced to his historica/ dimensions, was ſięż/e more
than a ſusty Yorkshire worthy of the ſºfteen//, or
A. L. 4I7 E. E.

4.18 - ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
sixteenth century, who//y irresponsióſe for many of
the achievements wiſ/, which he is credited by his
ðiograft/aers and the //aywright.
7%e “Aſistory of George à Green " is, we ſear, no
7207 e // an an enter/aining med/ey, or /.0/c/-/o/c/, in
which chronology and fruſ/, are /i/i/ess/y immo/a/ed
ał że shrine of the 600A-vending Moloch. We have
Žo resign ourse/ves to the task of presenting the series
of adventures much as Z/ey are re/afed, Óut wit/, a
four-ſºned caution to a// whom it may concern Żaff
Žey must take &/ºe account for w/ºat it is wor//, its
uncrifica/ and Žeterogeneous character forming a
common incidence of such com/i/a/ions, when readers
Ánew /č//e of remote persons and events, and the
/iterary fraternity was not matc/, &eſſer informed.
The romance, àesides &eing unfaiț//u/ to Aistory,
7s so confused and inconsequentia/ in its arrange-
ment, that it has Óeen ſound an unusua//y difficuſ/
and 77% some task to #/ºrozy Żhe incidents info an
inſe//igiöſe form and order.
A 'e?/afts, after aſſ, its main curiosity may be as
a samp/e of the facility with which, given a centra/
ſigure, Že remorse/ess author overturned al/ //e zºni.
£ies for the momentary effect, ſusã as “ſwan/oe” on 4/e
modern stage is an iſ/iterate ſumó/e of incongruous
elements; indeed the discursive story of the Pinder
in its origina/s/affe is £4e prototype of our /ćistorica/
move/ Zwiąż żs egua/ disregard of documents and
%ałżer of ſacá.]
I.
IN the days of King Henry the Second, when
England was torn by intestine discord, and families
§


THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 4 IQ
were so divided against each other, that father and
son, and brother and brother, were oftentimes
opposed, there lived in the town of Wakefield one
Geoffrey à Green, a rich farmer, that in the wars
was adverse to the king, and lost his inheritance ;
and dying, left one only son of tender age, namely,
George à Green.
This young fellow, because his father had forfeited
to the king all his goods and lands, was brought up
hardly, and save that in the parish school he learned
to read and write, he was an indifferent scholar, and
more studied the advancement of his bodily strength,
which soon gained him renown among his equals and
neighbours thereabout. More especially since he
began by giving his schoolmaster, that brooked not
his high spirit and insolency, a fall, which went nigh
to cripple him ; so that George left his lessons and
broke up school.
For some time he lay idle, nor knew not what
calling to choose to his best liking ; and whereas a
friend counselled him to resort to a famous astrologer
that dwelled at Halifax, and for forty pence divined
the future of every man, George sought his house.
But for that this wise man was then busied with
discovering who had done him an ill turn, and could
not, George kept his money, holding him no seer
that could not attend upon his own needs.
Nevertheless George, lacking employment, and
growing in the love of all in that township, was
shortly invited without any suit on his part to take
the place of Pound-keeper or Pinder; and albeit
there were many others who would have fain com-
peted with him, all voices were for George by reason



42O ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
of his crying need of some livelihood and his ex-
cellent qualities.
But he desired that merit should decide the choice
sooner than favour; and when he proposed that all
such as stood for the pindership should meet on
Wakefield Green on a given day after evensong,
and join in a match at quarterstaff, the prize to the
winner being the office that lay vacant, all agreed ;
and when the time came, George played the part
of champion, and the rest were defendants.
The meeting on the green was to all comers :
bakers, butchers, tinkers, every one; and each
challenge was given in its turn to the music of the
bagpipes, and a throng of gentlefolks from far and
near attended to see the sport. As soon as George
had laid one low, another appeared in his place, like
Hercules and the hydra ; but when he had disposed
of some twenty of them, and still appeared as fresh
as a daisy and ready for more, the rest perceived
the vanity of further trial, and by universal consent
the prize was awarded to George.
This victory gained him a great name over all
that country, and made many a fair damsel gaze
upon him favourably that had been a witness to
that evening's doings. But in especial his prowess
was marked by the paragon of beauty in the
northern parts, Beatrice, the daughter of justice
Grymes; and the Pinder, that had long known
her for a great lady, yet far above him in reach,
espied her betwixt the bouts in the ring, and figured
to himself that her smiles and her glances as she
looked toward him, meant no harm.

THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 42 I
II.
Now when God took to Himself the king of
England, that was Henry the Second, and Richard
the First, named Coeur-de-Lion, reigned in his room,
this Richard, going to the Holy Land to defend
the cross and sepulchre of Jesus Christ from the
heathens, left his realm in charge of the Bishop
of Ely. Whose covetousness and overbearing, to-
gether with the disloyalty of Prince John, the king's
brother, bred sore discontent, insomuch that under
the Earl of Kendal a host gathered itself together
to defend the rights of the people.
This army consumed much provision and sub-
stance, and sent into the shires messengers to
require subsidies in money and food; and one Man-
nering came into the northern parts, and namely
to Wakefield, to solicit the bailiff and justices of
that township to grant him under his commission,
sealed with three seals, a contribution to the cause.
He stood covered before the bench, as representing
the Earl of Kendal; and when they had heard the
nature of his suit, and hesitated to deny him or to
grant him that he prayed, he waxed mighty inso-
lent, and Overawed the magistrates, so that they
began to lean to yielding to him.
At this juncture the Pinder, stepping forth from
the body of the court, where the justices sat, craved
liberty to answer the earl's messenger in the behalf
of his neighbours and townsmen; and when they
had given him liberty, he at first demanded by what
title Mannering stood covered in that presence, and
when the messenger answered not, he plucked the
bonnet from his head, and threw it to a distance.


422 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Quoth Mannering : “How darest thou offer this
violence to me, who come armed with such a com-
mission ?”
The Pinder begged him to shew that to him.
Which, the permission of the justices granted, he
perused, and then, as though he would have kissed
it in reverence, tore it, keeping only the three seals
wherewith it was sealed. Mannering began to
stamp and storm ; but George took him by the
collar, and shook him, saying that he would soon
cool his choleric blood ; whereupon pointing his
dagger at the messenger's breast, he made him
swallow the seals, one after the other, and then quaff
a draught of ale to wash them well down. “ For,”
cried the Pinder, “it shall never be said that a
messenger was sent by such great personages to the
town of Wakefield, and that none made him drink.”
Mannering perceiving no remedy, and feeling the
wax tickle his throat, drank supernaculum. “Now,”
said George, “commend me to thy master and the
rest, and make known to them that the Pinder of
Wakefield, albeit he has torn their commission, has
yet sent them back their seals by their servant.”
So he, departing in secret ire, went in quest of
the Earl of Kendal, whom, with others, he found
at the house of justice Grymes, and already incensed
by the flout which the same Pinder had offered to
a spy sent out to gain secret information how
Sandon Castle might be brought into the possession
of the rebels.
For George, happening to meet with this spy,
that knew him not, shewed him how he was accus-
tomed to sell corn to the garrison, and was well


THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 423
|-
known of them, and so agreed with the same for
a rich reward to convey him in a sack into the
castle, as he were a bushel of corn ; and in the
night-time he should leave his concealment, and
open the gates to the Earl of Kendal's men. But
when the spy had entered the sack, the Pinder
made it fast with a strong cord, and cast him over
his shoulder, and took him, and hoisted him up on
the tree before the castle-green, where the Mus-
graves, who kept the castle for the king, might
easily see him, with the scroll on his breast setting
forth his treason and who put him there.
Which when Sir William Musgrave and his son
perceived from the walls of the castle, greatly raised
the Pinder in their conceit.
III.
Meanwhile, as George à Green grew more and
more famous throughout all the north country, the
fair Beatrice, justice Grymes' daughter, who had
been courted in vain by lords and knights, and had
had even the Earl of Kendal among the suitors for
her hand, was more and more enamoured of him,
and his exploits, with which the whole kingdom
began to ring, kindled in her breast a violent desire
to see him or to write to him ; and the Pinder, on
his part, waxed melancholy by reason of his passion
for that lady, and the thought of the great distance
between them in birth and fortune. So, when it
came to pass that George sent a letter by his boy
to Beatrice, and she returned a gracious answer by
the same messenger, the Pinder was a joyful man.
indeed. -


424. ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Then when certain other letters had passed be-
tween these two lovers, and Beatrice was so straitly
watched by her father, that she might not meet the
Pinder, they devised a plot, whereby the Pinder's
boy, whose name was Willy, was admitted to the
chamber of Beatrice in the guise of a sempstress
maid, that had laces and the like to sell. Who,
changing clothes with the lady, remained in the
place, and braved her father's anger, when he should
discover the cheat, while the other took flight, and
tarried not till she came to the spot appointed for
the meeting with George.
It happened about this time that Maid Marian,
that was the Lord Fitzwalter's daughter, and SO-
journed with Robin Hood beneath the broad shade
in king Richard's forest of Sherwood, grew pen-
sive and dejected, and so strangely bare herself that
Robin, who was in very truth the noble Robert,
the banished Earl of Huntingdon, deemed it in his
secret thought to be for that this fair may was im-
portuned by Prince John, the king's own brother,
to hearken to his love. But when he asked her,
she said Nay, but that it was because the fame of
George à Green for valour and Beatrice his para-
mour for beauty threatened to outshine theirs; and
she had a sore longing that she might accompany
him to Wakefield town, and challenge those two
to a trial, so that it might be known and allowed of
all which was the valianter, he Robin or George
à Green, and the fairer, she Marian or George's
Beatrice.
To whom Robin yielded compliance, and he, with
Little John, Scathlock, and the Friar, set out accor-
THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 4.25
dingly, in company with Marian ; and their other
weapons those outlaws left behind, and carried only
their quarter-staves on their necks, as the custom
of the country was ; and they drew not breath until
they came to the cornfields that neighbour upon
Wakefield, and crossed them, bearing down the
corn. Whom the Pinder, that was abroad there-
about with his Beatrice, shortly noting, sharply
accosted, as one who was privileged by his office
to warn trespassers in the growing season. But
who the strangers were, he yet knew not, for they
had not their bows, nor wore their forest livery.
Beatrice intreated him not to be over-bold, since
there were four to one ; but George, seeing such
wrong done, was not to be held back, and taking
his staff from his shoulder, barred their way, de-
manding recompense. The strangers answered and
said, that the satisfaction was for him to seek.
“Marry, sirs, and so it shall be,” quoth the Pinder ;
“ and as you are true men, come not upon me all
at a time.”
It was a sorry spectacle for those two virgins to
view, when the lusty Pinder engaged one by one
Robin and his merry men. Scathlock and Little
John he soon laid at his feet. The Friar approached,
and poised his staff by way of entrance. “O,”
cried George, “I must refuse nothing to the
Church,” and placed him where his two comrades
We1-62. ... "
Then began the fiercest part of the fray ; for the
Pinder and Robin set at each other like lions, and
Marian made no doubt that George had at last
found his match. But the Pinder proved too much



426 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
even for him ; and he had to beg him, after such a
bout as had rarely been witnessed in these parts, to
hold his hand, and then discovered who he was.
To whom the victorious Pinder courteously ad-
dressed himself, saying that, after king Richard, he
was the man whom he most honoured ; and he
craved pardon of Maid Marian, praying Beatrice
to do likewise ; and those two comely mays em-
braced and kissed each other, Marian declaring
Beatrice to be the glory of the northern parts.
IV.
While these events were taking place, king
Richard, having left the Holy Land, returned to his
own kingdom, and sorely grieved to learn what
tumults and rebellions and great abuses had been
committed during his absence. But it was a mighty
solace to his grace to receive at the hands of the
Musgraves the arch-rebel Armstrong, and anon by
the hands of justice Grymes the Earl of Kendal,
Lord Bonville, and Sir Nicholas Mannering, who
were brought before him, and delivered as prisoners,
in the name of George à Green, that by stratagem
had newly taken the same. And by cause that the
Earl of Kendal had been encouraged in his dis-
loyalty by a prophecy that the king would one day
vail his bonnet to him in the city of London, Richard
uncovered himself before him in mockery thereof,
and said unto him, “My lord, you are welcome to
London.”
The king's grace, hearing the fame of George à
Green so widely and loudly bruited, resolved, so
THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 427
soon as his affairs afforded him leisure, to make a
progress into the north country with the Earl of
Leicester and with Musgrave, disguised as plain
yeomen; and it chanced that they arrived at the good
town of Bradford on Trail-staff day, when the sturdy
shoemakers are licensed by ancient use to come out,
and make all comers vail their quarterstaves. Now,
when those three seeming yeomen carried their
staves on their necks, as not knowing the custom,
certain shoemakers rudely beat them to the ground;
and to the yeomen demanding why this was done,
they replied that they had had the right time out
of mind, and that it was to them and their heirs for
eVer.
Wherefore one of the three that was the king
axed them where was their patent. “We have
none,” quoth they, “nor want it ; for staff-end-law
suffices us.” And the yeomen, because they feared
discovery, trailed their staves, to avoid a fray. But
Robin Hood and Maid Marian, and George à Green
and Beatrice, and the rest, coming up, and the shoe-
makers summoning them in like fashion, that was
a different matter, for Robin and George and their
men set upon the shoemakers, and the whole town
| was shortly astir; but the shoemakers reckoned
without their host, and were fain to cry mercy, saying
that they felt it to be no dishonour or disparage-
ment to be beaten by such renowned men as Robin
and the Pinder.
Then followed the drinking and pledging of healths,
s and the first was to good king Richard, and George
- gave it, and Robin, as the next best man in the
company, pledged it; and the bowl was then passed

428 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
round to the shoemakers. Only the three yeomen
that trailed their staves were excepted out of it, by
reason that they were, quoth George, unworthy to
drink to so brave a king. The second health was
to Robin, and the third was to have been to George,
when the three yeomen, casting aside their disguise,
stepped forward, and the Earl of Leicester craved
leave to let king Richard follow next in order.
Hereupon all fell on their knees; but the king
raised them by turn, and first to Robin he said :
“Rise, Robert Earl of Huntingdon. I restore thee
thy lands, wrongfully taken from thee by my brother
and my lieutenant the bishop of Ely, and bestow on
thee the hand of thy Matilda, the lord Fitzwalter's
daughter.”
Next his grace called for George à Green, and
after that he had lustily commended his loyalty and
prowess, desired him to kneel, that he might make
him knight. But George humbly prayed that he
might be suffered to remain, as his father had been
before him, a yeoman ; and then the king, assenting,
gave him in requital of his worthy services to the
crown of England the moiety of his royal right in
the good town of Kendal and all his title in chief
to the good town of Bradford, to stand, he and his
heirs, in the place of the king for ever.
Unto whom anon, as these passages were so
happily proceeding, came justice Grymes, to cast
himself at his prince's feet, and beg worthy punish-
ment for him that had stolen his daughter, and left a
boy in her room. But when he understood what the
king's pleasure was in respect of George à Green,
the justice suffered himself to be persuaded, and to

THE PINNER OF WAKEFIELD. 429
offer no hinderance to the marriage of Beatrice his
heiress to the Pinder of Wakefield, whom Richard
of the Lion Heart had so enriched, that he might
forsake his office, and who had generously refused
to be higher in dignity than his father Geoffrey à
Green, albeit in wealth and in authority he became
by royal bounty one of the greatest lords in his
own country.

THOMAS HICKATHRIFT.
[7%is ſale appears to be destitute of any hidden
moral, and, so far as is at present discoverað/e, is of
no great antiguity, an edition of the seventeenth cent-
Żury being the ear/iest w/ic/, / as been seen, and no
references to it occurring in earlier books. ZZ is cer-
Žain/y a piece of //easant melodramatic extravagance,
of whic/, //e gen//e reader is invited to credit just as
much as he ſhinás fit. The marrative offens ày ſay-
ing the adventures in a fairly remote era, and fºre-
serves an unvarying uniformity in Öringing Zome
trium//iant out of every exploit. The Aint for 4/ºis
Áind of romantic Ayöeräoſe came to us ſºom Germany
Żrough French chamme/s, the language and ſiderature
of the Fałżer/and being very sparing/y studied and
wnderstood in Zngland down to comparative/y recent
days.
A // //ese narrations of prodigious bodily prowess
aft/ear to Če reco//ec/ions, as it were, of £/e may//, of
the Grecian Herac/es. They had become common
and /o/u/ar in early foreign /iterature, and /ºad
grown to the fiſcſ of Čur/es/ue extravagance when
Cervantes ridicuſed them in his “Quixote.” “Aſicäa-
t/ri/?” is a product more germane to the Britis/: soi/.
Z%e incident toward the close, where the gian/
Zand's in Żng/and, mounted on a dragon, and with a


THOMAS HICKATHRIFT. 43 I
7-ečinate of Čears and /ions, reads /i/śe some confused
or ſigºtražive account of an early invasion defeated
and crushed 7%e details are too scandy to enable
its to ſudge; < the Zoca/ization of Z/ºe /a/e in the
Fen country may render it wor//, men/ioning that
//a/ was one of Že Zast Savon Sárong/o/a's after
//e AVorman Conguest, and forms Z/e 4/eatre of
many of the daring eaſº/oi/s of Hereward //e son of
Zeofric and Godiva.
Of course //e se/ection of a scene or size in these
cases is aft to be aróitrary. Æven the /egend of /acá
Že Giant-Ai//e7, which is usua//y associated wit/.
Cornwaſ/, is made in Z/e ear/lesſ Ánown copy a
7.07%-country story, carrying, ſer/afts, in either con-
Žingency //e poſitica/ and socia/ mora/ w/ic/, //e
present writer has pointed out in his “Studies in
ſocil/ar / iterature."
I.
IN the reign of William the Conqueror there lived
in the Isle of Ely, in Cambridgeshire, an honest
labourer, named Thomas Hickathrift. He was a
stout fellow, and could in a day do the work of two
ordinary men.
As he had an only son, he called him after him-
self, and sent him to school. But Tom would learn
nothing. God called the old man aside, and his
widow tried hard to maintain her boy; but his chief
delight was to sit in the chimney-corner, and he ate
as much as five grown up men. At ten years old
he was six feet high, and three feet across, with a
hand like a shoulder of mutton, and everything else
proportionable.


432 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
Tom's mother, being so poor, begged of a rich
farmer, her near neighbour, a truss of straw, to help
her somewhat in her housekeeping, and when the
farmer said she might take what she would, she,
returning home, begged her son to fetch it, since
she had leave gotten. But he said to her nay,
unless she first should borrow him a cart rope.
Which to humour him she accordingly did.
He thereupon repaired to the farm, and found the
farmer and two men threshing. The farmer bad
him help himself.
Tom laid down the rope, and began to pile up
the straw upon it, till he had got together by com-
putation about 2,000 lbs. weight; and they jeered
him which saw him so do, and said what a fool was
he, whereas he could not carry the tithe thereof
home. But Tom tied up the straw, and threw it
over his shoulder as if it had been an hundred-
weight, to the great admiration of all.
Now, as his singular strength began to be known,
and his mother was a poor woman, every one de-
clared it to be a shame that he should stay idle at
home when there was plenty for such a hand to do;
and Tom was sought by all around by reason of the
speed with which he despatched the tasks that were
appointed him. For when a man came to him, and
asked him to bring a tree home for him, and Tom
and four others went after it, his companions essayed
to draw the tree into the cart by pulleys, and could
not stir it ; but Tom lifted the tree up, laid it on
end, and put it into the cart.
“There," quoth he, “see what a man can do | "
“Marry l’ they replied, “that is true enough.”
THOMAS HICKATHRIFT. 433
And as they returned through the forest, they
met a woodman, of whom Tom begged a stick to
light his mother's fire; and when he had leave, he
- took a tree larger than that in the cart, and marched
home with it on his shoulder faster than the six
horses could bring the other.
Yet, albeit Tom was so strong, that his strength
equalled that of twenty common men, he was very
gentle and tractable, and loved young company; and
he took pleasure in going to fairs and the like to
see sports and diversions.
- Upon a time he went to a wake, where many
young men were met together, to wrestle, play with
cudgels, throw the hammer, and other pastimes; and
Tom watched those that threw the hammer a certain
while, till he came forward, and asked if he might
try his skill. Then he told them to stand aside, and
he would see how far he could send it; whereat
some mocked him, as he was not known for a
player. But he raised it to feel the weight thereof,
s and then hurled it into a river five or six furlongs
º away, to their utter amazement.
He presently after joined the wrestlers; and,
though in very truth he knew nought of that
science, he threw all by turn, some over his head,
and others to a distance, yet as gently as he might;
and at last none would enter the ring with him,
deeming that he was some spirit.
II.
It happened that a brewer of Lynn, wanting a
servant to carry beer to the Marsh and to Wisbeach,
A. L. F F


434 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
and hearing such a report of Tom, sent for him, and
hired him, fitting him out with a new suit of clothes
from top to toe.
Tom proved a good and faithful servant, and did
more work in a day than any other in three ; and
the brewer shortly made him his chief helper, and
trusted him to go alone with the beer-cart. But
he warned him from the beginning which road he
should take to Wisbeach, since a monstrous giant
kept part of the Marsh in those days, and made the
other road, albeit the shorter, exceeding perilous to
travellers and other.
Tom, however, was in mighty good case with the
plenty of food and strong ale that he gat from the
brewer, and after a while he waxed impatient of the
longer way, and privily resolved to go by the shorter
at all hazards. -
When he arrived at a certain point in the journey,
he flang open a gate, which led through the Marsh
in the neighbourhood of the giant's cave; and the
giant, espying Tom mounted on his cart, cried out
to him with a mighty great voice, like a lion, to
know by what authority he came through his land,
and he pointed to the row of heads that hung from
the trees, saying that his should shortly hang higher
than the rest.
But Tom defied him ; and while this giant has-
tened to his cave to fetch his club, Tom turned his
cart upside down, and gat ready the axle-tree and
wheel for his sword and buckler.
The giant was astonished to see what Tom had
done, and said to him that he had a twig which
would make short work of his axle-tree and wheel,

THOMAS HICKATHRIFT. 435.
and him ; and indeed his club was as thick as a mill-
post. But he had more than his match in Tom,
who laid on him with his axle-tree till the giant,
being fat and unwieldy, lost breath, and Tom
brought him to the ground. Then, cutting off his
head, he entered his cave, where he found large
store of gold and silver, and so returned home.
His master greatly marvelled when he saw the
giant's head and all the money, and the whole
country was overjoyed to be quit of the giant; so
that by common consent Tom pulled down the
monster's dwelling, and built himself a house on the
same spot, with a park thereabout, and through the
giant's treasure, which he kept, he became rich, and
instead of being called Tom was known thenceforth
as Master Hickathrift.
III.
When he had thus become a great man, and his
fame had grown throughout the whole land, Master
Hickathrift, as he was now named, did not leave
altogether his old pursuits, but oftentimes diverted
himself with merry passages and gallant exploits. At
one time he met certain football players, and when
they had given him liberty to try his strength, he
kicked the ball so that none ever saw it more; and
at another, when four highwaymen, meeting him
unattended, would have had his money, he slew of
them two, making the rest fly, and took from them
a mail wherein were two hundred pieces of gold.
Only once Master Hickathrift fortuned to meet
with a man that made him stand, and it was a tinker
of that country, who was a stout fellow, and at


436 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
cudgel-play expert above measure; and these two
met, and challenged each the other ; and Master
Hickathrift, because he had no weapon with him,
took the bar of a gate hard by, and the tinker
had his quarter-staff. But albeit Master Hickathrift
stinted not of his blows, and even once smote his
foe with such a mighty stroke that he reeled and
fell, in the end he had to yield, and confess that the
tinker had the best of it. Whom Master Hicka-
thrift, in no wise bearing malice toward him, took
home and kindly entertained ; and they were fast
friends from that time forward.
Soon after a great rebellion arose in the Isle of
Ely, wherein 2,000 persons or upward were actors,
and the sheriff took refuge in the house of Master
Hickathrift, praying him of his counsel and aid,
whom he had long known for a valiant and loyal
man; and Master Hickathrift undertook, in company
with the tinker his brother (for so he called him), to
do what he could. Accordingly these two set out,
with the sheriff as their guide, and rode till they
came where the rebels were assembled together.
Master Hickathrift demanded why they troubled
the sheriff; and their answer was, that their will was
their law, whereby they would be governed. To
whom Master Hickathrift: “And these are our
weapons, whereby you shall be destroyed.” And he
and the tinker laid about them with their clubs, till
they had killed or put to flight the whole army of
rioters. It was a world to see how they fought !
The tinker smote off the head of a man with his
club, that it flew fourteen yards, and killed the chief
leader of the rising ; and Master Hickathrift, when





THOMAS HICKATHRIFT. 437
he was tired of using his weapon, laid hold of a
lusty, raw-boned miller, and hit with him right and
left, to the general wonderment of beholders.
The great services of Master Hickathrift and the
tinker were reported to the king, who sent for them,
and in the presence of his nobility thanked them,
saying that if he had an army of 20,000 such, he
might enact deeds worthy of Alexander; and he bad
Master Hickathrift kneel, who rose incontinently Sir
Thomas Hickathrift, while to Henry Nonsuch the
tinker was awarded a pension of 440 a year.
IV.
His mother being now dead, Sir Thomas Hicka-
thrift turned his thoughts to marriage, and wooed a
rich young widow in Cambridge. It happened that
a young spark in that city likewise affected her,
and did all he could to outstrip his rival, till at last
he met him by chance, and challenged him. Sir
Thomas had no weapon, and the other with his
sword counted on soon despatching him. But his
adversary parried the first blow with his arm, and
suddenly wheeling behind him, gave him such a
kick as carried him up, as he had been a crow, to
the roof of a thatched house by, and thence into a
fish-pond, from which he was dragged by a shep-
herd. Then this fellow hired ruffians to lie in ambush
for him, and endeavoured to compass in many ways
Sir Thomas's death; but at length the marriage was
celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing, and the
king again sent for Sir Thomas, who went up to
court with his bride, and was received with much


438 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
honour. Whom, for that a monstrous giant, riding
on a fiery dragon, and accompanied by fierce lions
and bears, had landed in the Isle of Thanet, and
threatened to destroy all his majesty's lieges there,
his majesty made straightway governor of that
island ; and it happened that Sir Thomas and his
brother the tinker, whom he summoned to join him
in this emergence, quickly rid the place of the said
giant and all that came in his train, to the infinite
pleasure and relief of all, seeing that he was the
fearfullest that had ever been seen. His head was
like the root of an oak tree, his hair hung down like
snakes, his beard resembled rusty wire, and he had
One eye in the middle of his forehead as big as a
barber's basin.
When all these brave actions had been performed,
and the Isle was free from danger, Sir Thomas
besought the king that he might return home ; and
he spent the remainder of his days with his lady in
great Content.


THE KING AND THE NORTHERN
MAN.

[We have admitted this as the concluding item in
the series of anecdotes in which a royal personage is
made to play a prominent part, because it differs in
its character and structure, to some extent, from the
others, being the work of a professed and Ánown
Żamp//eteer of the reigns of /ames / and Charles Z.,
Martin Parker, author of that celeórated &al/ad,
“ When the Aïng enjoys / is Own again.” Here it is
a north-country /awyer, who has roëóed a young mean
of his inheritance in AVorážumberland, and the latter
undertakes the journey up to Zondon to procure re-
dress. He finds his majesty, at Zength, at Windsor,
Žſaying bowls in his shirt, obtains his suit, is feasted
Öy the courtiers and made drunk, and fina/y returns
with the royal letter enjoining the lawyer to pay him
A, IOO. 7%e production is probab/y a concocted myth,
but it points to what was doubtless a not unfrequent
ačuse, and is entertaining/y written.]
THERE was a man who had had handed over to him
from his father in Northumberland, in a dale, a fair
estate in land. The old man kept in his time a
good house in the country, and staved the wolf from
the door; and it was the king's land which he held,
439

44O ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
and twenty shillings a year he paid to our lord the
king therefore.
In due course, then, the father died, and the eldest
son succeeded to him, paying the same rent. A
wife and bairns and an aged mother had he to keep
by his labour; yet well enough he might have thriven
withal, but a crafty lawyer, who collected the rents
for our lord the king, and who had a farm just
adjoining this one, cast a grudging eye on the poor
man's estate, and thought within himself how he
might compass his downfall.
So he went to this husbandman on a time, and
said to him : “Thy lease has expired. The king
wins no credit from such fellows as thee. Thou
must depart. The world is before thee.”
The poor man prayed him to be good master
unto him, and to grant him a continuance of his
lease, and he would give him forty shillings. But
the crafty lawyer declared that not even forty pounds
would satisfy him, for he must yield up his farm to
him, and lie at his courtesy.
“I have a wife and bairns,” said the poor man ;
“I cannot do so. Thou seemest a good fellow.
Leave me free in my land, and I will give thee five
marks.”
The lawyer refused to hearken unto the husband-
man, and threatened to dispossess him and his from
their holding; and the neighbours privily held coun-
sel with the poor northern man, and spurred him on
to laying his case before the king himself.
He was nearly distracted, and scarce knew what
to do. But at last he asked his old mother's blessing
on his knees, and took leave of his wife and bairns,
THE KING AND THE NORTHERN MAN. 44. I
-
--
and fetched out his bob-tailed dog, saying unto him,
“And thou sall gang wi' me to the king.” His
jerkin was of gray, and his bonnet was blue; and
he carried a good staff in his hand, and he and
his bob-tailed dog forth went on their way.
Hardly a mile and a bit had he walked from the
town when he met one of his neighbours, and begged
of him how far it might be to the king's court, for
thitherward, quoth he, he was bound, as fast as he
could hie. The other said that he was sorry for
him; it was a matter of nine or ten days' journey to
the king.
“Alack l’ cried the poor husbandman, “ had I
wist it had been so far to him, I would ne'er have
gone out of the town, and had liever spent some
silver at home.”
They trudged along, he and his dog, and little
had they to eat, and hard was their lodging. Many
and many a day passed, and mile after mile was left
behind, ere they spied the steeples of churches and
the house-tops as thick together as could be.
“There is no cheap land hereabout,” thought the
husbandman.
But when he came unto London city, and inquired
for the king, they told him that he was at Whitehall.
So thither accordingly he repaired, and as he went
along he was amazed at the fine dresses of the folks
whom he met in the streets. “Good God ' " he
cried, “if a man had a thousand pound, he might
come to the end of it here.”
He went to a tavern and gat his supper, and then
went to bed. But he lay so long the next morning,
that the court had removed to Windsor.



442 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
“Ye ha' lain too long, man,” said his host. “The
court is gone to Windsor; it is farther to walk by
twenty mile.”
“Curses upon it !” exclaimed the countryman.
“I should ha’ known better. The king had wind
of my being here, and has gone out of my way.”
“Tush, tush ' " said the landlord, “think not he
fled for you. But make the best of your way to
Windsor; the king will pay your charges.”
So to Windsor he went, with his staff on his
shoulder and his bob-tailed dog at his heel; and
although the gates of the castle stood wide open, he
laid on them with his staff till the whole place echoed
with the blows. - -
A porter appeared, and asked him whether he
was mad, and what he wanted.
“Why, I am a tenant of the king, and must speak
with him,” said the poor northern man.
“There are plenty here,” answered him the
porter, “who can deliver a message for thee.”
“There is not a knave among ye to whom I
will unbosom what I have to tell,” quoth the other.
“I were told, ere I left home, I should not get my
suit for nought; here's a penny for thee.”
“Thanks,” said the porter; “I’ll fetch a noble-
man to thee, to hear what thou hast to say.”
The porter told the nobleman that a clown was at
the gate ; no such strange fellow had been seen
there this seven year, and he called them all knaves
that the king kept, and was exceeding liberal in his
rewards, for he had bestowed on him a whole single
penny, if he might be let in.
The nobleman desired the porter to admit the

THE KING AND THE NORTHERN MAN. 443
stranger; and when the porter returned he told the
poor northern man to leave his staff behind the
door, and to let his dog lie in the courtyard.
“A pretty cur thou hast brought with thee!" said
the porter. “I’ll warrant, if the king see him, he
will want to keep him for himself.”
“I’ll be hanged,” said the poor northern man,
“if I go to the king without my staff and my dog;
there may be fellows hanging about that, for lack of
money, will pick my purse.”
“Yea,” replied the porter; “I reckon you should
go well armed, for you do not know what may
happen.”
“Let him in with his dog and his staff,” said a
courtier advancing ; and the stranger bobbed and
ducked, and thought it might have been the king.
“If ye be sir king,” quoth he, “as I verily trow
ye are, ye're the goodliest man that ever I see. So
many jingle-jangles about a fellow's neck I never
beheld in my days afore.”
The courtier told him that he was not the king,
though he had a fine coat, and the other said: “If
ye be not he, help me to the speech of him, and
I'll give ye a groat.”
The courtier went to the king, and let him under-
stand what kind of a man was outside and demanded
audience of him, and dubbed all rogues or worse
that were in the place; and the king desired that he
should be admitted with his staff and dog, and when
the game of bowls was over which the king was
playing, he would hear what he had to say.
So the courtier fetched the poor northern man,
who followed him with his staff in his hand, and his


444 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
bob-tailed dog at his heel, through all the courts and
rooms and ante-rooms, and he wondered why the
king left them all empty instead of filling them with
corn and hay, and he looked up to the painted ceil-
ings, and stumbled over something, and fell sprawl-
ing on the ground.
At last they came within sight of the alley where
the king and his friends were playing at bowls; and
the king had taken off his doublet, and was in his
shirt, the weather was so hot.
“LO,” said the courtier, “the king is yonder,
fellow ; he'll speak with thee anon.”
“What!” said the stranger, “he in his shirt 2
Why, he is an unthrift, that hath spent his money
and pawned his coat I mislike this bowling, that
hath undone our king. Beshrew me, if that fellow
in yon gay clothes hath not won his coin and his
doublet of him.”
But when the courtier approached the king, he
made obeisance to him, and the poor northern man
then knew that he was indeed him whom he had
sought from so far ; and when the king gave him
leave, he shewed him the whole case.
“Where is your lease, man 2" asked the king.
“Here be it, sir,” replied the poor farmer, “if you
can read.”
“Why, what if I cannot *" returned our king.
“I have a son, seven year old, who can read it
as fast as thou canst run on the highway.”
The king took the lease, and when he had read
it, then he said to the poor northern man : “I war-
rant thee, thou haddest not forfeited it, though
thou hat felled five ash trees more.”


THE KING AND THE NORTHERN MAN. 445
“Ay, ay,” quoth the other, “none of your war-
rants for me. He that is at me about this cares
nought for your warrants or mine.”
“He shall have an injunction,” said the king, “to
restrain him from troubling thee, fellow.”
“What sort of a thing be that P” asked the
Stranger.
“Why,” answered his grace, “it is a letter that I
will cause to be written to him.”
“O !" said the stranger, “keep it to yourself: I
could ha’ got one written a long way cheaper in my
own country.”
“It is an attachment,” said our king, “till he pay
thee a hundred pounds, good fellow ; and thou canst
call on all thy neighbours to take part with thee.”
“I see that you are fond of writing,” said the
Stranger.
“I see,” said our king, smiling, “ that thou art
hard of belief.”
“Well," said the poor northern man, “for thy
pains, I give thee a shilling.”
“I’ll have none of thy shilling,” said our king.
But the fellow threw it, so that it fell inside his shirt,
next to his skin.
“Beshrew thee!” said our king, “dost thou not
see I am hot with bowling Thy shilling strikes
cold to me.”
Then our king, when he wearied a little of this
talk, sent for twenty pound, and said unto the poor
northern man : “Here, fellow, is for thy charges up
and down.” -
And the poor northern man took the gold won-
deringly, thinking to himself, that if he had known

446 ROMANTIC LEGENDS.
the king had so much, he would have kept his
shilling in his purse.
“Farewell, good fellow,” said our king, then ;
“and see if the lawyer do not obey our command,
when he has our letter delivered unto him.”
The courtiers gave him a good dinner, and, taking
him to the wine-cellar, made him drunk; and when
he had come to himself, away he started on his
journey home, staff in hand, his dog and he.
The lawyer met him in the street on the Monday
morning after his return, and cried, “Well, you are
a stranger indeed l’ And then he told him where
he had been, and the lawyer asked him why they
could not have settled the dispute in a neighbourly
way. So the poor northern man shewed him how
he was no match for the like of him, nor were his
neighbours; and he had got a letter from the king
for him. -
Now the king's letter was to command that the
lawyer should be seized, and put into the stocks till
he had paid the poor northern man one hundred
pounds; and when the lawyer said that the letter
was good, and that he would go home and fetch the
money, the neighbours took him and bound him,
and till the poor northern man was satisfied there
he stayed. And the poor northern man was com-
mended for his good courage ; and he saw well, that
the letter of our lord the king had more virtue than
if he had got one written for him better cheap in
his own country.

*
DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS
LEGENDS,










JOHN ADROYNS.
[We include with satisfaction this capital dramatic
narrative, probab/y founded on an actual occurrence
within the knowledge of the writer, and forming
one of a series of tales belonging to the first quarter
of the sixteenth century. The preservation of such
interesting and iſ/ustrative re/ics, where they belong
to the humorous class, and have no re/igious or
Żolitica/ aspect, is as accidenta! as it is fortunate
and important, since they shed a remarkað/e /*g/ºt on
our socia/ /abits and employments, and render more
possible a correct acquaintance wit/, //e conditions of
our ancestors in former times. In foreign /iterature,
and to some extent in Żng/isſ, trams/a/ions of comż-
mem/a/ stories, we ſind an abundance of materia/ of
this character, but there is a singular paucity of
ſales which, like the present and others which we have
se/ected, are pure/y indigenous in Žeir origin and
costume. 7%e conduct of the adventure in which
John Adroyns is the foremost ſigure is managed
with the same Séiſ/ and ſudgment which maré
other specimens of the same 42nd of composition
about this period, and there must have been one or
more persons of unusua/ /iterazy affi/?ty concerned
in producing such racy and Žermanent/y valuab/e
re/aſions, especia//y if we Zooé at #e /ow genera/
level of popular writing during the Zºudor era.
A. L. 449 G G
45C DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
We have elsewhere 'ſurnished some ground's for
believing that Sir Thomas More and /o/m Heywood
employed Zheir Žems in indiſing some of Z/e items in
the “Hundred Merry Zales” (1526), and that More
oôserved in such a case an advised incognito, as we
concſude thał Że did when the origina/ impression
aft/eared without any name of the “Serjeant" (or
Tºps/aff) “ that would ſearn to be a friar.”
“John Adroyms,” “The Miller and the Zailor,”
“7%e Ma/#man of Coleórook,” and certain others,
derive an em/anced value from the circumstance
that they are under no off/igation to externa/ sources,
Öztá genuine ſome&red facetiae, and moreover of a
high order of merit. They also offer the interesting
consideration to us, that they are from f/eir struc-
ture of a dramatic cast, and are not dissimilar from
those s/g/.4 //offs which constitute the ground-woré
of //eywood's clever and diverſing inter/udes.]
IT fortuned that in a market town in the county of
Suffolk there was a stage play, in which one named
John Adroyns, who dwelled in another village two
miles thence, played the Devil; and when the play
was over, this John Adroyns departed in the evening
from the town where the play had been acted to go
home to his own house. But as he had brought no
change of dress with him, he had to walk to the
next village in the raiment which he had worn on
the stage; and on the way he passed by a rabbit-
warren belonging to a gentleman of the village
* Introduction to a ſefrint of A Hundred Merry Tales, 1526,
folio, 1887.





JOHN ADROYNS. 45 I
where he lived. At which very time it happened
that the priest of a neighbouring church, with two
or three other unthrifts, had brought with them a
horse, a net, and a ferret, to catch rabbits; and when
the ferret had been loosed, and was in the earth,
and the net covered the hole of the burrow, close
by the path which John Adroyns had to take, the
priest and his companions suddenly became aware
– of the said John attired in the Devil's apparel.
Knowing that they were on an evil errand, and
thinking it to be the Devil indeed, they all ran away.
John, it being dark, perceived not the net, and
stumbling over it fell down, so that he nearly brake
his neck.
--- But when he had a little come to himself, he saw
that it was a net to catch rabbits, and he guessed
that they fled for fear of him ; and when he looked
farther, he spied a horse, laden with coneys, tethered
to a bush, and so he took the net, and leaping on
the horse's back with the coneys hanging down on
either side of him, rode to the house of the gentle-
man who owned the warren, counting on thanks for
his service.
When he came to the place, he knocked at one
of the gates, and one of the gentleman's servants
asked who was there, and forthwith opened the
gate; and as soon as he set eyes on John in the
devil's raiment, he was terrified, and put to the door
again, going to his master, to whom he vowed that
the devil was at the door, and would have admit-
tance. The gentleman despatched a second man
to see what it was ; and he, not daring to open the
gate, demanded in a loud voice who was outside.

452 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
John Adroyns answered as loudly back: “Tell thy
master that I must needs have speech with him, ere
I go.”
This second fellow, when he heard that answer,
likewise imagining that it was the Devil, returned
to his master, and assured him that it was the Devil
indeed there, and that he must speak with him
before he departed. The gentleman began to grow
a little frightened, and called his steward, whom he
enjoined to bring him sure word who was at the
gate.
This steward, who was the wisest of the gentle-
man's servants, thinking that he would so best see
who was outside, came to the gate, and peeped
through the chinks here and there; and he saw
that it was the Devil sitting, on a horse, with coneys
hanging down about him. Then came he in great
haste and dread to his master, and said: “By God's
body, it is the Devil himself that is at the gate,
sitting upon a horse laden with souls; and by like-
lihood he is only waiting for yours to be gone.”
This gentleman, marvellously abashed, sent for
his chaplain, and said to him, “Let the holy candle
be lighted, and fetch holy water"; and they all went
to the gate, and the chaplain said, “In the name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I
command and charge thee to tell me wherefore thou
cameSt hither.”
This John in the Devil's apparel, seeing them
conjure in such manner, said : “ Nay, fear me not,
for I am a good Devil ; I am John Adroyns, your
neighbour in this village, that acted the Devil in the
play. I bring your master a dozen or two of his


JOHN ADROYNS. 453
own coneys, with their horse and net that would
have stolen them, whom I caused for fear to flee.”
When they heard him thus speak, they knew
his voice, and opened the gate and let him in ;
and there was a right good laugh over the whole
matter.


THE MILLER AND THE TAILOR.
[7%e suájoined story is from the same source as
“ /o/, m Adroyms " and the “Mal/man of Cole/rook,”
and is at once more e/affora/e and more dramatic.
Zł is in our estimation one of Že dro/Zest and Česſ-
sustained narraſions of the Áind in our language.
7%e //oá is s/g///y involved, Öztá čá is managed and
developed wit/ rare sáil/ and ſe/icity. The treat-
ment of this and other narrations and //easantries
in the “Hundred Merry Zales" (1526), tends to
corroborate the motion which we Öroached in 1887,
that Sir 7%0mas More had a share in com/i/ing the
vo/ume, whicſ, combines wiłł zºmusua/ /iterary merit
a singular freedom from grossness, and was evident/y
zinder the inspiration of some masculine inte//ect wit/.
a Żrecocious sense of humour and a descriptive faculty
at that time almost unique. Zike the preceding
re/ation, the particulars here found were Öy no means
improðað/y derived from an actual fact, although
//e writer doub//ess permitted himse/f more or /ess
/icense in the way of romantic emóe//ishment.]
THERE was a certain rich farmer in a village, who
marvellously loved nuts, and planted trees of filberts
and other nuts in his orchard, which through his
whole life he cared for well; and when he died
it appeared that his executors were to engage to
- 454.
*
º
*
º


THE MILLER AND THE TAILOR. 45.5
->
bury with him in the grave a bag of nuts under pain
of losing their executorship. So these executors
did as they were bidden.
It so happened that on the very night after the
burial a miller in a white coat came to the dead
man's garden to steal a bag of nuts; and as he
went along he met with a tailor in a black coat, an
unthrifty fellow, and discovered to him his scheme.
The tailor confessed in his turn that that same
night he planned stealing a sheep. It was deter-
mined between them that each should effect his
purpose, and that they should meet, later on, in
the church porch, the one who came first to tarry
for the other. -
The miller gathered his nuts, and was the first
to reach the porch ; and while he waited for the
tailor, he sat down and cracked nuts. It being
about nine o'clock, the sexton came to ring the
curfew ; and when he looked, and saw a man in
the porch dressed in white and cracking nuts, he
weened that it was the farmer risen from his grave,
cracking the nuts that had been buried along with
him, and sped home in all haste and told a cripple,
who lived in the same house what he had beheld.
This cripple, when he heard the sexton so speak,
reproved him, and said that, were it in his power
to go to the place, he would conjure the spirit.
“By my faith, if thou art not afraid, I will carry
thee on my back,” said the sexton. And the
sexton took the cripple on his back, and brought
him to the churchyard ; whereupon the miller in
the porch, seeing one approach with something on
his back, and weening it had been the tailor with

456 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
the sheep, rose up, and came toward them, saying,
“Is he fat 2 Is he fat?” The sexton, hearing
these words, cast down the cripple, and said, “Fat
or lean, take him as he is,” and vanished ; and the
cripple by miracle was made whole, and ran as fast
as the sexton, or faster.
The miller, perceiving that there were two, and
that one ran from the other, thought that one was
the owner of the sheep and had espied the tailor
stealing it; and lest somebody might have seen him
steal the nuts out of the orchard, he left the shells
behind him, and hied home to his mill. Presently
came the tailor with the sheep on his back to seek
him, as it had been arranged; and when he saw
nought but nutshells, he concluded, as was indeed
the truth, that the miller had gone home. So,
throwing his sheep once more over his shoulder,
he walked toward the mill.
Meanwhile the sexton, when he ran away, went
not to his own house, but to the parish priest, to
whom he shewed how the spirit of the dead man
was seated in the church porch eating nuts; and
they both proceeded back together to the place,
that the priest might conjure the spirit. The priest
put on his stole and surplice, and took holy water
with him ; and as they went along, the tailor with
the white sheep on his back met them, and in the
dusk, taking the priest in his white surplice to be
the miller in his white coat, shouted to him, “By
God! I have him I have him ' " meaning the
sheep which he had stolen.
But the priest, seeing the tailor all in black and a
white thing on his shoulder, imagined it to be the


THE MILLER AND THE TAILOR. 457
devil bearing away the spirit of the man that had
just been buried, and ran away at full speed, the
sexton following at his heels. The tailor judged
that the two had been following him to take him
for stealing the sheep, and thought that the miller
might have got into trouble for stealing the nuts.
So he went on toward the mill, to see if he could be
of any use to the miller, and to hear what news.
When he rapped at the mill-door, the miller called
out, “Who is there P’’ The tailor answered and
said, “By God! I have caught one of them, and
made him sure, and tied him fast by the legs.”
Then the miller feared that the tailor had been
taken and secured by the constable, and that he
had now come to fetch him away for stealing the
nuts; wherefore he ran out at a back-door as fast
as ever he could. The tailor heard the door open,
and going to the other side of the mill saw the
miller posting off; and for a few moments he stood
musing there with his sheep on his back.
The parish priest and the sexton, who had been
hiding near the mill for fear of the spirit of the dead
man, presently caught sight of the black tailor and
the white sheep again, and fled in dismay, and the
priest, not knowing the ground, leapt into a ditch,
where the mud almost reached his chin. Then the
tailor, perceiving that the miller ran one way and
the sexton another, and that the priest cried for
assistance, and supposing that it was the constable,
who had come at last to arrest him, cast down the
sheep, and also disappeared.
Thus each man suffered misfortune, because
some had done what was wrong and others what
458 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
was foolish, and all were afraid without cause ;
and a good deal was owing to the time when it
happened, for it was in the night that all this
strange game of errors was played.

THE MALT MAN OF COLE BROOK.
[7%is is a story of the earlier part of the reign of
Aſenzy V///., and is not improðað/y ſounded on truſ/.
It is of remarkaðle interest, from the local descrip-
tions of spots in the city of Zondon and the suburós,
and from the SAEi/ful manner in which the incidents
are worked out to their fragical climat. 7%e foot
of the modern passenger treads on Z/e ground where
the scenes of this dramatic adventure are ſaid, and
Ais eye can identify the precise points where the suc-
cessive stages of the tale occurred, and yet ſºow flota//y
a// is changed / 7%ere is no lack of “ beguiſers”
among us in the present day, Öut altered conditions
Zead them to set about 4/ºeir Čusiness different/y.
When the unhappy individual depicted in Žis trade-
Žion flourished, there were comparatively few build-
ings between Corn/ºi/ and Anightsäridge, whic/.
constitute the two /imits of the episode, there was
no police, no ſights, no made roads. Within Ziving
reco//ection, the stream crossing &/ºe /*g/way aſ what
7s now A/6erſ Gaće was still often , it was that into
which the ma/man, in Z/e ſºna/Scene, 7umps to rescue
the supposed treasure, which a traveller has ſet ſa//
a 7720/72ézz/ before his arrival, and which proves to be
a bag of Stones. On the other hand, the Žassages
from one thoroughfare to another in the city which
favoured the deception with the capons remain to this
º

459
46O DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
Aour a familiar feature in the same neighbourhood,
Žf they are not even Anown by the same names.]
A CERTAIN maltman of Colebrook, who was a very
covetous fellow, and whose only pleasure was in
getting money, came on a time to London to sell
his malt, bringing with him four capons; and when
he had sold his malt, and put the money, which was
four or five pounds, into a little purse tied to his
coat, he went about the streets to sell his capons.
An artful adventurer, that was a dice-player and
a spendthrift, had watched the maltman, and had
devised a scheme by which he imagined that he
might cozen him either out of his capons or his
money ; and so he came up to the maltman, as he
carried his capons about, and asked him how much
he would take for them. He told him the price of
these capons, and when the other knew the price
thereof, he bad him go with him to his master, and
he would see that he had money for the capons.
The maltman agreed to this; and when they reached
the Cardinal's Hat in Lombard Street, his com-
panion took the capons from him, and prayed him
to wait at the door, while he entered, and shewed
his master the capons, and he would bring him the
money for them immediately. The man, when he
had thus got the capons, walked into the seeming
house, and passed out at the other end into Cornhill.
The maltman tarried there a good time, and at
length he inquired of one of the servants belong-
ing to the Cardinal's Hat what had become of the
fellow who had borrowed the capons to shew to
his master. -

THE MALTMAN OF COLEBROOK. 46 I
“Marry,” replied the tapster, “I cannot tell thee.
There is neither master nor man in that house ; it
is a common thoroughfare, and goeth into Cornhill.
Be sure he has gone off with your capons."
The maltman, hearing these words, ran through
the passage into Cornhill, and asked every one for
a fellow in a tawny coat that bare capons in his
hand. But no man could satisfy him where the
fellow was who had taken his capons, and the malt-
man made his way back to his inn, sad at heart,
intending to get his horse and return homeward.
Meanwhile, the fellow who had stolen the capons
had changed his clothes, and donned a fur gown ;
and coming to the maltman, who sat on horseback,
preparing to depart, said to him : “My good man, I
thought I heard thee inquire just now for one in
a tawny coat that had stolen from thee four capons.
If thou wilt bestow on me a quart of wine, I shall
bring thee to a place where he sitteth drinking with
others, and hath the capons in his hand.”
The maltman, judging the newcomer to be an
honest man, consented to pay for the wine, and
accompanied him to the Dagger in Cheap. Then
he said to the maltman: “Get down from thy
horse, and go to the other end of this long passage,
and there thou wilt see if it be not as I have told
thee; and I will hold thy horse till thou comest
again.”
The maltman, full of hope that he should regain
his capons, dismounted and went in, leaving his horse
with the fellow in the fur gown ; and as soon as he
had gone, the other led the horse away to his own
- lodgings. But the folk inside the house, when the

462 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
maltman demanded of them where the fellow with
the capons was, knew nought of any such man ;
and so he returned to the door in search of his
horse. But neither his horse nor the man in a fur
gown was to be seen. Some told him that they had
noted such an one, and others had not cast eyes
on him ; but nobody could say which way he had
gone. So he retraced his footsteps to his inn, more
downcast than he was before ; and his host coun-
selled him that he should put no trust in any one in
London, and that the best thing for him to do was
to get home. So, with a heavy heart, the maltman
bent his steps once more toward Colebrook.
The rogue, who had all this time hovered about
the inn, heard tell that the maltman was going back
to his dwelling place, and disguising himself like an
apprentice, and throwing over his shoulder a bag
full of stones, made all haste to Charing Cross,
where he waited for the maltman ; and when the
maltman came up, this apprentice accosted him,
seeking to know whither he was bound.
Quoth he, “For Colebrook.” -
“Marry,” quoth the other, “right glad am I
thereof; for I must go to Brentford, to carry to my
master the money I have in my bag, and I would
fain have company.”
The maltman, having in his pouch the price of
his malt, was also well content, and so they jour-
neyed together a while.
At last, the apprentice outwalked the other a
little, and as they approached Knightsbridge, he
laid down his burden on the parapet of the bridge,
and seated himself beside it, to wait for the malt-


THE MALTMAN OF COLEBROOK. 463
man. And when the maltman had almost come up
to him, he let his bag fall over the bridge into the
water, and starting up, cried out and said: “Alas !
I have let my bag drop into the water, and there
is forty pound therein. If thou wilt wade into
the stream, and get it for me again, I shall give
thee twelve pence for thy labour.”
This maltman, sorry for the apprentice's loss, and
well content to earn the twelve pence, plucked off
his coat, shirt, and hose, and waded into the water
in quest of the bag. In the meantime, the appren-
tice snatched up the clothes, with the purse which
was tied to the coat, leaped over the hedge, and
ran as hard as he could toward Westminster.
When the maltman at last recovered the bag, which
had fallen into deep water, and came back to
the bridge, there was nor apprentice nor clothes.
He had lost his garments and his money; and when
he opened the bag, and found therein nought but
stones, he became like a madman, and ran, naked
as he was, toward London, exclaiming : “Alas !
alas ! Help! help ! or I shall be stolen. For my
capons are stolen, my horse is stolen, my money
and clothes are stolen, and I shall be stolen myself.”
And he ran about the streets of London naked,
crying, “I shall be stolen I shall be stolen l’
And his reason forsook him, and he died miserably.


THE MILLER OF AB ING DON.
(Fifteenth Century.)
[7%e mai//er / as a sort of /iterature of his own.
Æven before the time of Chaucer, the fo//owers of #4 is
£rade were renowned in early ſable and song for
Žheir ga/antry and roguery. 7%e /l/?//er of 7 rumſ/-
ington, in the A’eeve's 7 ale, is, of course, the Öest
Ánown member of Že fražernity, and our great žoeſ
Žas done ſu//justice to the suffect and the character.
7%e scene of Čač story is såſ/, or was not many years
ago, Ánown as “ 7%e Old M7//s "; áuá áže parent
fabliau zva's Frezzc/.
7%e //off of Že “A/i//er of Aðingdom " is free and
dro/Z enough—in fruń/, //oroug//y Chaucerian, and
if some should deem iſ a /ī///e too much so, we sha//
not be suz/rised. But it is characteristic of Že
Žeriod for whicſ, it was written, and affords a /*g//y
Żictoria/ and vivid insight into an Žng/s/ interior
of the class of Żerson wit/, whicſ, it dea/s, and in
Żołmż of construction iſ Četrays &/ºe workmans/ºff of
no ordinary hand. As in the case of a passage in
the “Syuire of Zozy Zegree,” we must not enter too
mice/y into the guestion of fema/e discernment, where
the two scholars are accepted in Ziew of /en/yn and
#/.e. 7727//e7.
Zn the case of a transfer of scene for the nonce,
it may be immateria/ to mode #4at the mai//ez in 447s
464

THE MILLER OF ABINGDON. 465
story was doubt/ess the servant of the Aáčot of
Aóingdom, to whose fratermity the miſ/ and its
appurtenances at that time belonged.]
IN the town of Abingdon there formerly dwelled a
widow, that had two sons. These young fellows
went to school at Cambridge, which lay five miles
distant ; little learning enough they gat, and all
that they had to keep them at bed and board, and
to clothe them withal, their poor mother gave, for
other means of nurture had they none. -
Seven years kept she these lads at School, and
then she said to them, that the times were so hard
and dear that she could do no more for them. Her
sons bad her to be of good cheer, for, quoth they,
we will go up and down the country, and make our
suit to kind people, and all will go well. So they
started on their travels, and throve so well, that they
brought back to the good old woman, ere many
days were over, a bushel or two of wheat. Full
glad was she at this sight; but they lost no time,
and, borrowing a neighbour's horse, took it to the
mill to be ground.
A jolly fellow was the miller of Abingdon, and he
had a fair daughter, with a charming face and figure.
Jenkyn, the town-clerk, loved her right well, did he.
Now, this miller was a shrewd man, and of every
one's corn which came to him, the blame was not
his if he did not take pretty heavy toll. The two
poor scholars knew with what sort of a customer
they had to deal, and arranged to watch him closely
while their corn was being ground, in order that
none might be lost; and they even let him under-
A. L. H. H.

466 T)|ESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
stand that they could not afford to let any go astray,
so precious to them it was.
The miller, who well comprehended what this
their drift was, was at first rather perplexed, when
he saw how wary the youths were, and wondered
how he should circumvent them. A happy thought
came into his head. He took his little son aside,
and said to him so : “Boy, loose these fellows'
horse privily, and lead him into our back-yard, ere
the meal be ready. I will be even with them yet.”
The little boy did as he was bidden, and when the
sack was filled up one of the youngsters heaved it
on his shoulders, and down they went, both of them,
to lay it on the horse's neck, and so return home.
But when they reached the door, and looked out,
no horse was there.
“Alas! alas!” they cried, “we are undone ; our
horse has run away.”
“By God l’ exclaimed the miller, holding up his
hands, “then see you him no more ; for some thief
spied him out, and has made away with him.”
One scholar said to his companion, “Let us go in
search of him, you one way and I another.”
But so afeard were they lest the miller should pur-
loin some of their meal while they were away, that
they tied the sack up tightly, and set a seal on it.
When they had at last set out the miller laughed
heartily to himself, and Sware many a good oath,
that if he might get none of their corn he would
help himself to their meal. -
His daughter came to the mill, to bring him his
dinner, and he brake unto her the whole case. He
related to her how two scholars had come on horse-








THE MILLER OF ABINGDON. 467
back from Abingdon to have a measure of corn
ground, “and they gave me a hint," quoth he, “that
they would not have me steal any of it.”
The girl smiled.
“But, daughter,” he continued, “fetch me a white
sheet, prythee, and we will see what can be done.”
So she did ; and they two placed the sheet on the
floor, and shook the sack lustily over it, so that a
good bit of the meal escaped through, and yet the
sack was whole. They shook the sack, and beat it,
till they had got a fair peck for their pains. The
miller bad his daughter take up the sheet, and when
she had, he held a bag, into which she emptied the
loose flour.
“And now, daughter,” he said, “go home with
that to your mother, and tell her the news.”
And so the maiden did.
Meanwhile the scholars, after wandering about
the whole day, could get no intelligence of their
horse, and they thought that the best thing to be
done was to return to the mill, and carry the sack
by turn to Abingdon as best they might.
The miller was sorely afflicted by the news which
they brought, and was as greatly astonished as they
were at the strange disappearance of the animal.
They told him, however, that they thought the
wisest course would be to put up for the night
at his house, if he would kindly lodge them, and
resume their search in the morning, “ For,” said
they, “it will never do to shew ourselves in Abing-
don without the horse.”
“By God l’ cried the miller, “that gladly will I,
sirs, and you shall sup to your full content.”


468 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
“We will pay you your price, whatever it be,”
they rejoined, somewhat proudly.
So, presently going to fetch the sack, where they
had left it, one of them lifted it up to see how heavy
it was. -
“By St. John " cried he, “that fellow has helped
himself, I will wager a crown.”
“Nay, nay,” put in the other ; “ look, the sack is
unbroken.”
They said no more, and, carrying the sack between
them, the scholars accompanied the miller to hiy
house.
The miller's wife welcomed them, and his
daughter too, and they asked them to sit round the
fire, while the supper was being gotten ready. They
soon set to their meal, and there was good ale, with
which they wet their mouths well; but one of the
brothers could not keep his eyes off the miller's
daughter, and he privily trod on her foot, whereat
she blushed, and turned her face from him away.
The supper over, says the miller to his daughter,
“Get ready a bed for these scholars, and make it
comfortable, that they may sleep till day.” Turning
to them, “And if so be you hear any noise in the
night you may suppose it is my man, who is at work
up town ; when he comes in the dog will bark.”
Now the person whom the miller meant was
Jenkyn, the lover of his daughter; and they all slept
in the same loft, and Jenkyn had one bed, and the
miller and his wife a second, and the maiden her
own, being the third. The two scholars lay in
a room just adjoining, and they had to pass to it
through the other; and as they passed their eyes


THE MILLER OF ABINGDON. 469
fell on a cake, which the girl had made for Jenkyn,
against the time he came. But little they guessed
it was from their flour.
An accident, however, detained Jenkyn in town
that night. He had to go to a fair by daybreak the
next morning, and so he had no choice but to sleep
at Abingdon.
The two brethren lay in bed, talking each to other
in a whisper. One said to the other : “By God
and by St. Michael ! I cannot settle to sleep from
thinking of that girl. I should like ever so much to
contrive some means of finding my way to her.”
“O, that is nonsense,” his brother said. “I am
thinking of our horse, that we borrowed, and, by
Jesus, that us so dearly bought ! I would we might
come by him again.”
But the other prayed him to lie still while he got
up and tried the door. He opened it very quietly,
and a low voice inside murmured, “Jenkyn, are you
there P”
“Yea, forsooth,” rejoined the scholar, in an under-
tone; and in he went.
The room was dark, and he did not know his way
about, and, instead of making for the bed, he bruised
his shin against a form, which made him groan.
“Why, Jenkyn,” said the voice again, “you ought
to be able to manage better than that by this time.”
And by the sound he was guided to the right point,
though he could not help laughing in his sleeve at
the damsel's mistake.
When they had been together some little time,
she told him all about the two scholars, who had
come to her father's mill on the Monday morning


47O DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
with their corn, and how the miller had treated their
horse, in order to have his will of the meal, and how
when the horse could not be found they arranged
to sleep at the miller's, and were in the next room.
The scholar, whom she took to be Jenkyn, laughed
at the tale, and said, “That was cleverly managed,
my darling.” And so they fell asleep.
The miller's wife had occasion to rise, and al-
though she was so familiar with the place, it was
a spacious apartment where they all lay, and she
at first went astray; but presently she knew that
she had found her husband's bed, because at the
foot there was a child's cradle, and when her hand
touched the cradle, she was sure that she was in the
right track; for she was not aware that the other
scholar had artfully shifted the cradle while she still
slept, and laid it by the side of his own couch. She
lifted up the coverlid unsuspectingly, and lay down
by the scholar. The miller was as sound as a rock.
The fellow that feigned himself to be Jenkyn
knew better than to wait for daylight, and he said
to the miller's daughter : “My dear, I must dress
myself, for I have to attend a fair the very first
thing in the morning.”
“Buy me, sweeting,” she whispered, “cloth for a
new gown, and I will give you the money when I
see you.”
“By Jesus !” he replied, “I have but three shil-
lings; that will not be enough.”
She put her hand out of bed, and gave him out
of a money box thirty shillings, and the cake also,
which, quoth she, she had made expressly for him.
The scholar wished her good day; for, as he told

THE MILI,ER OF ABINGDON. 47 I
her, his master would expect him by cockcrow, and
went away merrily with his money and his cake.
But he thought that, as he passed his brother's
bed, he would let him understand what good fortune
he had had ; and groping in the dark till he came to
the one without the cradle, he roused the miller out
of his sleep, and unfolded the whole story, even to
the concealment of the horse in the mill-yard.
The miller started up, and there was a fine fray,
in the course of which the miller had his head
broken, and the scholar escaped. He rejoined his
brother; they hastened to the mill, recovered their
horse, threw the sack of flour on his back, and made
the best of their way home with their thirty shillings,
their cake, and their meal. They gave back the
horse to their neighbour, and repaired to Cambridge,
by their mother's advice, to be out of the miller's
way. But he kept his bed many a long day through
the buffeting which he had got on that ever-to-be-
remembered night, while his daughter found that
she had given her love, her savings, and the cake
to the wrong man.
The two scholars prospered well. They had
their lodging and entertainment for nothing; the
flour of which the miller had cozened them was
restored to them with interest; and the money
which was to buy the miller's daughter a new gown
at the fair served to gladden the heart of the poor
widow.
The saying goes that the miller was never allowed
to forget how he had once been outwitted by two
striplings from Cambridge.
THE FRIAR WHO TOLD THE THREE
CHILDREN'S FORTUNES.
[This short moral apoſogue is taken from an
AEnglish story-book of 1526. It occurs there with
others of equal exce//ence, all belonging to a ſeriod
just before the Reformation, when greater /icense
was permissióſe in speaking and writing about the
clergy, and when the science of medicine had developed
into a profession for ſaymen, who a/ready enjoyed the
invidious distinction of counting in their ranés many
incapable practitioners. The same criticism is applic-
aôle to the ſaw, which has thus, as we perceive, been
in possession of its unhappy motoriety since the days of
Zytte/ton, and before Francis Bacon was born. Mor
does the friar in the tale spare his own order, that
of the Mendicants presumably, unless we are to infer
that it was a s/y hit on the part of one &rotherhood
against another. The reference to the study of
chiromancy, or /a/mistry, is rather early for Englis/.
/iterature.]
THERE was a friar who was in the habit of frequent-
ing, in the exercise of his duties, a certain village
where lived a very rich man, of whom he had never
yet been able to get the value of a halfpenny. He
thought, however, he would still go on trying his
best; and it happened one day, as he came into the





THE FRIAR AND THE THREE CHILDREN. 473
village, that he saw the man's wife standing at the
door of their house. But when the woman perceived
the friar coming, she ran in and told her children,
if the friar inquired for her, to say she was not at
home.
The friar, of course, had seen her going in, and
suspected the cause ; so he came up to the house,
and asked the children if their mother was at home.
They, as they had been bidden, answered, Nay.
Still he stood there, and gazed first at one of
the children, and then at another. Presently he
beckoned the eldest to him, and asked him to let
him see his hand. “Ah!” said he, loud enough
for the mother to overhear him, “what sad things
are in store for thee, poor child !” Then he looked
at the palm of the second, and exclaimed, “Alas !
this poor boy's future is still darker than his little
brother's.” Lastly, he took the hand of the youngest
child, and let it fall from him again, saying, “And
thy lot is the hardest of all!” And when he had
uttered these words, he turned away to go.
But the mother, who had been listening at the
back, rushed out, and implored him to stop, and not
leave them so soon ; and first of all she spread the
table with her best fare, and invited him to help
himself. When he had done, she begged he would
explain to her what he meant just now by saying
that all her children had gloomy prospects before
them. He hesitated at first ; but, upon being
pressed, he said: “The first shall be a beggar; the
second shall be a thief; the third shall be an
assassin.” The poor mother was distracted ; but
the friar begged her to be comforted, for, said he,
474 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
“I think, mistress, I know a remedy.” She asked
him eagerly what that was. Then he said to her :
“Make the one that is to be a beggar a friar; the
one that is destined to become a thief, an attorney;
and the last, that will grow up to be a murderer,
make him a physician."



THE SERJEANT TURNED FRIAR.
[We have below a dro/Z /i/t/e account of an un-
happy device adopted by a serjeant or sheriff's officer
to arrest a man who had invo/ved himse/f in dečá,
and was Áeeping out of the way on the preſence of
7//ness. Zá proceeded from f/e /en of no ſess a
Žersonage than Sir 7%0mas More, and was origi-
ma//y printed about 1520 as a separate famſ/.../eſ.
// is included among More's works in the co//ected
ſo/io edition of 1557.
The production is a mere triſle, and may be said
to disarm2 criticism. Zł was probably a Ż/easantry,
which either occurred to the illustrious author or
was founded on facá. The disguised tº staff was
Żunished, perhaps, severely enough, but fraudulent
impersonation was usua//y requited in #40se days
with a visit to the Žiž/ory.]
THE adventure which you are now about to hear
shews very clearly how wise those are who attend
to their own affairs, and who do not flatter them-
selves that they can play some part which is
strange and new to them without running a great
risk of misfortune.
What can a hosier know of the shoemaker's craft,
a smith of painting, or a draper of teaching boys






476 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
their lessons 2 Is it likely that a man-servant who
has done nothing but wait at table and attend to
the wine-cellar will succeed as a cutler, or that one
who has been brought up to the law will make
money by turning merchant, or that a merchant
will speed well if he becomes his own lawyer P A
hatter might as soon turn philosopher, or a pedlar
theologian.
Now, listen to a case where this very sort of
thing happened. A man, who all his life had tried
to save up money, died, and left his property to
a son, who was so unlike his father, that if he had
had three hundred pounds bequeathed to him, in-
stead of one hundred, it would not have sufficed to
meet his extravagant tastes.
One hundred good pounds in gold nobles had
this youth ; and so afeard was he lest, if he invested
it in merchandise, some rogue should beguile him
of it, that he kept it himself. First of all, he laid it
in a crock, where no man might espy it ; but the
crock soon appeared to him to be too large, and he
laid it up in a cup. The cup pleased him for a time
only, and then the safest place of all struck him
to be to lodge what remained inside his person.
In short, he gradually squandered every shilling
of his inheritance; and when he had no more of
his own, he began to borrow money and goods of
others without repaying any one, since all went in
luxury and riot. He lived merrily, kept agreeable
company, and made people say that some were born
under lucky stars. By little and little his purse
grew thin, and his credit failed ; and a friend, who
pitied him, took him into his house, when he had
THE SERJEANT TURNED FRIAR. 477
pawned his coat for bread, and lay under a hedge
for shelter. Under the roof of this kind protector
Our prodigal lay for some time so sick in body, as it
was reported, that by no means might he stir abroad;
and a certain merchant, to whom he was a debtor,
went to a serjeant to ask him in what manner he
should proceed in order to secure this man, and
gain his money.
The serjeant said: “Do not disquiet yourself;
leave it to me.” -
“Ah !” answered the merchant, “but he lies
close ; he will not come out.”
“I have had great experience in these affairs; I
will arrest him, and then you need not care. Let
me be baked, if I fail!”
So the two parted ; and the serjeant bethought
him how he should compass the matter. “He is
sick,” said he to himself; “he lacks spiritual
counsel. It is well remembered I will change
raiment with a holy friar of my acquaintance, and
I will seek speech of him under that colour.”
He lost no time in seeking his friend, who lent
him his attire; and as he paraded before the mirror,
and rehearsed the part which he was going to play,
he flattered himself that he was clean perfect. Of
then started he to execute his mission in God's
name, and when he came to the house he knocked
softly at the door. -
A damsel presently opened it, to whom said the
pretended friar : “God speed, fair maid | Such a
man (naming him) lodgeth here, doth he not *"
“And what if he doth P” retorted she.
“O, no harm, my good damsel. It does not


478 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
pertain to my order to hurt any ; but with him fain
would I speak.”
“By my faith, sir,” quoth she, “he aileth so ye
are not like to have sight of him to-day.”
Quoth he “Fair maid, yet this much I pray you
would do. Go to him, and say that an Austin friar
would confer with him for his soul's sake.”
“That will I,” she replied. “Wait you here,
father, till I come down again.”
The maiden went up, and broke to the man the
news, as she had been told ; and he, nothing
mistrusting, desired her to return, and conduct
the friar to his room, where they might converse
together.
The friar ascended to the chamber where the
sick man lay, and when he saw him he greeted him
with all becoming gestures and expressions. The
sick man offered him his hand, and he grasped it
with religious fervour.
Said he “You are in trouble, sir, I understand.”
“Yes; matters have gone better with me than
they do just now,” he answered.
“Be of good cheer, sir,” said the friar ; “all shall
be well with you anon. God will direct every-
thing for the best ; and so dismiss all sad thoughts,
and take counsel with me. But while we converse,
let this maiden leave us.”
The girl descended again, and the sick man
observed : “Now, holy father, let me hear straight-
way what happy tidings you have for me.”
But the friar, as soon as they were left alone,
whipped out his mace, and said: “I arrest thee;
you are in my power, and shall not escape for all

THE SERJEANT TURNED FRIAR. 479
the money the mayor has in his purse. Get up,
and come along.”
The sick man, astounded and furious, raised him-
self in bed, and dealt the false friar a blow which
felled him to the ground. He was afraid that he
had slain the man, and out of bed he jumped, and
raised him on his feet, and rubbed him till he
shewed signs of animation. Then presently he
recovered himself, and grappled with his prisoner;
and they tugged and lugged at each other, and tare
each other's hair, and at last both sprawled together
on the floor, and rolled over and over, kicking and
tumbling, like pigs in a poke.
Hearing the noise, the maid and her mother
rushed upstairs; and when they espied the two
fellows struggling and bleeding on the ground, they
came to the succour of their lodger. The girl
pulled the friar's hood over his face, and belaboured
him soundly, as he lay prostrate, with a battledore ;
while the wife basted him with her distaff till he
was distracted with pain. Then they dragged him
along the landing, and threw him between them.
down the staircase, saying: “Adieu, good sir, adieu !
Pray commend us to the mayor.” -
The serjeant crawled away as best he could, and
went home to have his sores dressed. “ Ill luck
betide him,” he muttered, as he went, “who occa-
sioned me to play the friar !”
THE MONK OF LE ICESTER
WHO WAS FOUR TIMES SLAIN AND ONCE
HANGED.
(Szałeenth Century.)
[7%is wel/-sustained and amusing story is an
AEnglish version of the “Sexton of Cluny,” and bears
some resemø/ance to the old romantic Ča//ad of “Zar/
A’ze/a/ aſ ” and to advezzzzzzes z0/zc/, occur 27, Z/e
“Arabian AWights" and the “Gesta Æomanorum.”
7%e incident of Żropping up the com/se against a
door is adopted in the “Second /l/aiden's Zºragedy,”
and in Marlowe's “A'ich /ew of Malta.” The present
writer, in his introduction to the metrica/ /egend in
his “ Farly Popular Poetry” (1864), has pointed out
other analogues and imitations of the origina/ French
fabliau. 7%e Zocalization of the story was a common
eaftedient, where old wares were served up again for
the nonce.]
IN the olden time, there was in the good town of
Leicester a monastery of great renown ; and among
all the holy brethren who belonged to it there was
none who could compare with Dan Hugh.
Dan Hugh was young, and he was lusty, and for
a fair woman he was ever on the watch. Now there
was in this town a tailor, who had been married
seven year or more to a good and comely wife; and


480
THE MONIK OF LEICESTER. 481
when Dan Hugh was wont to pass that way, and to
behold her, he conceived a passion for this woman,
and wondered when he should be so fortunate as to
find her alone, that he might have speech with her;
and he thought that, if he could find an opportunity
of addressing her, he should succeed in his suit.
One day it happened that he found her by herself,
and he came at once to the point.
“Fair creature,” said he, “unless you agree to
love me, I cannot live.”
“O sir,” replied she, “I have a good husband.”
“Say me not nay,” he pursued; “I must love
thee, whatever it cost me.”
“If it needs must be so,” quoth the woman,
“come to me to-morrow, for my husband rideth out
of town, and so we may enjoy each other's society;
and if ye come not, it is your fault. But,” she
added, “if I prove kind to you, Dan Hugh, what
present will you make me 2"
“Twenty nobles,” quoth he.
“That is good,” quoth she.
And so they kissed each other and parted.
The tailor returned home in the evening as usual,
and his wife disclosed to him all that had occurred.
“Why, wife,” he cried, “would you wrong me?”
“Nay, nay,” she cried ; “I will keep true to you,
forsooth, and get the money for us into the bargain.
Just before it is time for him to arrive, I shall lock
you in the chest in our room, and when I call you
must come.”
So when five o'clock struck, Dan Hugh, punctual
to the minute, knocked at the door and was admitted.
He locked the tailor's wife in his arms, and kissed

I I
482 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
her; and then he asked her if her husband was out
of the way.
“Yea,” she said, “and he cometh not back till
the afternoon.”
Dan Hugh took her in his arms, and would have
dallied with her, but she loosed herself saying, “For
shame, let go ; first, I must have the twenty nobles
which you promised me.” And after some hesitation,
when he saw that she was firm, he pulled out a purse
and threw it into her lap. Then he thought that it
was all right, and he drew her toward him once
more. “Nay, nay,” she exclaimed, “let me put the
money in the chest, and then I shall feel more easy.”
She went to the chest, leaving the monk on the
tiptoe of expectation, and when she opened it to put
in the nobles, out leapt the tailor. Without giving
their visitor time to collect himself, he dealt him a
blow on the head which stretched him lifeless on
the floor. Thus was Dan Hugh first slain.
“Alack, husband ' " cried his wife, “is he dead
indeed P What can be done P”
“You must give me your good counsel,” said the
tailor, “so that we may get rid of this false priest.”
And when the woman had thought a little she
said: “ Let us wait till the shades of evening have
fallen, and then you must carry him and set him
against one of the walls of the abbey, and go your
way.” And so the tailor did.
Now the abbot, hearing that Dan Hugh had
gone out, marvelled where he could be when he
failed to return at the due hour, and he was wrath
with him, and sent one of his servants to look every-
where for the missing brother. The messenger


THE MONK OF LEICESTER. 483
searched high and low, and at length he perceived
Dan Hugh standing by the wall. So he went up
to him, and spake thus : “Dan Hugh, I have
been seeking you, and wondering where you were.”
Dan Hugh did not stir.
“Sir," proceeded the abbot's man, “you must
come to my lord straightway, or you will be in dis-
grace.” But Dan Hugh did not utter a word.
Then the abbot's man deemed it best to go to
his master, and report to him what he had found.
Quoth he “Sir, Dan Hugh stands stock upright
by the wall, and never a word will he speak to me,
but he stareth upon me, like One that lacketh grace.”
“Is it so *" demanded the abbot; “get me a
staff, and I will see whether I can make him speak.”
Then they went back together, and the abbot
cried : “Why dost thou neglect thy holy service
thus, fellow 2 come hither, with a vengeance "
But never a whit did Hugh heed the bidding.
“Rogue !” exclaimed the abbot, “will you not
come P Beshrew me, I will give you a rap on your
head which will make you wake up.” And he
smote Hugh with his staff, and brought him to the
ground. So was he a second time slain.
“My lord,” said the abbot's man, “see what you
have done Dan Hugh is dead. You will be sus-
pended from your place.”
“What is to be done, then P’ quoth the abbot.
“What reward will your lordship give me if I
help you out of this dilemma P" asked his man.
“Forty shillings shall be yours, my good fellow,'
said the abbot. -
“He loved a tailor's wife in the town passing

484 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
well; I shall, as soon as it is dark, take the body
and prop it up against the man's door, so that it may
be supposed that the husband killed him, for he is
angry enough with him, that is so.”
The abbot's man did as he had engaged, and ran
home as fast as he could, when he had left the body
at the tailor's door. The tailor and his wife were
very anxious about the affair, lest it should be found
who had taken the priest's life; and as they lay in
bed, the tailor dreamed that Dan Hugh came back,
and stood by their door. “Good Lord! man,” cried
his wife contemptuously, “are ye afraid of a corpse
Methought that ye slew him.”
Thereupon, notwithstanding, the tailor rose and
went to the door with a poleaxe in his hand; and
when he opened it he beheld the monk hard by,
and he was in sore trepidation lest Dan Hugh had
returned to take revenge. “Wife,' he called out,
“he is here ; I am a dead man unless I strike first.”
And he lifted his weapon and struck Dan Hugh
heavily on the head, so that he dropped down like a
stone. And this was the third time. -
“Alas! wife,” said the tailor, “this caitiff will be
our undoing. How are we to get rid of him *"
“Wait till after midnight,” said she, “and then
put him into a sack and carry him to the mill-dam,
and cast him in.”
The tailor took this advice, and marched toward
the mill-dam with Dan Hugh on his shoulder; but
as he drew near the place, he saw two thieves also
bearing a sack, and when they perceived the tailor,
they took him to be the miller returning home, and
let their load drop, and ran away. The tailor found


THE MONIK OF LEICESTER. 485
that the other sack contained bacon stolen from the
mill, and he took it up, threw it over his back, and
made the best of his way home, leaving Dan Hugh
behind. The two thieves, when the tailor had gone,
returned in search of their bacon, and seeing the
sack with the monk inside, mistook it in the dark
for their own, and trudged merrily back to the place
where they lived.
One of them said to his wife : “Ope that sack,
wife, and see what we have brought. It is good
bacon, and we will make fine cheer.”
And when the woman undid the sack, no bacon,
but the dead monk, was inside. “Merciful Heaven l’”
she ejaculated, “ have ye slain Dan Hugh then P
Well, ye will be hanged for certain, if it is dis-
covered.”
“Nay, dame,” said they ; “it is the false miller
who did it.” And they went forthwith and took the
sack back to the mill, and hung it up in the place
from which they had stolen the bacon.
When the miller's wife rose in the morning, she
went to the larder to cut some bacon for breakfast,
and was aghast when she perceived the monk hanging
from the hook, and the bacon gone. “Well,” she
cried, “he has got his due, that is certain. This is
the devil's work; he slew him for robbing us of our
winter's store l’’
“ Hush wife,” interposed the miller, making his
appearance; “the chief thing is to consider how we
shall dispose of him.” -
The woman had a device ready at hand. “Sir,”
said she, “in a field hard by my lord abbot hath a
horse grazing. Let us wait till nightfall, and set the
486 DESCRIPTIVE AND HUMOROUS LEGENDS.
monk upon his back, fast-bound, with a pole under
his arm, as though he would joust; and the horse
knoweth his way well to the abbey, and to-morrow,
early in the morning, when the abbot sallieth forth
on his mare to look after his workmen, he will meet
the monk on his horse, and there will be sport.”
The miller did as his wife counselled, and led the
horse by the bridle till it came in sight of the abbot
on his mare, and when the horse saw the mare, the
miller let go the bridle, and off gallopped Dan Hugh,
tilting straight at the abbot.
“Help! help !” exclaimed his lordship, “for the
love of the saints for I see Dan Hugh will be
avenged. Alas! I am a dead man " And with that
he jumped off his mare and ran for his life. His
servants came up, and with their clubs and staves
beat Dan Hugh unmercifully, till at last he fell off,
and was lifted up dead. And this was the fourth
time, and the last, for now they buried him. And so
our story ends.
Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London
º





A SELECT LIST OF WORKS OR EDITIONS
BY
WILLIA M C A REW HAZL ITT
OF THE INNER TEMPLE
C///ø OAZOZOG/CA/L/ V AA’A’AAWGAE/D
1860–1891
. History of the Venetian Republic: its Rise, its Greatness, and its Civiliza-
tion. With Maps and Illustrations. 4 vols. 8vo. Smith, Elder & Co. 1860.
A new edition, entirely recast, with important additions, in 3 vols., crown 8vo, is in readiness
for the press.

. Old English Jest-Books, 1525–1639. Edited with Introductions and Notes.
Facsimiles. 3 vols. 12mo, 1864.
Remains of the Early Popular Poetry of England. With Introductions
and Notes. 4 vols. 12mo, Woodcuts. 1864–66.
Handbook to the Early Popular, Poetical, and Dramatic Literature of
Great Britain. Demy 8vo. 1867. Pp. 714, in two columns.
. Bibliographical Collections and Notes. 1867–76. Medium 8vo. 1876.
This volume comprises a full description of about 6,ooo Early English books from the books
themselves. It is a sequel and companion to No. 4. See also Nos. 6–9 in/ra.
“There never was a more accurate and painstaking bibliographer than Mr. Hazlitt, nor is there
any bibliography of English literature which can compete with his works... I have found from
personal experience that they are absolutely necessary to the English collector.”—BERNARD
QUARITCH.
These and the three following items are the result of more than thirty years’ continuous labour,
during which the author doubtless has had submitted to his notice more English book-rarities than
any other bibliophile in Europe. There are several thousands of articles in this work, which may
be regarded as an appendix to the bibliographical account of early English literature.
. Bibliographical Collections and Notes. SECOND SERIES. 1876–82.
Medium 8vo. 1882.
Uniform with First Series. About Io, ooo titles on the same principle as before.
“I very respectfully, yet with cordial pleasure, submit to such sections of the educated and
reading English community in the United Queendom, the States of America, and elsewhere, as
feel an interest in that early literature, which ought to be dear to the entire English-speaking
race, a Third and Final Series of my Bióſiogra/hical Collections and Notes, forming (with my
Handbook), the fourth volume of my achievement in this province of research.
“The objection to the multiplication of alphabets by the sectional treatment, which I have
adopted since the appearance of the Handbook in 1867, is a very valid objection indeed from the
point of view of the consulter. But as this has been, and remains, a labour of love, and as the
cost of production was a grave problem, I simply had no alternative ; and to the suggestion which
I offered in a prior introduction, that, after all, these serial volumes might be regarded in the
same light as so many catalogues of public or private collections, I have now the gratifying
announcement to add, that a complete Index to the Handbook and the three Series of Collec.
tions and Notes is in preparation by Mr. Gray of Cambridge, who has most generously volun-
teered to do the work, and will form a separate volume, to be published by Mr. Quaritch, when
it is completed. - ---
“I have incorporated (generally, with additions and corrections) in my volumes by degrees
nearly the whole of the Bibliotheca Anglo-Poetica, Corser's Collectanea (excepting, of course, the
lengthy and elaborate extracts and annotations), the British Museum Catalogue of Early English
Books to 1640, the Typographical Antiquities of Ames, Herbert, and Dibdin, the Chatsworth,
Huth, Ashburnham, and other private cabinets, and the various publications of Haslewood, Park,
Utterston, and Collier.
“Since the Second Series came from the press in 1882, several large private libraries have been
dispersed under the hammer, and all the articles previously overlooked by me have been duly
taken up into my pages. I may enumerate, for example's sake, the celebrated collections of the
I
7.
IO.
Earl of Jersey, the Earl of Gosford, Mr. James Crossley of Manchester, Mr. Payne Collier, the
Duke of Marlborough, Mr. Hartley, Mr. N. P. Simes of Horsham, Sir Richard Colt Hoare, Mr.
Michael Wodhull, Sir Thomas Phillips of Middle-Hill, the Rev. J. Fuller Russell, Mr. Henry
Pyne, and Professor Solly.”—Preface to Second Series.
“Mr. W. C. Hazlitt's second series of Bibliographical Collections and Wotes (Quaritch) is the
result of many years' searches among rare books, tracts, ballads, and broadsides by a man whose
speciality is bibliography, and who has thus produced a volume of high value. If any one will
read through the fifty-four closely printed columns relating to Charles I., or the ten and a half
columns given to ‘London’ from 1541 to 1794, and recollect that these are only a supplement to
twelve columns in Hazlitt's Hazzdőook and five and a half in his first Collections, he will get an
idea of the work involved in this book. Other like entries are “James I.,’ ‘Ireland,’ ‘France,”
‘England,” “ Elizabeth,’ ‘Scotland’ (which has twenty-one and a half columns), and so on. As
to the curiosity and rarity of the works that Mr. Hazlitt has catalogued, any one who has been
for even'twenty or thirty years among old books will acknowledge that the strangers to him are
far more numerous than the acquaintances and friends. This second series of Collections will
add to Mr. Hazlitt’s well-earned reputation as a bibliographer, and should be in every real library
through the English-speaking world. The only thing we desiderate in it is more of his welcome
marks and names, B.M., Britwell, Lambeth, etc., to show where all the books approaching rarity
are. The service that these have done in Mr. Hazlitt's former books to editors for the Early
English Text, New Shakespear, Spenser, Hunterian, and other societies, has been so great that
we hope he will always say where he has seen the rare books that he makes entries of.”—
Academy, August 26th, 1882.
Bibliographical Collections and Notes. A THIRD AND FINAL SERIES.
1886. 8vo.
Uniform with the First and Second Series. This volume contains upwards of 3,000 Articles.
“Mr. Hazlitt has done much work during the last thirty years, and some of it has been bitterly
attacked ; but we venture to think that the debt of gratitude which all students of Old English
literature owe to him for his bibliographical collections must remain in the most enduring opinion
of his labours. We would bid all readers who care for the books of the past read the practical,
manly, and comprehensive introduction prefixed to this volume. It forms one of the best pleas
for the study of English literature which we know; and coming close upon the important speech
of Mr. John Morley, it takes up a phase of the subject not yet adequately recognised. The
academic side has been put by Mr. Morley, the practical by Mr. Hazlitt: ‘The England in
which we dwell is one with the England which lies behind us. So far as the period which I
comprehend goes, it is one country and one race; and I do not think that we should precipitately
and unkindly spurn the literature which our foregoers left to us and to our descendants for ever,
because it may at first sight strike us as irrelevant to our present wants and feelings. -
The considerer of modern opinions and customs is too little addicted to retrospection. He seems
to be too shy of profiting on the one hand by the counsels or suggestions, on the other by the
mistakes, of the men who have crossed the unrepassable line, who have dealt with the topics and
problems with which we have to deal.' These are stirring and sensible words, and we should
much like to see them more widely distributed than the limited issue of this volume will allow.
“It is impossible, in a short notice such as we can only give, to do justice to the contents of
this work. The titles of every book or tract are given in full, having been transcribed by Mr.
Hazlitt himself; and there is often appended to the entry interesting information about the con-
dition, history, and, above all things, the present locale of the book. Such work as this requires
labour, and skill, and knowledge of no ordinary kind. Now that Mr. Bradshaw is dead, there
are few indeed who possess these qualities, and apparently only one who puts them at the service
of his fellows. It has been often said of late that the bibliographer and indexer are more needed
than the book-writer; and if this is true, as we are inclined to think it, Mr. Hazlitt's work must,
in relation to the age in which it is produced, be awarded a very high place. It enables us to
ascertain what has been done in English literature, and therefore ought to enable us to do our
work so much the better. Almost all departments of study are now occupied as much with a
reconsideration of old facts as with the discovery of new, and for this purpose such books as
Mr. Hazlitt's are indispensable. We are happy to say that a competent Cambridge student has
undertaken to compile an index to the four volumes of bibliography issued by Mr. Hazlitt,
and that this will be published by Mr. Quaritch as soon as it is ready.”—Azztigatazy, April, 1887.
Bibliographical Collections and Notes. Supplements to the Third and
Final Series. 2 vols. Medium 8vo. 1889–92.
A General Index to Hazlitt's Bibliographical Works (1867–89). By
G. J. GRAY. Medium 8vo. [/m the Press.]
This invaluable volume will assist the student and collector in using the several volumes of
which the Series, now consists, and will enable him to ascertain at a glance whether and where
a book, tract, or broadside is to be found. It is a labour which Mr. Gray has undertaken con
amzore, and reflects the highest honour on his industry, discernment, and literary zeal.
*** All these books are now on sale by MR. QUARITCH.
Memoirs of William Hazlitt. With Portions of his Correspondence.
Portraits after miniatures by John Hazlitt. 2 vols. 8vo. 1867.
During the last twenty years the author has been indefatigable in collecting additional informa-
tion for the Zºſe of Hazlăţţ, 1867, in correcting errors, and in securing all the unpublished letters
which have come into the market, some of great interest, with a view to a new and improved
edition.
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º
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II. Inedited Tracts. Illustrating the Manners, Opinions, and Occupations of
Englishmen during the 16th and 17th Centuries. 1586–1618. With an introduction and
Notes. Facsimiles. 4to, 1868
12. The Works of Charles Lamb. Now first collected, and entirely rearranged.
With Notes. 4 vols. 8vo. AE. Moroſz & Co. 1868–69.
13. Letters of Charles Lamb. With some Account of the Writer, his Friends
and Correspondents, and Explanatory Notes. By the late Sir THoMAs Noon TALFourD,
D.C.L., one of his Executors. An entirely new edition, carefully revised and greatly
enlarged by W. CAREw HAZLITT. 2 vols. 1886. Post 8vo.
13A, Mary and Charles Lamb. New Facts and Inedited Remains. 8vo. Wood-
cuts and Facsimiles. 1874.
The groundwork of this volume was an Essay by the writer in Macmil/an's Magazine.
14. English Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases. Arranged alphabetically and
annotated. Medium 8vo. 1869. Second Edition, corrected and greatly enlarged, crown
8vo. 1882.
15. Narrative of the Journey of an Irish Gentleman through England in
1751. From a MS. With Notes. 8vo. 1869.
16. The English Drama and Stage under the Tudor and Stuart Princes.
1547–1664. With an Introduction and Notes. A series of Reprinted Documents and
Treatises. 4to. 1869.
17. Popular Antiquities of Great Britain. I. The Calendar. II. Customs and
Ceremonies. III. Superstitions. 3 vols. Medium 8vo. 1870.
Brand's Popular Antiquities, by Ellis, 1813, taken to pieces, recast, and enormously aug-
mented.
18. Inedited Poetical Miscellanies. 1584–1700. Thick 8vo. With Notes and
Facsimiles. 50 copies privately printed. 1870.
19. Warton's History of English Poetry. An entirely new edition, with Notes
by Sir F. MADDEN, T. WRIGHT, F. J. FURNIVALL, R. MoRRIs, and others, and by the
Editor. 4 vols. Medium 8vo. 1871.
20. The Feudal Period. Illustrated by a Series of Tales (from Le Grand). 12mo.
1874.
21. Prefaces, Dedications, and Epistles. Prefixed to Early English Books.
1540–1701. 8vo. 1874. 50 copies privately printed.
22. Blount’s Jocular Tenures. Tenures of Land and Customs of Manors.
Originally published by THoMA's BLou NT of the Inner. Temple in 1679. An entirely new
and greatly enlarged edition by W. CAREw HAZLITT, of that Ilk. Medium 8vo. 1874.
23. Dodsley's Select Collection of Old Plays. A new edition, greatly enlarged,
corrected throughout, and entirely rearranged. With a Glossary by Dr. RICHARD MoRRIs.
15 vols. 8vo. 1874-76.
24. Fairy Tales, Legends, and Romances. Illustrating Shakespear and other
Early English Writers. 12mo. 1875.
25. Shakespear's Library: A Collection of the Novels, Plays, and other Material
- supposed to have been used by Shakespear. An entirely new edition. 6 vols. 12mo, 1875.
* 26. Fugitive Tracts (written in verse) which illustrate the Condition of
Religious and Political Feeling in England, and the State of Society there,
during Two Centuries. 1493–17oo. 2 vols. 4to. 50 copies privately printed. 1875.
27. Poetical Recreations. By W. C. HAZLITT, 50 copies printed. 12mo, 1877.
A new edition, revised and very greatly enlarged, is in preparation.
28. The Baron's Daughter. A Ballad. 75 copies printed. 4to. 1877.
29. The Essays of Montaigne. Translated by C. Cotton. An entirely new
edition, collated with the best French text. With a memoir, and all the extant Letters,
Portrait and Illustrations. 3 vols. 8vo. 1877. The only library edition.
30. Catalogue of the Huth Library. [English portion.] 5 vols. Large 8vo.
1880. 200 copies printed.
A. L. 3 K. K.


31. Offspring of Thought in Solitude. Modern Essays. 1884. 8vo, pp. 384.
Some of these Papers were originally contributed to All the Year Round, etc.
32. Old Cookery Books and Ancient Cuisine. 12mo. 1886.
“. Full of curious information, this work can fairly claim to be a philosophical history of our
national cookery.”—Morning Post.
33. An Address to the Electors of Mid-Surrey, among whom I live. In
Rejoinder to Mr. Gladstone’s Manifesto. 1886. 8vo, pp. 32.
“Who would not grieve if such a man there be?
Who would not weep if Atticus were he?”—Pope.
34. Gleanings in Old Garden Literature. 12mo, 1887.
35. Schools, Schoolbooks, and Schoolmasters. A Contribution to the History
of Educational Development. 12mo. J. W. Jazz is & Son. 1888. Pp. 3oo + vi.
Survey of the old system of teaching–Dr. Busby—Early Dictionaries—Colloquies in the
Tenth, Twelfth, and Thirteenth Centuries—Earliest printed works of instruction, Donatus and
others—Stanbridge—Robert Whittington—Guarini of Verona—Vulgaria of Terence – School
Classigs— Erasmus and More — Dean Colet — Foundation of St. Paul's — Thomas Linacre—
Wolsey’s Edition of Lily's Grammar-Merchant Taylors' School—Old Mode of Advertising—
Private Establishments—Museum Minervae at Bethnal Green—Manchester Old School—Shake-
spear, Sir Hugh Evans, and Holofernes–Educational Condition of Scotland—Female Educa-
tion—Shakespear's Daughters—Goldsmith—Ascham and Mulcaster—Ben Jonson and Shirley,
writers of Grammars — Foreigners' English—Phonography — Bullokar — Charles Butler—Dr.
Jones.
SELECTIONS FROM PRESS OPINIONS.
“A perusal of Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt's book is calculated to make both parents and boys
thankful that they live in an age of comparative enlightenment. The work does not profess to be
an exhaustive one, the object being ‘to trace the sources and rise of our educational system, and
to present a general view of the principles on which the groundwork of this system was laid.’
In pursuing this plan, the writer has succeeded in producing a book which, though dealing with
what some readers may consider rather a dry subject, is full of curious and interesting informa-
tion, judiciously arranged and pleasantly conveyed.”—Morning Post.
“This book contains a great deal of very curious information. After an introductory chapter
on the system of teaching in the good old times when holidays were unknown and stick ointment
laid the basis of all culture, an account is given of the various vocabularies, glossaries, and
colloquies in use in mediaeval times. Some interesting and amusing details are also given of
sixteenth century school-books, and Mr. Hazlitt sketches the scholastic work done by Erasmus,
Colet, Linacre, Lily, Ruddiman, and others, and gives us an insight into the methods followed
in such schools as St. Paul's and the Merchant Taylors' Institution. . . . One of the most
interesting chapters in the volume is that on female education.”—Glasgow Herald.
“. . . Mr. Hazlitt knows his subject, and he also knows how to write. No small praise.”
—St. Stephen's Rezniew.
“. . . . Some of Mr. Hazlitt's pages are occupied with the humorous side of school life ; and
as he tells a story well, these portions of the book come upon one with singular pleasure.”—
Antiguary.
“Mr. Hazlitt has evidently a favourite specialty in school-books. He has collected them, we
should judge, with a good deal of zeal, and has acquired a really considerable amount of know-
ledge about them,” etc.—Spectator.
36. A Little Book for Men and Women about Life and Death. 12mo.
Reezes & Turner. 1891.
“Mr. Hazlitt believes that the only chance of shaking off the ignorance in which spiritual
pastors help to keep the nation is to be found in the absolute secularization of education.”—Daily
Telegrafth.
“This neat little volume discusses very ably and fairly several important questions.”—New-
castle Daily Chronicle.
“This is a well-written attack on a few of the irrational doctrines, folly, and trumpery that go
by the name of religion.”—Christian Zife.
“Mr. Hazlitt sees that to overthrow the superstition which selects and endows incompetence,
there must be a general lift in the quality and efficiency of education all round ; and he sketches
a plan or curriculum which does credit to his breadth of view.”—AVational Reformer.
“Mr. Hazlitt is an original thinker. On the whole, he expresses himself moderately, tem-
perately, and without needless offence. Those whose views Mr. Hazlitt voices are a growing
number, and many will read his little book with sympathy.”—Bizzyzingham, Daily Post.
37. Tales and Legends of National Origin or Widely Current in England
from Early Times. With Critical Introductions. 8vo. 1891. -
38. A Survey of the Livery Companies of the City of London. With a
general Introduction and Preface, and numerous Illustrations.
[Afor Žublication in December, 1891.]
39. A Manual for the collector and Amateur of old English Plays.
Sm. 4to. Only 250 copies printed.
4.
THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY
DATE DUE
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OCTO 5 1917.
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DEC b2 1995
Form 9584


UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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