Ivanhoe | Page 4

requests of him quarters for the night. "I have no accommodation for
such a lord as ye be," said the Hermit. "I live here in the wilderness
upon roots and rinds, and may not receive into my dwelling even the

poorest wretch that lives, unless it were to save his life." The King
enquires the way to the next town, and, understanding it is by a road
which he cannot find without difficulty, even if he had daylight to
befriend him, he declares, that with or without the Hermit's consent, he
is determined to be his guest that night. He is admitted accordingly, not
without a hint from the Recluse, that were he himself out of his priestly
weeds, he would care little for his threats of using violence, and that he
gives way to him not out of intimidation, but simply to avoid scandal.
The King is admitted into the cell --- two bundles of straw are shaken
down for his accommodation, and he comforts himself that he is now
under shelter, and that
"A night will soon be gone."
Other wants, however, arise. The guest becomes clamorous for supper,
observing,
"For certainly, as I you say, I ne had never so sorry a day, That I ne had
a merry night."
But this indication of his taste for good cheer, joined to the
annunciation of his being a follower of the Court, who had lost himself
at the great hunting-match, cannot induce the niggard Hermit to
produce better fare than bread and cheese, for which his guest showed
little appetite; and "thin drink," which was even less acceptable. At
length the King presses his host on a point to which he had more than
once alluded, without obtaining a satisfactory reply:
"Then said the King, 'by God's grace, Thou wert in a merry place, To
shoot should thou here When the foresters go to rest, Sometyme thou
might have of the best, All of the wild deer; I wold hold it for no scathe,
Though thou hadst bow and arrows baith, Althoff thou best a Frere.'"
The Hermit, in return, expresses his apprehension that his guest means
to drag him into some confession of offence against the forest laws,
which, being betrayed to the King, might cost him his life. Edward
answers by fresh assurances of secrecy, and again urges on him the
necessity of procuring some venison. The Hermit replies, by once more
insisting on the duties incumbent upon him as a churchman, and
continues to affirm himself free from all such breaches of order:
"Many day I have here been, And flesh-meat I eat never, But milk of
the kye; Warm thee well, and go to sleep, And I will lap thee with my
cope, Softly to lye."

It would seem that the manuscript is here imperfect, for we do not find
the reasons which finally induce the curtal Friar to amend the King's
cheer. But acknowledging his guest to be such a "good fellow" as has
seldom graced his board, the holy man at length produces the best his
cell affords. Two candles are placed on a table, white bread and baked
pasties are displayed by the light, besides choice of venison, both salt
and fresh, from which they select collops. "I might have eaten my bread
dry," said the King, "had I not pressed thee on the score of archery, but
now have I dined like a prince---if we had but drink enow."
This too is afforded by the hospitable anchorite, who dispatches an
assistant to fetch a pot of four gallons from a secret corner near his bed,
and the whole three set in to serious drinking. This amusement is
superintended by the Friar, according to the recurrence of certain
fustian words, to be repeated by every compotator in turn before he
drank---a species of High Jinks, as it were, by which they regulated
their potations, as toasts were given in latter times. The one toper says
"fusty bandias", to which the other is obliged to reply, "strike pantnere",
and the Friar passes many jests on the King's want of memory, who
sometimes forgets the words of action. The night is spent in this jolly
pastime. Before his departure in the morning, the King invites his
reverend host to Court, promises, at least, to requite his hospitality, and
expresses himself much pleased with his entertainment. The jolly
Hermit at length agrees to venture thither, and to enquire for Jack
Fletcher, which is the name assumed by the King. After the Hermit has
shown Edward some feats of archery, the joyous pair separate. The
King rides home, and rejoins his retinue. As the romance is imperfect,
we are not acquainted how the discovery takes place; but it is probably
much in the same manner as in