Part 9 (1/2)
The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cordiality would have me sit down at the table; my heart was set down the moment I entered the room; so I sat down at once, like a son of the family; and, to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man's knife, and, taking up the loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mixed with thanks that I had not seemed to doubt it.
Was it this? or tell me, Nature, what else it was that made this morsel so sweet; and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their flagon was so delicious with it, that they remain upon my palate to this hour.
If the supper was to my taste, the grace which followed it was much more so.
THE GRACE [Sidenote: _Sterne_]
When supper was over the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance. The moment the signal was given, the women and girls ran off together into a back apartment to tie up their hair, and the young men to the door to wash their faces and change their _sabots_; and in three minutes every soul was ready upon a little esplanade before the house to begin. The old man and his wife came out last, and, placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sofa of turf by the door.
The old man had, some fifty years ago, been no mean performer upon the _vielle_; and at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife sang now and then a little to the tune, then intermitted and joined her old man again, as their children and grandchildren danced before them.
It was not till the middle of the second dance, when, for some pauses in the movements wherein they all seemed to look up, I fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit different from that which is the cause of the effect of simple jollity. In a word, I thought I beheld religion mixing in the dance; but, as I had never seen her so engaged, I should have looked upon it now as one of the illusions of an imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance ended, said that this was their constant way; and that all his life long he had made it a rule, after supper was over, to call out his family to dance and rejoice; ”believing,” he said, ”that a cheerful and contented mind was the best sort of thanks to Heaven that an illiterate peasant could pay”--
”Or a learned prelate either,” said I.
HINTS FOR AN HISTORICAL PLAY; TO BE CALLED WILLIAM RUFUS; OR, THE RED ROVER [Sidenote: _Ingoldsby_]
_Act_ 1
Walter Tyrrel, the son of a Norman papa, Has, somehow or other, a Saxon mama: Though humble, yet far above mere vulgar loons, He's a sort of a sub in the Rufus dragoons; Has travelled, but comes home abruptly, the rather That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father; And scarce has he picked out, and stuck in his quiver, The arrow that pierced the old gentleman's liver, When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone, That his sweetheart has bolted--with whom is not known.
But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady At court with her character grown rather shady: This gives him the ”blues,” and impairs the delight He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight For giving a runaway stallion a check, And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck.
_Act 2_
Sir Walter has dress'd himself up like a Ghost, And frightens a soldier away from his post; Then, discarding his helmet, he pulls his cloak higher, Draws it over his ears and pretends he's a Friar.
This gains him access to his sweetheart, Miss Faucit; But, the King coming in, he hides up in her closet; Where, oddly enough, among some of her things, He discovers some arrows he's sure are the King's, Of the very same pattern with that which he found Sticking into his father when dead on the ground!
Forgetting his funk, he bursts open the door, Bounces into the drawing-room, stamps on the floor, With an oath on his tongue, and revenge in his eye, And blows up King William the Second sky-high; Swears, storms, shakes his fist, and exhibits such airs, That his Majesty bids his men kick him downstairs.
_Act 3_
King Rufus is cross when he comes to reflect, That, as King, he's been treated with gross disrespect; So he pens a short note to a holy physician, And gives him a rather unholy commission, Viz., to mix up some a.r.s.enic and ale in a cup, Which the chances are Tyrrel may find and drink up.
Sure enough, on the very next morning, Sir Walter Perceives, in his walks, this same cup on the altar.
As he feels rather thirsty, he's just about drinking, When Miss Faucit, in tears, comes in running like winking; He pauses, of course, and, as she's thirsty too, Says, very politely, ”Miss, I after you!”
The young lady curtsies, and, being so dry, Raises somehow her fair little finger so high, That there's not a drop left him to ”wet t'other eye”; While the dose is so strong, to his grief and surprise, She merely says, ”Thankee, Sir Walter,” and dies.
At that moment the King, who is riding to cover, Pops in _en pa.s.sant_ on the desperate lover, Who has vow'd, not five minutes before, to transfix him-- So he does--he just pulls out his arrow and sticks him.
From the strength of his arm, and the force of his blows, The Red-bearded Rover falls flat on his nose; And Sir Walter, thus having concluded the quarrel, Walks down to the footlights, and draws this fine moral: ”Ladies and gentlemen, lead sober lives: Don't meddle with other folks' sweethearts or wives!-- When you go out a-sporting take care of your gun, And--never shoot elderly people in fun!”
IN A VISITOR'S BOOK [Sidenote: _J.K. Stephen._]
Within the bounds of this Hotel, Which bears the name of Pen-y-Gwryd, A black and yellow hound doth dwell, By which my friend and I were worried.