“Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee,”
said the hermit; “respecting thy valour much,
but deeming wondrous slightly of thy discretion.
If thou wilt take equal arms with me, I will give
thee, in all friendship and brotherly love, such sufficing
penance and complete absolution, that thou shalt not
for the next twelve months sin the sin of excess of
curiosity.”
The knight pledged him, and desired him to name his
weapons.
“There is none,” replied the hermit, “from
the scissors of Delilah, and the tenpenny nail of
Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not
a match for thee—–But, if I am to
make the election, what sayst thou, good friend, to
these trinkets?”
Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took out
from it a couple of broadswords and bucklers, such
as were used by the yeomanry of the period. The
knight, who watched his motions, observed that this
second place of concealment was furnished with two
or three good long-bows, a cross-bow, a bundle of bolts
for the latter, and half-a-dozen sheaves of arrows
for the former. A harp, and other matters of
a very uncanonical appearance, were also visible when
this dark recess was opened.
“I promise thee, brother Clerk,” said
he, “I will ask thee no more offensive questions.
The contents of that cupboard are an answer to all
my enquiries; and I see a weapon there” (here
he stooped and took out the harp) “on which
I would more gladly prove my skill with thee, than
at the sword and buckler.”
“I hope, Sir Knight,” said the hermit,
“thou hast given no good reason for thy surname
of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect
thee grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest,
and I will not put thy manhood to the proof without
thine own free will. Sit thee down, then, and
fill thy cup; let us drink, sing, and be merry.
If thou knowest ever a good lay, thou shalt be welcome
to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so long as I serve
the chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall
be till I change my grey covering for one of green
turf. But come, fill a flagon, for it will crave
some time to tune the harp; and nought pitches the
voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine.
For my part, I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends
before they make the harp-strings tinkle."*
* The Jolly Hermit.—–All readers,
however slightly * acquainted with black letter, must
recognise in the Clerk * of Copmanhurst, Friar Tuck,
the buxom Confessor of Robin * Hood’s gang,
the Curtal Friar of Fountain’s Abbey.
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portray’d with many a holy deed
Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
* * * * *
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice grey,
And to the world’s tumultuous stage,
Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?
Warton
