The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves
- -
- 100%
- +
He had just finished this soliloquy as he entered the apartment of his master, who desired to know what was become of his armour. Timothy, understanding that it had been left in the room when the knight undressed, began to scratch his head in great perplexity; and at last declared it as his opinion, that it must have been carried off by witchcraft. Then he related his adventure with Tom Clarke, who he said was conveyed to his bedside he knew not how; and concluded with affirming they were no better than Papishes who did not believe in witchcraft. Sir Launcelot could not help smiling at his simplicity; but assuming a peremptory air, he commanded him to fetch the armour without delay, that he might afterwards saddle the horses, in order to prosecute their journey.
Timothy retired in great tribulation to the kitchen, where, finding the misanthrope, whom the noise had also disturbed, and, still impressed with the notion of his being a conjurer, he offered him a shilling if he would cast a figure, and let him know what was become of his master’s armour.
Ferret, in hope of producing more mischief, informed him without hesitation, that one of the company had conveyed it into the chancel of the church, where he would now find it deposited; at the same time presenting him with the key, which Mr. Fillet had left in his custody.
The squire, who was none of those who set hobgoblins at defiance, being afraid to enter the church alone at these hours, bargained with the ostler to accompany and light him with a lantern. Thus attended, he advanced to the place where the armour lay in a heap, and loaded it upon the back of his attendant without molestation, the lance being shouldered over the whole. In this equipage they were just going to retire, when the ostler, hearing a noise at some distance, wheeled about with such velocity, that one end of the spear saluting Crabshaw’s pate, the poor squire measured his length on the ground; and, crushing the lantern in his fall, the light was extinguished. The other, terrified at these effects of his own sudden motion, threw down his burden, and would have betaken himself to flight, had not Crabshaw laid fast hold on his leg, that he himself might not be deserted. The sound of the pieces clattering on the pavement roused Captain Crowe from a trance or slumber, in which he had lain since the apparition vanished; and he hallooed, or rather bellowed, with vast vociferation. Timothy and his friend were so intimidated by this terrific strain, that they thought no more of the armour, but ran home arm in arm, and appeared in the kitchen with all the marks of horror and consternation.
When Sir Launcelot came forth wrapped in his cloak, and demanded his arms, Crabshaw declared that the devil had them in possession; and this assertion was confirmed by the ostler, who pretended to know the devil by his roar. Ferret sat in his corner, maintaining the most mortifying silence, and enjoying the impatience of the knight, who in vain requested an explanation of this mystery. At length his eyes began to lighten, when, seizing Crabshaw in one hand, and the ostler in the other, he swore by Heaven he would dash their souls out, and raze the house to the foundation, if they did not instantly disclose the particulars of this transaction. The good woman fell on her knees, protesting, in the name of the Lord, that she was innocent as the child unborn, thof she had lent the captain a Prayer-Book to learn the Lord’s Prayer, a candle and lantern to light him to the church, and a couple of clean sheets, for the use of the other gentlemen. The knight was more and more puzzled by this declaration; when Mr. Clarke, coming into the kitchen, presented himself with a low obeisance to his old patron.
Sir Launcelot’s anger was immediately converted into surprise. He set at liberty the squire and the ostler, and stretching out his hand to the lawyer, “My good friend Clarke,” said he, “how came you hither? Can you solve this knotty point which has involved us all in such confusion?”
Tom forthwith began a very circumstantial recapitulation of what had happened to his uncle; in what manner he had been disappointed of the estate; how he had accidentally seen his honour, been enamoured of his character, and become ambitious of following his example. Then he related the particulars of the plan which had been laid down to divert him from his design, and concluded with assuring the knight, that the captain was a very honest man, though he seemed to be a little disordered in his intellects. “I believe it,” replied Sir Launcelot; “madness and honesty are not incompatible—indeed, I feel it by experience.”
Tom proceeded to ask pardon, in his uncle’s name, for having made so free with the knight’s armour; and begged his honour, for the love of God, would use his authority with Crowe, that he might quit all thoughts of knight-errantry, for which he was by no means qualified; for, being totally ignorant of the laws of the land, he would be continually committing trespasses, and bring himself into trouble. He said, in case he should prove refractory, he might be apprehended by virtue of a friendly warrant, for having feloniously carried off the knight’s accoutrements. “Taking away another man’s moveables,” said he, “and personal goods against the will of the owner, is furtum and felony according to the statute. Different indeed from robbery, which implies putting in fear in the king’s highway, in alta via regia violenter et felonice captum et asportatum, in magnum terrorem, etc.; for if the robbery be laid in the indictment, as done in quadam via pedestri, in a footpath, the offender will not be ousted of his clergy. It must be in alta via regia; and your honour will please to take notice, that robberies committed on the river Thames are adjudged as done in alta via regia; for the king’s highstream is all the same as the king’s highway.”
Sir Launcelot could not help smiling at Tom’s learned investigation. He congratulated him on the progress he had made in the study of the law. He expressed his concern at the strange turn the captain had taken, and promised to use his influence in persuading him to desist from the preposterous design he had formed.
The lawyer, thus assured, repaired immediately to the church, accompanied by the squire, and held a parley with his uncle, who, when he understood that the knight in person desired a conference, surrendered up the arms quietly, and returned to the public-house.
Sir Launcelot received the honest seaman with his usual complacency; and perceiving great discomposure in his looks, said, he was sorry to hear he had passed such a disagreeable night to so little purpose. Crowe, having recruited his spirits with a bumper of brandy, thanked him for his concern, and observed, that he had passed many a hard night in his time; but such another as this, he would not be bound to weather for the command of the whole British navy. “I have seen Davy Jones in the shape of a blue flame, d’ye see, hopping to and fro on the sprit-sail yardarm; and I’ve seen your Jacks o’ the Lanthorn, and Wills o’ the Wisp, and many such spirits, both by sea and land. But to-night I’ve been boarded by all the devils and d—ned souls in hell, squeaking and squalling, and glimmering and glaring. Bounce went the door—crack went the pew—crash came the tackle—white-sheeted ghosts dancing in one corner by the glow-worm’s light—black devils hobbling in another—Lord have mercy upon us! and I was hailed, Tom, I was, by my grandmother Jane, and my aunt Bridget, d’ye see—a couple of d—n’d—but they’re roasting; that’s one comfort, my lad.”
When he had thus disburdened his conscience, Sir Launcelot introduced the subject of the new occupation at which he aspired. “I understand,” said he, “that you are desirous of treading the paths of errantry, which, I assure you, are thorny and troublesome. Nevertheless, as your purpose is to exercise your humanity and benevolence, so your ambition is commendable. But towards the practice of chivalry, there is something more required than the virtues of courage and generosity. A knight-errant ought to understand the sciences, to be master of ethics or morality, to be well versed in theology, a complete casuist, and minutely acquainted with the laws of his country. He should not only be patient of cold, hunger, and fatigue, righteous, just, and valiant, but also chaste, religious, temperate, polite, and conversable; and have all his passions under the rein, except love, whose empire he should submissively acknowledge.” He said, this was the very essence of chivalry; and no man had ever made such a profession of arms, without first having placed his affection upon some beauteous object, for whose honour, and at whose command, he would cheerfully encounter the most dreadful perils.
He took notice, that nothing could be more irregular than the manner in which Crowe had attempted to keep his vigil. For he had never served his novitiate—he had not prepared himself with abstinence and prayer—he had not provided a qualified godfather for the ceremony of dubbing—he had no armour of his own to wake; but, on the very threshold of chivalry, which is the perfection of justice, had unjustly purloined the arms of another knight. That this was a mere mockery of a religious institution, and therefore unpleasing in the sight of Heaven; witness the demons and hobgoblins that were permitted to disturb and torment him in his trial.
Crowe having listened to these remarks with earnest attention, replied, after some hesitation, “I am bound to you, brother, for your kind and Christian counsel—I doubt as how I’ve steered by a wrong chart, d’ye see—as for the matter of the sciences, to be sure, I know Plain Sailing and Mercator; and am an indifferent good seaman, thof I say it that should not say it. But as to all the rest, no better than the viol-block or the geer-capstan. Religion I han’t much overhauled; and we tars laugh at your polite conversation, thof, mayhap, we can chaunt a few ballads to keep the hands awake in the night watch; then for chastity, brother, I doubt that’s not expected in a sailor just come ashore, after a long voyage—sure all those poor hearts won’t be d—ned for steering in the wake of nature. As for a sweetheart, Bet Mizen of St. Catherine’s would fit me to a hair—she and I are old messmates; and what signifies talking, brother, she knows already the trim of my vessel, d’ye see.” He concluded with saying, he thought he wa’n’t too old to learn; and if Sir Launcelot would take him in tow as his tender, he would stand by him all weathers, and it should not cost his consort a farthing’s expense.
The knight said, he did not think himself of consequence enough to have such a pupil, but should always be ready to give him his best advice; as a specimen of which, he exhorted him to weigh all the circumstances, and deliberate calmly and leisurely, before he actually engaged in such a boisterous profession; assuring him, that if, at the end of three months, his resolution should continue, he would take upon himself the office of his instructor. In the meantime he gratified the hostess for his lodging, put on his armour, took leave of the company, and, mounting Bronzomarte, proceeded southerly, being attended by his squire Crabshaw, grumbling, on the back of Gilbert.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHICH IS WITHIN A HAIR’S-BREADTH OF PROVING HIGHLY INTERESTINGLeaving Captain Crowe and his nephew for the present, though they, and even the misanthrope, will reappear in due season, we are now obliged to attend the progress of the knight, who proceeded in a southerly direction, insensible of the storm that blew, as well as of the darkness, which was horrible. For some time, Crabshaw ejaculated curses in silence; till at length his anger gave way to his fear, which waxed so strong upon him, that he could no longer resist the desire of alleviating it, by entering into a conversation with his master. By way of introduction, he gave Gilbert the spur, directing him towards the flank of Bronzomarte, which he encountered with such a shock, that the knight was almost dismounted.
When Sir Launcelot, with some warmth, asked the reason of this attack, the squire replied in these words: “The devil, God bless us! mun be playing his pranks with Gilbert too, as sure as I’m a living soul—I’se wager a teaster, the foul fiend has left the seaman, and got into Gilbert, that he has—when a has passed through an ass and a horse, I’se marvel what beast a will get into next.” “Probably into a mule,” said the knight; “in that case, you will be in some danger—but I can, at any time, dispossess you with a horse-whip.”—“Ay, ay,” answered Timothy, “your honour has a mortal good hand at giving a flap with a fox’s tail, as the saying is—‘t is a wonderment you did not try your hand on that there wiseacre that stole your honour’s harness, and wants to be an arrant with a murrain to ‘un. Lord help his fool’s head, it becomes him as a sow doth a cart saddle.” “There is no guilt in infirmity,” said the knight; “I punish the vicious only.” “I would your honour would punish Gilbert then,” cried the squire, “for ‘t is the most vicious tuoad that ever I laid a leg over—but as to that same seafaring man, what may his distemper be?”
“Madness,” answered Sir Launcelot. “Bodikins,” exclaimed the squire, “I doubt as how other volks are leame of the same leg—but it an’t vor such small gentry as he to be mad; they mun leave that to their betters.” “You seem to hint at me, Crabshaw. Do you really think I am mad?” “I may say as how I have looked your honour in the mouth; and a sorry dog should I be, if I did not know your humours as well as I know e’er a beast in the steable at Greavesbury Hall.” “Since you are so well acquainted with my madness,” said the knight, “what opinion have you of yourself, who serve and follow a lunatic?” “I hope I han’t served your honour for nothing, but I shall inherit some of your cast vagaries—when your honour is pleased to be mad, I should be very sorry to be found right in my senses. Timothy Crabshaw will never eat the bread of unthankfulness—it shall never be said of him, that he was wiser than his measter. As for the matter of following a madman, we may see your honour’s face is made of a fiddle; every one that looks on you, loves you.” This compliment the knight returned, by saying, “If my face is a fiddle, Crabshaw, your tongue is a fiddlestick that plays upon it—yet your music is very disagreeable—you don’t keep time.” “Nor you neither, measter,” cried Timothy, “or we shouldn’t be here wandering about under a cloud of night, like sheep-stealers, or evil spirits with troubled consciences.”
Here the discourse was interrupted by a sudden disaster; in consequence of which, the squire uttered an inarticulate roar, that startled the knight himself, who was very little subject to the sensation of fear. But his surprise was changed into vexation, when he perceived Gilbert without a rider passing by, and kicking his heels with great agility. He forthwith turned his steed, and riding back a few paces, found Crabshaw rising from the ground. When he asked what was become of his horse, he answered in a whimpering tone, “Horse! would I could once see him fairly carrion for the hounds—for my part, I believe as how ‘t is no horse, but a devil incarnate; and yet I’ve been worse mounted, that I have—I’d like to have rid a horse that was foaled of an acorn.”
This accident happened in a hollow way, overshadowed with trees, one of which the storm had blown down, so that it lay over the road, and one of its boughs projecting horizontally, encountered the squire as he trotted along in the dark. Chancing to hitch under his long chin, he could not disengage himself, but hung suspended like a flitch of bacon; while Gilbert, pushing forward, left him dangling, and, by his awkward gambols, seemed to be pleased with the joke. This capricious animal was not retaken, without the personal endeavours of the knight; for Crabshaw absolutely refusing to budge a foot from his honour’s side, he was obliged to alight, and fasten Bronzomarte to a tree. Then they set out together, and, with some difficulty, found Gilbert with his neck stretched over a five-barred gate, snuffing up the morning air. The squire, however, was not remounted, without first having undergone a severe reprehension from his master, who upbraided him with his cowardice, threatened to chastise him on the spot, and declared that he would divorce his dastardly soul from his body, should he ever be incommoded or affronted with another instance of his baseborn apprehension.
Though there was some risk in carrying on the altercation at this juncture, Timothy, having bound up his jaws, could not withstand the inclination he had to confute his master. He therefore, in a muttering accent, protested, that, if the knight would give him leave, he should prove that his honour had tied a knot with his tongue, which he could not untie with all his teeth. “How, caitiff!” cried Sir Launcelot, “presume to contend with me in argument?” “Your mouth is scarce shut,” said the other, “since you declared that a man was not to be punished for madness, because it was a distemper. Now I will maintain that cowardice is a distemper, as well as madness; for nobody would be afraid, if he could help it.” “There is more logic in that remark,” resumed the knight, “than I expected from your clod-pate, Crabshaw. But I must explain the difference between cowardice and madness. Cowardice, though sometimes the effect of natural imbecility, is generally a prejudice of education, or bad habit contracted from misinformation, or misapprehension; and may certainly be cured by experience, and the exercise of reason. But this remedy cannot be applied in madness, which is a privation or disorder of reason itself.”
“So is cowardice, as I’m a living soul,” exclaimed the squire; “don’t you say a man is frightened out of his senses? for my peart, measter, I can neither see nor hear, much less argufy, when I’m in such a quandary. Wherefore, I do believe, odds bodikins! that cowardice and madness are both distempers, and differ no more than the hot and cold fits of an ague. When it teakes your honour, you’re all heat, and fire, and fury, Lord bless us! but when it catches poor Tim, he’s cold and dead-hearted, he sheakes and shivers like an aspen leaf, that he does.” “In that case,” answered the knight, “I shall not punish you for the distemper which you cannot help, but for engaging in a service exposed to perils, when you knew your own infirmity; in the same manner as a man deserves punishment, who enlists himself for a soldier, while he labours under any secret disease.” “At that rate,” said the squire, “my bread is like to be rarely buttered o’ both sides, i’faith. But, I hope, as by the blessing of God I have run mad, so I shall in good time grow valiant, under your honour’s precept and example.”
By this time a very disagreeable night was succeeded by a fair bright morning, and a market-town appeared at the distance of three or four miles, when Crabshaw, having no longer the fear of hobgoblins before his eyes, and being moreover cheered by the sight of a place where he hoped to meet with comfortable entertainment, began to talk big, to expatiate on the folly of being afraid, and finally set all danger at defiance; when all of a sudden he was presented with an opportunity of putting in practice those new-adopted maxims. In an opening between two lanes, they perceived a gentleman’s coach stopped by two highwaymen on horseback, one of whom advanced to reconnoitre and keep the coast clear, while the other exacted contribution from the travellers in the coach. He who acted as sentinel, no sooner saw our adventurer appearing from the lane, than he rode up with a pistol in his hand, and ordered him to halt on pain of immediate death.
To this peremptory mandate the knight made no other reply than charging him with such impetuosity, that he was unhorsed in a twinkling, and lay sprawling on the ground, seemingly sore bruised with his fall. Sir Launcelot, commanding Timothy to alight and secure the prisoner, couched his lance, and rode full speed at the other highwayman, who was not a little disturbed at sight of such an apparition. Nevertheless, he fired his pistol without effect; and, clapping spurs to his horse, fled away at full gallop. The knight pursued him with all the speed that Bronzomarte could exert; but the robber, being mounted on a swift hunter, kept him at a distance; and, after a chase of several miles, escaped through a wood so entangled with coppice, that Sir Launcelot thought proper to desist. He then, for the first time, recollected the situation in which he had left the other thief, and, remembering to have heard a female shriek, as he passed by the coach window, resolved to return with all expedition, that he might make a proffer of his service to the lady, according to the obligation of knight-errantry. But he had lost his way; and after an hour’s ride, during which he traversed many a field, and circled divers hedges, he found himself in the market-town aforementioned. Here the first object that presented itself to his eyes was Crabshaw, on foot, surrounded by a mob, tearing his hair, stamping with his feet, and roaring out in manifest distraction, “Show me the mayor! for the love of God, show me the mayor!—O Gilbert, Gilbert! a murrain take thee, Gilbert! sure thou wast foaled for my destruction!”
From these exclamations, and the antique dress of the squire, the people, not without reason, concluded that the poor soul had lost his wits; and the beadle was just going to secure him, when the knight interposed, and at once attracted the whole attention of the populace. Timothy seeing his master fell down on his knees, crying, “The thief has run away with Gilbert—you may pound me into a peast, as the saying is. But now I’se as mad as your worship, I an’t afeard of the divil and all his works.” Sir Launcelot desiring the beadle would forbear, was instantly obeyed by that officer, who had no inclination to put the authority of his place in competition with the power of such a figure, armed at all points, mounted on a fiery steed, and ready for the combat. He ordered Crabshaw to attend him to the next inn, where he alighted; then, taking him into a separate apartment, demanded an explanation of the unconnected words he had uttered.
The squire was in such agitation, that, with infinite difficulty, and by dint of a thousand different questions, his master learned the adventure to this effect. Crabshaw, according to Sir Launcelot’s command, had alighted from his horse, and drawn his cutlass, in hope of intimidating the discomfited robber into a tame surrender, though he did not at all relish the nature of the service. But the thief was neither so much hurt nor so tame as Timothy had imagined. He started on his feet with his pistol still in his hand; and presenting it to the squire, swore with dreadful imprecations, that he would blow his brains out in an instant. Crabshaw, unwilling to hazard the trial of this experiment, turned his back, and fled with great precipitation; while the robber, whose horse had run away, mounted Gilbert, and rode off across the country. It was at this period, that two footmen, belonging to the coach, who had stayed behind to take their morning’s whet at the inn where they lodged, came up to the assistance of the ladies, armed with blunderbusses; and the carriage proceeded, leaving Timothy alone in distraction and despair. He knew not which way to turn, and was afraid of remaining on the spot, lest the robbers should come back and revenge themselves upon him for the disappointment they had undergone. In this distress, the first thought that occurred was to make the best of his way to the town, and demand the assistance of the civil magistrate towards the retrieval of what he had lost; a design which he executed in such a manner, as justly entailed upon him the imputation of lunacy.
While Timothy stood fronting the window, and answering the interrogations of his master, he suddenly exclaimed, “Bodikins! there’s Gilbert!” and sprung into the street with incredible agility. There finding his strayed companion brought back by one of the footmen who attended the coach, he imprinted a kiss on his forehead; and, hanging about his neck, with the tears in his eyes, hailed his return with the following salutation: “Art thou come back, my darling? ah, Gilbert, Gilbert! a pize upon thee! thou hadst like to have been a dear Gilbert to me! how couldst thou break the heart of thy old friend, who has known thee from a colt? seven years next grass have I fed thee and bred thee; provided thee with sweet hay, delicate corn, and fresh litter, that thou mought lie warm, dry, and comfortable. Han’t I currycombed thy carcass till it was as sleek as a sloe, and cherished thee as the apple of mine eye? for all that thou hast played me an hundred dog’s tricks; biting, and kicking, and plunging, as if the devil was in thy body; and now thou couldst run away with a thief, and leave me to be flayed alive by measter. What canst thou say for thyself, thou cruel, hard-hearted, unchristian tuoad?” To this tender expostulation, which afforded much entertainment to the boys, Gilbert answered not one word; but seemed altogether insensible to the caresses of Timothy, who forthwith led him into the stable. On the whole, he seems to have been an unsocial animal; for it does not appear that he ever contracted any degree of intimacy, even with Bronzomarte, during the whole course of their acquaintance and fellowship. On the contrary, he has been more than once known to signify his aversion, by throwing out behind, and other eruptive marks of contempt for that elegant charger, who excelled him as much in personal merit, as his rider Timothy was outshone by his all-accomplished master.