Oh! this life
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a bribe
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk.--Cymbeline.
So Robin and Marian dwelt and reigned in the forest, ranging the glades
and the greenwoods from the matins of the lark to the vespers of the
nightingale, and administering natural justice according to Robin’s
ideas of rectifying the inequalities of human condition: raising
genial dews from the bags of the rich and idle, and returning them in
fertilising showers on the poor and industrious: an operation which more
enlightened statesmen have happily reversed, to the unspeakable benefit
of the community at large. The light footsteps of Marian were impressed
on the morning dew beside the firmer step of her lover, and they shook
its large drops about them as they cleared themselves a passage through
the thick tall fern, without any fear of catching cold, which was not
much in fashion in the twelfth century. Robin was as hospitable as
Cathmor; for seven men stood on seven paths to call the stranger to his
feast. It is true, he superadded the small improvement of making the
stranger pay for it: than which what could be more generous? For Cathmor
was himself the prime giver of his feast, whereas Robin was only
the agent to a series of strangers, who provided in turn for
the entertainment of their successors; which is carrying the
disinterestedness of hospitality to its acme. Marian often killed the
deer,
Which Scarlet dressed, and Friar Tuck blessed
While Little John wandered in search of a guest.
Robin was very devout, though there was great unity in his religion: it
was exclusively given to our Lady the Virgin, and he never set forth in
a morning till he had said three prayers, and had heard the sweet voice
of his Marian singing a hymn to their mutual patroness. Each of his men
had, as usual, a patron saint according to his name or taste. The
friar chose a saint for himself, and fixed on Saint Botolph, whom he
euphonised into Saint Bottle, and maintained that he was that very
Panomphic Pantagruelian saint, well known in ancient France as a female
divinity, by the name of La Dive Bouteille, whose oracular monosyllable
“Trincq,” is celebrated and under-stood by all nations, and is
expounded by the learned doctor Alcofribas, [6] who has treated at large
on the subject, to signify “drink.” Saint Bottle, then, was the saint of
Friar Tuck, who did not yield even to Robin and Marian in the assiduity
of his devotions to his chosen patron. Such was their summer life, and
in their winter caves they had sufficient furniture, ample provender,
store of old wine, and assuredly no lack of fuel, with joyous music and
pleasant discourse to charm away the season of darkness and storms.
The reader who desires to know more about this oracular divinity, may
consult the said doctor Alcofribas Nasier, who will usher him into the
adytum through the medium of the high priestess Bacbuc.
Many moons had waxed and waned, when on the afternoon of a lovely
summer day a lusty broad-boned knight was riding through the forest
of Sherwood. The sun shone brilliantly on the full green foliage, and
afforded the knight a fine opportunity of observing picturesque effects,
of which it is to be feared he did not avail himself. But he had not
proceeded far, before he had an opportunity of observing something
much more interesting, namely, a fine young outlaw leaning, in the true
Sherwood fashion, with his back against a tree. The knight was preparing
to ask the stranger a question, the answer to which, if correctly given,
would have relieved him from a doubt that pressed heavily on his mind,
as to whether he was in the right road or the wrong, when the youth
prevented the inquiry by saying: “In God’s name, sir knight, you are
late to your meals. My master has tarried dinner for you these three
hours.”
“I doubt,” said the knight, “I am not he you wot of. I am no where
bidden to day and I know none in this vicinage.”
“We feared,” said the youth, “your memory would be treacherous:
therefore am I stationed here to refresh it.”
“Who is your master?” said the knight; “and where does he abide?”
“My master,” said the youth, “is called Robin Hood, and he abides hard
by.”
“And what knows he of me?” said the knight.
“He knows you,” answered the youth “as he does every way-faring knight
and friar, by instinct.”
“Gramercy,” said the knight; “then I understand his bidding: but how if
I say I will not come?”
“I am enjoined to bring you,” said the youth. “If persuasion avail not,
I must use other argument.”
“Say’st thou so?” said the knight; “I doubt if thy stripling rhetoric
would convince me.”
“That,” said the young forester, “we will see.”
“We are not equally matched, boy,” said the knight. “I should get less
honour by thy conquest, than grief by thy injury.”
“Perhaps,” said the youth, “my strength is more than my seeming, and my
cunning more than my strength. Therefore let it please your knighthood
to dismount.”
“It shall please my knighthood to chastise thy presumption,” said the
knight, springing from his saddle.
Hereupon, which in those days was usually the result of a meeting
between any two persons anywhere, they proceeded to fight.
The knight had in an uncommon degree both strength and skill: the
forester had less strength, but not less skill than the knight, and
showed such a mastery of his weapon as reduced the latter to great
admiration.
They had not fought many minutes by the forest clock, the sun; and had
as yet done each other no worse injury than that the knight had wounded
the forester’s jerkin, and the forester had disabled the knight’s plume;
when they were interrupted by a voice from a thicket, exclaiming, “Well
fought, girl: well fought. Mass, that had nigh been a shrewd hit. Thou
owest him for that, lass. Marry, stand by, I’ll pay him for thee.”
The knight turning to the voice, beheld a tall friar issuing from the
thicket, brandishing a ponderous cudgel.
“Who art thou?” said the knight.
“I am the church militant of Sherwood,” answered the friar. “Why art
thou in arms against our lady queen?”
“What meanest thou?” said the knight.
“Truly, this,” said the friar, “is our liege lady of the forest, against
whom I do apprehend thee in overt act of treason. What sayest thou for
thyself?”
“I say,” answered the knight, “that if this be indeed a lady, man never
yet held me so long.”
“Spoken,” said the friar, “like one who hath done execution. Hast thou
thy stomach full of steel? Wilt thou diversify thy repast with a taste
of my oak-graff? Or wilt thou incline thine heart to our venison which
truly is cooling? Wilt thou fight? or wilt thou dine? or wilt thou fight
and dine? or wilt thou dine and fight? I am for thee, choose as thou
mayest.”
“I will dine,” said the knight; “for with lady I never fought before,
and with friar I never fought yet, and with neither will I ever fight
knowingly: and if this be the queen of the forest, I will not, being in
her own dominions, be backward to do her homage.”
So saying, he kissed the hand of Marian, who was pleased most graciously
to express her approbation.
“Gramercy, sir knight,” said the friar, “I laud thee for thy courtesy,
which I deem to be no less than thy valour. Now do thou follow me, while
I follow my nose, which scents the pleasant odour of roast from the
depth of the forest recesses. I will lead thy horse, and do thou lead my
lady.”
The knight took Marian’s hand, and followed the friar, who walked before
them, singing:
When the wind blows, when the wind blows
From where under buck the dry log glows,
What guide can you follow,
O’er brake and o’er hollow,
So true as a ghostly, ghostly nose?