INTRODUCTION TO IVANHOE.
The Author of the Waverley Novels had hitherto proceeded in an unabated course
of popularity, and might, in his peculiar district of literature, have been
termed L’Enfant Gâté of success. It was plain, however, that
frequent publication must finally wear out the public favour, unless some mode
could be devised to give an appearance of novelty to subsequent productions.
Scottish manners, Scottish dialect, and Scottish characters of note, being
those with which the author was most intimately, and familiarly acquainted,
were the groundwork upon which he had hitherto relied for giving effect to his
narrative. It was, however, obvious, that this kind of interest must in the end
occasion a degree of sameness and repetition, if exclusively resorted to, and
that the reader was likely at length to adopt the language of Edwin, in
Parnell’s Tale:
“‘Reverse the spell,’ he cries,
‘And let it fairly now suffice.
The gambol has been shown.’”
Nothing can be more dangerous for the fame of a professor of the fine arts,
than to permit (if he can possibly prevent it) the character of a mannerist to
be attached to him, or that he should be supposed capable of success only in a
particular and limited style. The public are, in general, very ready to adopt
the opinion, that he who has pleased them in one peculiar mode of composition,
is, by means of that very talent, rendered incapable of venturing upon other
subjects. The effect of this disinclination, on the part of the public, towards
the artificers of their pleasures, when they attempt to enlarge their means of
amusing, may be seen in the censures usually passed by vulgar criticism upon
actors or artists who venture to change the character of their efforts, that,
in so doing, they may enlarge the scale of their art.
There is some justice in this opinion, as there always is in such as attain
general currency. It may often happen on the stage, that an actor, by
possessing in a preeminent degree the external qualities necessary to give
effect to comedy, may be deprived of the right to aspire to tragic excellence;
and in painting or literary composition, an artist or poet may be master
exclusively of modes of thought, and powers of expression, which confine him to
a single course of subjects. But much more frequently the same capacity which
carries a man to popularity in one department will obtain for him success in
another, and that must be more particularly the case in literary composition,
than either in acting or painting, because the adventurer in that department is
not impeded in his exertions by any peculiarity of features, or conformation of
person, proper for particular parts, or, by any peculiar mechanical habits of
using the pencil, limited to a particular class of subjects.
Whether this reasoning be correct or otherwise, the present author felt, that,
in confining himself to subjects purely Scottish, he was not only likely to
weary out the indulgence of his readers, but also greatly to limit his own
power of affording them pleasure. In a highly polished country, where so much
genius is monthly employed in catering for public amusement, a fresh topic,
such as he had himself had the happiness to light upon, is the untasted spring
of the desert;—
“Men bless their stars and call it luxury.”
But when men and horses, cattle, camels, and dromedaries, have poached the
spring into mud, it becomes loathsome to those who at first drank of it with
rapture; and he who had the merit of discovering it, if he would preserve his
reputation with the tribe, must display his talent by a fresh discovery of
untasted fountains.
If the author, who finds himself limited to a particular class of subjects,
endeavours to sustain his reputation by striving to add a novelty of attraction
to themes of the same character which have been formerly successful under his
management, there are manifest reasons why, after a certain point, he is likely
to fail. If the mine be not wrought out, the strength and capacity of the miner
become necessarily exhausted. If he closely imitates the narratives which he
has before rendered successful, he is doomed to “wonder that they please
no more.” If he struggles to take a different view of the same class of
subjects, he speedily discovers that what is obvious, graceful, and natural,
has been exhausted; and, in order to obtain the indispensable charm of novelty,
he is forced upon caricature, and, to avoid being trite, must become
extravagant.
It is not, perhaps, necessary to enumerate so many reasons why the author of
the Scottish Novels, as they were then exclusively termed, should be desirous
to make an experiment on a subject purely English. It was his purpose, at the
same time, to have rendered the experiment as complete as possible, by bringing
the intended work before the public as the effort of a new candidate for their
favour, in order that no degree of prejudice, whether favourable or the
reverse, might attach to it, as a new production of the Author of Waverley; but
this intention was afterwards departed from, for reasons to be hereafter
mentioned.
The period of the narrative adopted was the reign of Richard I., not only as
abounding with characters whose very names were sure to attract general
attention, but as affording a striking contrast betwixt the Saxons, by whom the
soil was cultivated, and the Normans, who still reigned in it as conquerors,
reluctant to mix with the vanquished, or acknowledge themselves of the same
stock. The idea of this contrast was taken from the ingenious and unfortunate
Logan’s tragedy of Runnamede, in which, about the same period of history,
the author had seen the Saxon and Norman barons opposed to each other on
different sides of the stage. He does not recollect that there was any attempt
to contrast the two races in their habits and sentiments; and indeed it was
obvious, that history was violated by introducing the Saxons still existing as
a high-minded and martial race of nobles.
They did, however, survive as a people, and some of the ancient Saxon families
possessed wealth and power, although they were exceptions to the humble
condition of the race in general. It seemed to the author, that the existence
of the two races in the same country, the vanquished distinguished by their
plain, homely, blunt manners, and the free spirit infused by their ancient
institutions and laws; the victors, by the high spirit of military fame,
personal adventure, and whatever could distinguish them as the Flower of
Chivalry, might, intermixed with other characters belonging to the same time
and country, interest the reader by the contrast, if the author should not fail
on his part.
Scotland, however, had been of late used so exclusively as the scene of what is
called Historical Romance, that the preliminary letter of Mr Laurence Templeton
became in some measure necessary. To this, as to an Introduction, the reader is
referred, as expressing the author’s purpose and opinions in undertaking
this species of composition, under the necessary reservation, that he is far
from thinking he has attained the point at which he aimed.
It is scarcely necessary to add, that there was no idea or wish to pass off the
supposed Mr Templeton as a real person. But a kind of continuation of the Tales
of my Landlord had been recently attempted by a stranger, and it was supposed
this Dedicatory Epistle might pass for some imitation of the same kind, and
thus putting enquirers upon a false scent, induce them to believe they had
before them the work of some new candidate for their favour.
After a considerable part of the work had been finished and printed, the
Publishers, who pretended to discern in it a germ of popularity, remonstrated
strenuously against its appearing as an absolutely anonymous production, and
contended that it should have the advantage of being announced as by the Author
of Waverley. The author did not make any obstinate opposition, for he began to
be of opinion with Dr Wheeler, in Miss Edgeworth’s excellent tale of
“Maneuvering,” that “Trick upon Trick” might be too
much for the patience of an indulgent public, and might be reasonably
considered as trifling with their favour.
The book, therefore, appeared as an avowed continuation of the Waverley Novels;
and it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge, that it met with the same
favourable reception as its predecessors.
Such annotations as may be useful to assist the reader in comprehending the
characters of the Jew, the Templar, the Captain of the mercenaries, or Free
Companions, as they were called, and others proper to the period, are added,
but with a sparing hand, since sufficient information on these subjects is to
be found in general history.
An incident in the tale, which had the good fortune to find favour in the eyes
of many readers, is more directly borrowed from the stores of old romance. I
mean the meeting of the King with Friar Tuck at the cell of that buxom hermit.
The general tone of the story belongs to all ranks and all countries, which
emulate each other in describing the rambles of a disguised sovereign, who,
going in search of information or amusement, into the lower ranks of life,
meets with adventures diverting to the reader or hearer, from the contrast
betwixt the monarch’s outward appearance, and his real character. The
Eastern tale-teller has for his theme the disguised expeditions of Haroun
Alraschid with his faithful attendants, Mesrour and Giafar, through the
midnight streets of Bagdad; and Scottish tradition dwells upon the similar
exploits of James V., distinguished during such excursions by the travelling
name of the Goodman of Ballengeigh, as the Commander of the Faithful, when he
desired to be incognito, was known by that of Il Bondocani. The French
minstrels are not silent on so popular a theme. There must have been a Norman
original of the Scottish metrical romance of Rauf Colziar, in which Charlemagne
is introduced as the unknown guest of a charcoal-man. 2
It seems to have been the original of other poems of the kind.
In merry England there is no end of popular ballads on this theme. The poem of
John the Reeve, or Steward, mentioned by Bishop Percy, in the Reliques of
English Poetry, 3 is said to have turned on such an
incident; and we have besides, the King and the Tanner of Tamworth, the King
and the Miller of Mansfield, and others on the same topic. But the peculiar
tale of this nature to which the author of Ivanhoe has to acknowledge an
obligation, is more ancient by two centuries than any of these last mentioned.
It was first communicated to the public in that curious record of ancient
literature, which has been accumulated by the combined exertions of Sir Egerton
Brydges and Mr Hazlewood, in the periodical work entitled the British
Bibliographer. From thence it has been transferred by the Reverend Charles
Henry Hartshorne, M.A., editor of a very curious volume, entitled
“Ancient Metrical Tales, printed chiefly from original sources,
1829.” Mr Hartshorne gives no other authority for the present fragment,
except the article in the Bibliographer, where it is entitled the Kyng and the
Hermite. A short abstract of its contents will show its similarity to the
meeting of King Richard and Friar Tuck.
King Edward (we are not told which among the monarchs of that name, but, from
his temper and habits, we may suppose Edward IV.) sets forth with his court to
a gallant hunting-match in Sherwood Forest, in which, as is not unusual for
princes in romance, he falls in with a deer of extraordinary size and
swiftness, and pursues it closely, till he has outstripped his whole retinue,
tired out hounds and horse, and finds himself alone under the gloom of an
extensive forest, upon which night is descending. Under the apprehensions
natural to a situation so uncomfortable, the king recollects that he has heard
how poor men, when apprehensive of a bad nights lodging, pray to Saint Julian,
who, in the Romish calendar, stands Quarter-Master-General to all forlorn
travellers that render him due homage. Edward puts up his orisons accordingly,
and by the guidance, doubtless, of the good Saint, reaches a small path,
conducting him to a chapel in the forest, having a hermit’s cell in its
close vicinity. The King hears the reverend man, with a companion of his
solitude, telling his beads within, and meekly 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
other narratives turning on the same subject, where the host, apprehensive of
death for having trespassed on the respect due to his Sovereign, while
incognito, is agreeably surprised by receiving honours and reward.
In Mr Hartshorne’s collection, there is a romance on the same foundation,
called King Edward and the Shepherd,4
which, considered as illustrating manners, is still more curious than the King
and the Hermit; but it is foreign to the present purpose. The reader has here
the original legend from which the incident in the romance is derived; and the
identifying the irregular Eremite with the Friar Tuck of Robin Hood’s
story, was an obvious expedient.
The name of Ivanhoe was suggested by an old rhyme. All novelists have had
occasion at some time or other to wish with Falstaff, that they knew where a
commodity of good names was to be had. On such an occasion the author chanced
to call to memory a rhyme recording three names of the manors forfeited by the
ancestor of the celebrated Hampden, for striking the Black Prince a blow with
his racket, when they quarrelled at tennis:
“Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
For striking of a blow,
Hampden did forego,
And glad he could escape so.”
The word suited the author’s purpose in two material respects,—for,
first, it had an ancient English sound; and secondly, it conveyed no indication
whatever of the nature of the story. He presumes to hold this last quality to
be of no small importance. What is called a taking title, serves the direct
interest of the bookseller or publisher, who by this means sometimes sells an
edition while it is yet passing the press. But if the author permits an over
degree of attention to be drawn to his work ere it has appeared, he places
himself in the embarrassing condition of having excited a degree of expectation
which, if he proves unable to satisfy, is an error fatal to his literary
reputation. Besides, when we meet such a title as the Gunpowder Plot, or any
other connected with general history, each reader, before he has seen the book,
has formed to himself some particular idea of the sort of manner in which the
story is to be conducted, and the nature of the amusement which he is to derive
from it. In this he is probably disappointed, and in that case may be naturally
disposed to visit upon the author or the work, the unpleasant feelings thus
excited. In such a case the literary adventurer is censured, not for having
missed the mark at which he himself aimed, but for not having shot off his
shaft in a direction he never thought of.
On the footing of unreserved communication which the Author has established
with the reader, he may here add the trifling circumstance, that a roll of
Norman warriors, occurring in the Auchinleck Manuscript, gave him the
formidable name of Front-de-Bœuf.
Ivanhoe was highly successful upon its appearance, and may be said to have
procured for its author the freedom of the Rules, since he has ever since been
permitted to exercise his powers of fictitious composition in England, as well
as Scotland.
The character of the fair Jewess found so much favour in the eyes of some fair
readers, that the writer was censured, because, when arranging the fates of the
characters of the drama, he had not assigned the hand of Wilfred to Rebecca,
rather than the less interesting Rowena. But, not to mention that the
prejudices of the age rendered such an union almost impossible, the author may,
in passing, observe, that he thinks a character of a highly virtuous and lofty
stamp, is degraded rather than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue with
temporal prosperity. Such is not the recompense which Providence has deemed
worthy of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach
young persons, the most common readers of romance, that rectitude of conduct
and of principle are either naturally allied with, or adequately rewarded by,
the gratification of our passions, or attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a
virtuous and self-denied character is dismissed with temporal wealth,
greatness, rank, or the indulgence of such a rashly formed or ill assorted
passion as that of Rebecca for Ivanhoe, the reader will be apt to say, verily
Virtue has had its reward. But a glance on the great picture of life will show,
that the duties of self-denial, and the sacrifice of passion to principle, are
seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal consciousness of their
high-minded discharge of duty, produces on their own reflections a more
adequate recompense, in the form of that peace which the world cannot give or
take away.
Abbotsford, 1st September, 1830.
.jpg "Rob Roy — Complete by Walter Scott")
_-_Sir_Walter_Scott_(1771-1832)_-_RCIN_400644_-_Royal_Collection.jpg "Sir Walter Scott | Portrait by Thomas Lawrence, c. 1820s")
.jpg "The Lady of the Lake by Walter Scott")
