Proceeding to the edge of the moat, they fished up Mr. Firedamp, who had missed his way back, and tumbled in. He was drawn out, exclaiming, “that he had taken his last dose of malaria in this world.”
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Tut, man; dry clothes, a turkey’s leg and rump, well devilled, and a quart of strong punch, will set all to rights.
“Wood embers,” said Mr. Firedamp, when he had been accommodated with a change of clothes, “there is no antidote to malaria like the smoke of wood embers; pine embers.” And he placed himself, with his mouth open, close by the fire.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Punch, sir, punch: there is no antidote like punch.
Mr. Chainmail.—Well, Doctor, you shall be indulged. But I shall have my wassail-bowl, nevertheless.
An immense bowl of spiced wine, with roasted apples hissing on its surface, was borne into the hall by four men, followed by an empty bowl of the same dimensions, with all the materials of arrack punch, for the divine’s especial brewage. He accinged himself to the task with his usual heroism, and having finished it to his entire satisfaction, reminded his host to order in the devil.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—I think, Mr. Chainmail, we can amuse ourselves very well here all night. The enemy may be still excubant: and we had better not disperse till daylight. I am perfectly satisfied with my quarters. Let the young folk go on with their gambols; let them dance to your old harper’s minstrelsy; and if they please to kiss under the mistletoe, whereof I espy a goodly bunch suspended at the end of the hall, let those who like it not leave it to those who do. Moreover, if among the more sedate portion of the assembly, which, I foresee, will keep me company, there were any to revive the good old custom of singing after supper, so to fill up the intervals of the dances, the steps of night would move more lightly.
Mr. Chainmail.—My Susan will set the example, after she has set that of joining in the rustic dance, according to good customs long departed.
After the first dance, in which all classes of the company mingled, the young lady of the mansion took her harp, and following the reverend gentleman’s suggestion, sang a song of the twelfth century.
FLORENCE AND BLANCHFLOR.
Florence and Blanchflor, loveliest maids,
Within a summer grove,
Amid the flower-enamelled shades
Together talked of love.A clerk sweet Blanchflor’s heart had gain’d;
Fair Florence loved a knight:
And each with ardent voice maintained
She loved the worthiest wight.Sweet Blanchflor praised her scholar dear,
As courteous, kind, and true!
Fair Florence said her chevalier
Could every foe subdue.And Florence scorned the bookworm vain,
Who sword nor spear could raise;
And Blanchflor scorned the unlettered brain
Could sing no lady’s praise.From dearest love, the maidens bright
To deadly hatred fell,
Each turned to shun the other’s sight,
And neither said farewell.The king of birds, who held his court
Within that flowery grove,
Sang loudly: “’Twill be rare disport
To judge this suit of love.”Before him came the maidens bright,
With all his birds around,
To judge the cause, if clerk or knight
In love be worthiest found.The falcon and the sparrow-hawk
Stood forward for the fight:
Ready to do, and not to talk,
They voted for the knight.And Blanchflor’s heart began to fail,
Till rose the strong-voiced lark,
And, after him, the nightingale,
And pleaded for the clerk.The nightingale prevailed at length,
Her pleading had such charms;
So eloquence can conquer strength,
And arts can conquer arms.The lovely Florence tore her hair,
And died upon the place;
And all the birds assembled there
Bewailed the mournful case.They piled up leaves and flowerets rare
Above the maiden bright,
And sang: “Farewell to Florence fair,
Who too well loved her knight.”