"If there be anything," said my uncle, "about the manners of our ancestors, it will be instructive."
"If there be anything," said my father, "about the villany of man in it, it must be true."
"There will be something about all these," replied the stranger, and he now related the story.
It was customary in the times to which I allude, said our garrulous acquaintance, for the owners of these old halls and castles to retain each a jester in his mansion, called by the common people a fool. According to custom Sir Allan Pennington had a jester, whose name was Thomas Skelton, but whose common appellation was Tom Fool of Muncaster. But I shall have occasion to mention him in the course of my story; as he performed a tragical part in it—rather too much so, to be enumerated among the drolleries of a common jester. I will, however, give you the tale as I have often heard the parson repeat it to an old maiden aunt of mine, with whom I was brought up; and who never heard it without a copious flow of tears.
The morning was most delightful (this was the parson's uniform way of introducing the story), when the level beams of the sun first gleamed on the smooth surface of Devoke Water, and informed the joyous villagers that it was the First of May. The wooden clogs were stripped from the feet of the blooming damsels, and the leathern shoes, which had been carefully preserved from the preceding year, and many of which had adorned the feet of their mothers and grandmothers, were taken out of the paper which enveloped them. The oil with which they had been rubbed twelve months before was polished by the warm hand to a fine gloss. Every garden was robbed of its bloom to form garlands and chaplets in order to beautify what could not be beautified; for what—the parson would say, looking languishingly at my aunt—could add beauty to a Cumberland maiden?
The Maypole was reared in a delightful meadow on the banks of Devoke Water; and the maidens blooming in beauty, and the youths bounding in health, repaired thither from the surrounding cottages. As the festive dance commenced, the soul of innocent gaiety began to expand. The festoons of flowers waving from the Maypole, and the garlands of the damsels, all gently agitated by a slight breeze, gave a gracefulness to the scene which no language can describe. It seemed as if the exhilarating breath of spring gave elasticity to the youthful limb, and a higher zest to the spirits, as the lively music gave emotion to the nimble feet of the light-footed dancers.
At the first pause in the dance every eye was attracted towards a most heavenly maiden, attired in the simple garb of a Cumberland shepherdess. She came tripping along the meadow in the full glow of her beauty, and, with a smile, joined the maiden circle. Every tongue was inquiring, "Wha is she?"—and every eye was eager to obtain a glance of her charms. Several of the most respectable shepherds offered to lead her to the dance, but she modestly refused. Among the rest Wild Will of Whitbeck, as he was generally called, urged her to favour him with her hand.
"I only came," said she, "to be a spectator of these innocent gaities; and, should I share in them, I should wish to procure a more modest partner."
"A modest partner!" exclaimed Will, "yan et darn't luik at ya: yan etle stand eating his thooms, and just whisperen la doon, 'will ya dance?' A poor feckless thing et darn't lait a sweetheart withoot its minny ga wi' it."
"You will please to leave me, shepherd," replied the maid, "and carry your raillery to other ears where it may be more agreeable."