The mistletoe of the oak was gathered by the Druids with great ceremonies, as a symbol of the season. The mistletoe continued to be so gathered, and to be suspended in halls and kitchens, if not in temples, implying an unlimited privilege of kissing; which circumstance, probably, led a learned antiquary to opine that it was the forbidden fruit.
The Druids, at this festival, made, in a capacious cauldron, a mystical brewage of carefully-selected ingredients, full of occult virtues, which they kept from the profane, and which was typical of the new year and of the transmigration of the soul. The profane, in humble imitation, brewed a bowl of spiced ale, or wine, throwing therein roasted crabs; the hissing of which, as they plunged, piping hot, into the liquor, was heard with much unction at midwinter, as typical of the conjunct benignant influences of fire and strong drink. The Saxons called this the Wassail-bowl, and the brewage of it is reported to have been one of the charms with which Rowena fascinated Vortigern.
King Arthur kept his Christmas so merrily, that the memory of it passed into a proverb: “As merry as Christmas in Caer Lleon.”
Caer Lleon was the merriest of places, and was commonly known by the name of Merry Caer Lleon; which the English ballad-makers, for the sake of the smoother sound, and confounding Cambria with Cumbria, most ignorantly or audaciously turned into Merry Carlisle; thereby emboldening a northern antiquary to set about proving that King Arthur was a Scotchman; according to the old principles of harry and foray, which gave Scotchmen a right to whatever they could find on the English border; though the English never admitted their title to any thing there, excepting a halter in Carlisle.
The chace, in the neighbouring forest; tilting in the amphitheatre; trials of skill of archery, in throwing the lance and riding at the quintain, and similar amusements of the morning, created good appetites for the evening feasts; in which Prince Cei, who is well known as Sir Kay, the seneschal, superintended the viands, as King Bedwyr did the liquor; having each a thousand men at command, for their provision, arrangement, and distribution; and music worthy of the banquet was provided and superintended by the king’s chief harper, Geraint, of whom a contemporary poet observes, that when he died, the gates of heaven were thrown wide open, to welcome the ingress of so divine a musician.
CHAPTER XIII
THE GHOSTLINESS OF AVALLON
POCO PIU POCO meno, tutti al mondo vivono d’impostura: e chi e di buon gusto, dissimula quando occorre, gode quando puo, crede quel che vuole, ride de’ pazzi. e figura un mondo a suo gusto. — GOLDONI.
“WHERE is the young bard,” said Arthur, after some nights of Christmas had passed by, “who brought me the news of my queen, and to whom I promised a boon, which he has not yet claimed?”
None could satisfy the king’s curiousity. Taliesin had disappeared from Caer Lleon. He knew the power and influence of Maelgon Gwyneth; and he was aware that King Arthur, however favorably he might receive his petition, would not find leisure to compel the liberation of Elphin, till he had enforced from Melvas the surrender of his queen. It occurred to him that her restoration might be effected by peaceable means; and he knew that, if he could be in any degree instrumental to this result, it would greatly strengthen his claims on the king. He engaged a small fishing-vessel, which had just landed a cargo for the Christmas feasts of Caer Lleon, and set sail for the isle of Avallon. At that period, the springtides of the sea rolled round a cluster of islands, of which Avallon was one, over the extensive fens, which wiser generations have embanked and reclaimed.
The abbey of Avallon, afterwards called Glastonbury, was, even then, a comely and commodious pile, though not possessing any of that magnificence which the accumulated wealth of ages subsequently gave to it. A large and strongly fortified castle, almost adjoining the abbey, gave the entire place the air of a strong hold of the church militant. King Melvas was one of the pillars of the orthodoxy of those days: he was called the Scrouge of the Pelagians; and extended the shield of his temporal might over the spiritual brotherhood of Avallon, who, in return, made it a point of conscience not to stint him in absolutions.
Some historians pretend that a comfortable nunnery was erected at a convenient distance from the abbey, that is to say, close to it; but this involves a nice question in monastic antiquity, which the curious may settle for themselves.
It was about midway between nones and vespers when Taliesin sounded, on the gate of the abbey, a notice of his wish for admission. A small trap-door in the gate was cautiously opened, and a face, as round and as red as the setting sun in November, shone forth in the aperture.
The topographers who have perplexed themselves about the origin of the name Ynys Avallon, “the island of apples,” had not the advantage of this piece of meteoroscopy: if they could have looked on this archetype of a Norfolk beefin, with the knowledge that it was only a sample of a numerous fraternity, they would at once have perceived the fitness of the appellation. The brethren of Avallon were the apples of the church. It was the oldest monastic establishment in Britain; and consequently, as of reason, the most plump, succulent, and rosy. It had, even in the sixth century, put forth the fruits of good living, in a manner that would have done honour to a more enlightened age. It went on steadily improving in this line till the days of its last abbot, Richard Whiting, who built the stupendous kitchen, which has withstood the ravages of time and the Reformation; and who, as appears by authentic documents, and, amongst others, by a letter signed with the honoured name of Russell, was found guilty, by a right worshipful jury, of being suspected of great riches, and of an inclination to keep them; and was accordingly sentenced to be hanged forthwith, along with his treasurer and subtreasurer, who were charged with aiding and abetting him in the safe custody of his cash and plate; at the same time that the Abbot of Peterborough was specially reprieved from the gallows, on the ground that he was the said Russell’s particular friend. This was a compendium of justice and mercy according to the new light of King Henry the Eighth. The abbot’s kitchen is the most interesting and perfect portion of the existing ruins. These ruins were overgrown with the finest ivy in England, till it was, not long since, pulled down by some Vandal, whom the Society of Antiquaries had sent down to make drawings of the walls, which he executed literally, by stripping them bare, that he might draw the walls, and nothing else. Its shade no longer waves over the musing moralist, who, with folded arms, and his back against a wall, dreams of the days that are gone; or the sentimental cockney, who, seating himself with much gravity on a fallen column, produces a flute from his pocket, and strikes up “I’d be a butterfly.”
From the phænomenon of a blushing fruit that was put forth in the abbey gate of Avallon issued a deep, fat, gurgling voice, which demanded of Taliesin his name and business.
“I seek the abbot of Avallon,” said Taliesin.
“He is confessing a penitent,” said the ghostly brother, who was officiating in turn as porter.
“I can await his leisure,” said Taliesin, “but I must see him.”
“Are you alone?” said the brother.
“I am,” said Taliesin.
The gate unclosed slowly, just wide enough to give him admittance. It was then again barred and barricadoed.
The ghostly brother, of whom Taliesin had now a full view, had a figure corresponding with his face, and wanted nothing but a pair of horns and a beard in ringlets, to look like an avatar of Bacchus. He maintained, however, great gravity of face, and decorum of gesture, as he said to Taliesin, “Hospitality is the rule of our house; but we are obliged to be cautious in these times, though we live under powerful protection. Those bloody Nimrods, the Saxons, are athirst for the blood of the righteous. Monsters that are born with tails.”
Taliesin had not before heard of this feature of Saxon conformation, and expressed his astonishment accordingly.
“How?” said the monk. “Did not a rabble of them fasten goats” tails to the robe of the blessed preacher in Riw, and did he not, therefore, pray that their posterity might be
born with tails? And it is so. But let that pass. Have they not sacked monasteries, plundered churches, and put holy brethren to the sword? The blood of the saints calls for vengeance.”
“And will have it,” said Taliesin, “from the hand of Arthur.”
The name of Arthur evidently discomposed the monk, who, desiring Taliesin to follow him, led the way across the hall of the abbey, and along a short wide passage, at the end of which was a portly door.
The monk disappeared through this door, and, presently returning, said, “The abbot requires your name and quality.”
“Taliesin, the bard of Elphin ap Gwythno Garanhir,” was the reply.
The monk disappeared again, and, returning, after a longer pause than before, said, “You may enter.”
The abbot was a plump and comely man, of middle age, having three roses in his complexion; one in full blossom on each cheek, and one in bud on the tip of his nose.
He was sitting at a small table, on which stood an enormous vase, and a golden goblet; and opposite to him sat the penitent of whom the round-faced brother had spoken, and in whom Taliesin recognised his acquaintance of Dinas Vawr, who called himself Seithenyn ap Seithyn.
The abbot and Seithenyn sat with their arms folded on the table, leaning forward towards each other, as if in momentous discussion.
The abbot said to Taliesin, “Sit;” and to his conductor, “Retire, and be silent.”
“Will it not be better,” said the monk, “that I cross my lips with the sign of secrecy?”
“It is permitted,” said the abbot.
Seithenyn held forth the goblet to the monk, who swallowed the contents with much devotion. He then withdrew, and closed the door.
“I bid you most heartily welcome,” said Seithenyn to Taliesin. “Drink off this, and I will tell you more. You are admitted to this special sitting at my special instance. I told the abbot I knew you well. Now I will tell you what I know. You have told King Arthur that King Melvas has possession of Queen Gwenyvar, and, in consequence, King Arthur is coming here, to sack and raze the castle and abbey, and cut every throat in the isle of Avallon. I have just brought the abbot this pleasant intelligence, and, as I knew it would take him down a cup or two, I have also brought what I call my little jug, to have the benefit of his judgment on a piece of rare wine which I have broached this morning: there is no better in Caer Lleon. And now we are holding council on the emergency. But I must say you abuse your bardic privilege, to enjoy people’s hospitality, worm out of their secrets, and carry the news to the enemy. It was partly to give you this candid opinion, that I have prevailed on the abbot to admit you to this special sitting. Therefore drink. GWIN O EUR: Wine from gold.”
“King Arthur is not a Saxon, at any rate,” sighed the abbot, winding up his fainting spirits with a draught. “Think not, young stranger, that I am transgressing the laws of temperance: my blood runs so cold when I think of the blood-thirsty Saxons, that I take a little wine medicinally, in the hope of warming it; but it is a slow and tedious remedy.”
“Take a little more,” said Seithenyn. “That is the true quantity. Wine is my medicine; and my quantity is a little more. A little more.”
“King Arthur,” said Taliesin, “is not a Saxon; but he does not brook injuries lightly. It were better for your abbey that he came not here in arms. The aiders and abettors of Melvas, even though they be spiritual, may not carry off the matter without some share of his punishment, which is infallible.”
“That is just what I have been thinking,” said Seithenyn.
“God knows,” said the abbot, “we are not abettors of Melvas, though we need his temporal power to protect us from the Saxons.”
“How can it be otherwise,” said Taliesin, “than that these Saxon despoilers should be insolent and triumphant, while the princes of Britain are distracted with domestic broils: and for what?”
“Ay,” said Seithenyn, “that is the point. For what? For a woman, or some such rubbish.”
“Rubbish, most verily,” said the abbot. “Women are the flesh which we renounce with the devil.”
“Holy father,” said Taliesin, “have you not spiritual influence with Melvas, to persuade him to surrender the queen without bloodshed, and, renewing his allegiance to Arthur, assist him in his most sacred war against the Saxon invaders?”
“A righteous work,” said the abbot; “but Melvas is headstrong and difficult.”
“Screw yourself up with another goblet,” said Seithenyn; “you will find the difficulty smooth itself off wonderfully. Wine from gold has a sort of double light, that illuminates a dark path miraculously.”
The abbot sighed deeply, but adopted Seithenyn’s method of throwing light on the subject.
“The anger of King Arthur,” said Taliesin, “is certain, and its consequences infallible. The anger of King Melvas is doubtful, and its consequences to you cannot be formidable.”
“That is nearly true,” said the abbot, beginning to look resolute, as the rosebud at his nose-tip deepened into damask.
“A little more,” said Seithenyn, “and it will become quite true.”
By degrees the proposition ripened into absolute truth. The abbot suddenly inflated his cheeks, started on his legs, and stalked bolt upright out of the apartment, and forthwith out of the abbey, followed by Seithenyn, tossing his goblet in the air, and catching it in his hand, as he went.
The round-faced brother made his appearance almost immediately. “The abbot,” he said, “commends you to the hospitality of the brotherhood. They will presently assemble to supper. In the meanwhile, as I am thirsty, and content with whatever falls in my way, I will take a simple and single draught of what happens to be here.”
His draught was a model of simplicity and singleness; for, having uplifted the ponderous vase, he held it to his lips, till he had drained it of the very copious remnant which the abrupt departure of the abbot had caused Seithenyn to leave in it.
Taliesin proceeded to enjoy the hospitality of the brethren, who set before him a very comfortable hot supper, at which he quickly perceived, that, however dexterous King Elphin might be at catching fish, the monks of Avallon were very far his masters in the three great arts of cooking it, serving it up, and washing it down; but he had not time to profit by their skill and experience in these matters, for he received a pressing invitation to the castle of Melvas, which he obeyed immediately.
CHAPTER XIV
THE RIGHT OF MIGHT
THE THREE TRIUMPHS of the bards of the isle of Britain: the triumph of learning over ignorance; the triumph of reason over terror; and the triumph of peace over violence. — Triads of Bardism.
“FRIEND Seithenyn,” said the abbot, when having passed the castle gates, and solicited an audience, he was proceeding to the presence of Melvas, “this task, to which I have accinged myself, is arduous, and in some degree awful; being, in truth, no less than to persuade a king to surrender a possession, which he has inclination to keep for ever, at any rate, for an indefinite time.”
Not so very indefinite,” said Seithenyn; “for with the first song of the cuckoo (whom I mention on this occasion as a party concerned,) King Arthur will batter his castle about his ears, and, in all likelihood, the abbey about yours.”
The abbot sighed heavily.
“If your heart fail you,” said Seithenyn, “another cup of wine will set all to rights.”
“Nay, nay, friend Seithenyn,” said the abbot, “that which I have already taken has just brought me to the point at which the heart is inspirited, and the wit sharpened, without any infraction of the wisdom and gravity which become my character, and best suit my present business.”
Seithenyn, however, took an opportunity of making signs to some cupbearers, and, when they entered the apartment of Melvas, they were followed by vessels of wine and goblets of gold.
King Melvas was a man of middle age, with a somewhat round, large, regular-featured face, and an habitual smile of extreme self-satisfaction, which he could occas
ionally convert into a look of terrific ferocity, the more fearful for being rare. His manners were, for the most part, pleasant. He did much mischief, not for mischief’s sake, nor yet for the sake of excitement, but for the sake of something tangible. He had a total and most complacent indifference to every thing but his own will and pleasure. He took what he wanted wherever he could find it, by the most direct process, and without any false pretence. He would have disdained the trick which the chroniclers ascribe to Hengist, of begging as much land as a bull’s hide would surround, and then shaving it into threads, which surrounded a goodly space. If he wanted a piece of land, he encamped upon it, saying, “This is mine.” If the former possessor could eject him, so; it was not his: if not, so; it remained his. Cattle, wine, furniture, another man’s wife, whatever he took a fancy to, he pounced upon and appropriated. He was intolerant of resistance; and, as the shortest way of getting rid of it, and not from any blood-thirstiness of disposition, or, as the phrenologists have it, development of the organ of destructiveness, he always cut through the resisting body, longitudinally, horizontally, or diagonally, as he found most convenient. He was the arch-marauder of West Britain. The abbey of Avallon shared largely in the spoil, and they made up together a most harmonious church and state. He had some respect for King Arthur; wished him success against the Saxons; knew the superiority of his power to his own; but he had heard that Queen Gwenyvar was the most beautiful woman in Britain; was, therefore, satisfied of his own title to her, and, as she was hunting in the forest, while King Arthur was absent from Caer Lleon, he seized her, and carried her off.
Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock Page 62