until after midnight, there was nothing but jigging
and singing, feasting and revelry, in the royal tents. Ivanhoe, who
was asked as a matter of ceremony, and forced to attend these
entertainments, not caring about the blandishments of any of the ladies
present, looked on at their ogling and dancing with a countenance as
glum as an undertaker's, and was a perfect wet-blanket in the midst
of the festivities. His favorite resort and conversation were with a
remarkably austere hermit, who lived in the neighborhood of Chalus, and
with whom Ivanhoe loved to talk about Palestine, and the Jews, and other
grave matters of import, better than to mingle in the gayest amusements
of the court of King Richard. Many a night, when the Queen and the
ladies were dancing quadrilles and polkas (in which his Majesty, who was
enormously stout as well as tall, insisted upon figuring, and in which
he was about as graceful as an elephant dancing a hornpipe), Ivanhoe
would steal away from the ball, and come and have a night's chat under
the moon with his reverend friend. It pained him to see a man of the
King's age and size dancing about with the young folks. They laughed
at his Majesty whilst they flattered him: the pages and maids of honor
mimicked the royal mountebank almost to his face; and, if Ivanhoe ever
could have laughed, he certainly would one night when the King, in
light-blue satin inexpressibles, with his hair in powder, chose to dance
the minuet de la cour with the little Queen Berangeria.

Then, after dancing, his Majesty must needs order a guitar, and begin to
sing. He was said to compose his own songs--words and music--but those
who have read Lord Campobello's "Lives of the Lord Chancellors" are
aware that there was a person by the name of Blondel, who, in fact, did
all the musical part of the King's performances; and as for the words,
when a king writes verses, we may be sure there will be plenty of people
to admire his poetry. His Majesty would sing you a ballad, of which
he had stolen every idea, to an air that was ringing on all the
barrel-organs of Christendom, and, turning round to his courtiers, would
say, "How do you like that? I dashed it off this morning." Or, "Blondel,
what do you think of this movement in B flat?" or what not; and the
courtiers and Blondel, you may be sure, would applaud with all their
might, like hypocrites as they were.

One evening--it was the evening of the 27th March, 1199, indeed--his
Majesty