When Sir Launcelot, with some warmth, asked the reason of this attack, the squire4 replied in these words: “The devil, God bless us! mun be playing his pranks6 with Gilbert too, as sure as I’m a living soul—I’se wager7 a teaster, the foul8 fiend has left the seaman9, and got into Gilbert, that he has—when a has passed through an ass10 and a horse, I’se marvel11 what beast a will get into next.” “Probably into a mule,” said the knight; “in that case, you will be in some danger—but I can, at any time, dispossess you with a horse-whip.”—“Ay, ay,” answered Timothy, “your honour has a mortal good hand at giving a flap with a fox’s tail, as the saying is—‘t is a wonderment you did not try your hand on that there wiseacre that stole your honour’s harness, and wants to be an arrant12 with a murrain to ‘un. Lord help his fool’s head, it becomes him as a sow doth a cart saddle.” “There is no guilt13 in infirmity,” said the knight; “I punish the vicious only.” “I would your honour would punish Gilbert then,” cried the squire, “for ‘t is the most vicious tuoad that ever I laid a leg over—but as to that same seafaring man, what may his distemper be?”
“Madness,” answered Sir Launcelot. “Bodikins,” exclaimed the squire, “I doubt as how other volks are leame of the same leg—but it an’t vor such small gentry14 as he to be mad; they mun leave that to their betters.” “You seem to hint at me, Crabshaw. Do you really think I am mad?” “I may say as how I have looked your honour in the mouth; and a sorry dog should I be, if I did not know your humours as well as I know e’er a beast in the steable at Greavesbury Hall.” “Since you are so well acquainted with my madness,” said the knight, “what opinion have you of yourself, who serve and follow a lunatic?” “I hope I han’t served your honour for nothing, but I shall inherit some of your cast vagaries—when your honour is pleased to be mad, I should be very sorry to be found right in my senses. Timothy Crabshaw will never eat the bread of unthankfulness—it shall never be said of him, that he was wiser than his measter. As for the matter of following a madman, we may see your honour’s face is made of a fiddle15; every one that looks on you, loves you.” This compliment the knight returned, by saying, “If my face is a fiddle, Crabshaw, your tongue is a fiddlestick that plays upon it—yet your music is very disagreeable—you don’t keep time.” “Nor you neither, measter,” cried Timothy, “or we shouldn’t be here wandering about under a cloud of night, like sheep-stealers, or evil spirits with troubled consciences.”
Here the discourse16 was interrupted by a sudden disaster; in consequence of which, the squire uttered an inarticulate roar, that startled the knight himself, who was very little subject to the sensation of fear. But his surprise was changed into vexation, when he perceived Gilbert without a rider passing by, and kicking his heels with great agility17. He forthwith turned his steed, and riding back a few paces, found Crabshaw rising from the ground. When he asked what was become of his horse, he answered in a whimpering tone, “Horse! would I could once see him fairly carrion18 for the hounds—for my part, I believe as how ‘t is no horse, but a devil incarnate19; and yet I’ve been worse mounted, that I have—I’d like to have rid a horse that was foaled of an acorn20.”
This accident happened in a hollow way, overshadowed with trees, one of which the storm had blown down, so that it lay over the road, and one of its boughs21 projecting horizontally, encountered the squire as he trotted22 along in the dark. Chancing to hitch23 under his long chin, he could not disengage himself, but hung suspended like a flitch of bacon; while Gilbert, pushing forward, left him dangling24, and, by his awkward gambols25, seemed to be pleased with the joke. This capricious animal was not retaken, without the personal endeavours of the knight; for Crabshaw absolutely refusing to budge26 a foot from his honour’s side, he was obliged to alight, and fasten Bronzomarte to a tree. Then they set out together, and, with some difficulty, found Gilbert with his neck stretched over a five-barred gate, snuffing up the morning air. The squire, however, was not remounted, without first having undergone a severe reprehension27 from his master, who upbraided28 him with his cowardice29, threatened to chastise30 him on the spot, and declared that he would divorce his dastardly soul from his body, should he ever be incommoded or affronted31 with another instance of his baseborn apprehension32.
Though there was some risk in carrying on the altercation33 at this juncture34, Timothy, having bound up his jaws35, could not withstand the inclination36 he had to confute his master. He therefore, in a muttering accent, protested, that, if the knight would give him leave, he should prove that his honour had tied a knot with his tongue, which he could not untie37 with all his teeth. “How, caitiff!” cried Sir Launcelot, “presume to contend with me in argument?” “Your mouth is scarce shut,” said the other, “since you declared that a man was not to be punished for madness, because it was a distemper. Now I will maintain that cowardice is a distemper, as well as madness; for nobody would be afraid, if he could help it.” “There is more logic38 in that remark,” resumed the knight, “than I expected from your clod-pate, Crabshaw. But I must explain the difference between cowardice and madness. Cowardice, though sometimes the effect of natural imbecility, is generally a prejudice of education, or bad habit contracted from misinformation, or misapprehension; and may certainly be cured by experience, and the exercise of reason. But this remedy cannot be applied39 in madness, which is a privation or disorder40 of reason itself.”
“So is cowardice, as I’m a living soul,” exclaimed the squire; “don’t you say a man is frightened out of his senses? for my peart, measter, I can neither see nor hear, much less argufy, when I’m in such a quandary41. Wherefore, I do believe, odds42 bodikins! that cowardice and madness are both distempers, and differ no more than the hot and cold fits of an ague. When it teakes your honour, you’re all heat, and fire, and fury, Lord bless us! but when it catches poor Tim, he’s cold and dead-hearted, he sheakes and shivers like an aspen leaf, that he does.” “In that case,” answered the knight, “I shall not punish you for the distemper which you cannot help, but for engaging in a service exposed to perils43, when you knew your own infirmity; in the same manner as a man deserves punishment, who enlists44 himself for a soldier, while he labours under any secret disease.” “At that rate,” said the squire, “my bread is like to be rarely buttered o’ both sides, i’faith. But, I hope, as by the blessing45 of God I have run mad, so I shall in good time grow valiant46, under your honour’s precept47 and example.”
By this time a very disagreeable night was succeeded by a fair bright morning, and a market-town appeared at the distance of three or four miles, when Crabshaw, having no longer the fear of hobgoblins before his eyes, and being moreover cheered by the sight of a place where he hoped to meet with comfortable entertainment, began to talk big, to expatiate48 on the folly49 of being afraid, and finally set all danger at defiance50; when all of a sudden he was presented with an opportunity of putting in practice those new-adopted
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