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Updated: June 17, 2025
The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of facetiousness, as when "the laal limber Frenchman" was giving a "merry touch." Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he would, Mattha knew reet weel. "Sing!" cried the little man, "sing!
"Maybe ye'r like the rest on us: ye can make nowt on him, back ner edge." "Right now, great sage; the sun doesn't shine through him." "He's a great lounderan fellow," said one of the dalesmen, speaking into the pewter at his mouth. He was the blacksmith of Wythburn. "What do you say?" asked Monsey. "Nowt!" the man growled sulkily. "So ye said nowt?" inquired Matthew. "Nowt to you, or any of you."
"Ralph told him to do it; I heard him myself," said Monsey, from his place in the chimney-nook, where he sat bereft of his sportive spirit, yet quite oblivious of the important part which his own loquacity had unwittingly played in the direful tragedy. "But never bother now. Bring me more ale, mistress: quick now, my lass."
"Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, Father Matthew," said Monsey, "for you've put down more good ale than any man in Wythburn." Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time. In the midst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover his discomfiture, whispered, "He's gat a lad's heart, the laal man has."
He was a diminutive creature, with something infinitely amusing in his curious physical proportions. His head was large and well formed; his body was large and ill formed; his legs were short and shrunken. He was the schoolmaster of Wythburn, and his name Monsey Laman. The dalesmen found the little schoolmaster the merriest comrade that ever sat with them over a glass.
Ralph comes downstairs, and is hailed with welcomes on all hands. He is called upon for a song. Yes, he can sing. He always sang in the old days. He must sing now. "I'll sing you something I heard in Lancaster," he says. "What about the Lancashire witches?" "Who writ it little Monsey?" "No, but a bigger man than Monsey," said Ralph with a smile.
"'Blessing on your heart, says the proverb, 'you brew good ale. It's a Christian virtue, eh, Father?" said Monsey, addressing Matthew in the opposite corner. "Praise the ford as ye find it," said that sage; "I've found good yal maks good yarn. Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to be theirselves putten doon."
"I say, Monsieur the Gladiator, why didn't you kill when you were about it? I say, why didn't you kill?" and Monsey held his thumbs down, as he looked in Ralph's face. "Kill whom?" said Ralph. He could not help laughing at the schoolmaster's ludicrous figure and gesture. "Why, that Garth a bad garth a kirk-garth a kirk-warner's garth-a devil's garth Joe Garth?"
"I reckon I hev," said the weaver, with a look of self-satisfaction. "Did Ralph understand it?" asked Monsey. "Not he, schoolmaister. If he did, I could mak' nowt on him, for I asked him theer and then." "But ye knows yersel' what the warrant meant, don't ye?" said Reuben significantly.
With your help I may do both that is, seem to do both." "How? how? unfold I can interpret you no conundrums," said Monsey. "To go, and yet not to go, that is the question." "Can I help you?" said Robbie with the simplicity of earnestness. "Go back, schoolmaster, to the Lion." "I know it I've been there before well?"
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