SNUG.Have you the lion's part written?pray,if it be,give it me,for I am slow of study.
QUINCE.You may do it extempore,for it is nothing but roaring.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.
When the Countess of Leicester arrived at the outer gate of the Castle of Kenilworth,she found the tower,beneath which its ample portal arch opened,guarded in a singular manner.Upon the battlements were placed gigantic warders,with clubs,battle-axes,and other implements of ancient warfare,designed to represent the soldiers of King Arthur;those primitive Britons,by whom,according to romantic tradition,the Castle had been first tenanted,though history carried back its antiquity only to the times of the Heptarchy.
Some of these tremendous figures were real men,dressed up with vizards and buskins;others were mere pageants composed of pasteboard and buckram,which,viewed from beneath,and mingled with those that were real,formed a sufficiently striking representation of what was intended.But the gigantic porter who waited at the gate beneath,and actually discharged the duties of warder,owed none of his terrors to fictitious means.We was a man whose huge stature,thews,sinews,and bulk in proportion,would have enabled him to enact Colbrand,Ascapart,or any other giant of romance,without raising himself nearer to heaven even by the altitude of a chopin.The legs and knees of this son of Anak were bare,as were his arms from a span below the shoulder;but his feet were defended with sandals,fastened with cross straps of scarlet leather studded with brazen knobs.A close jerkin of scarlet velvet looped with gold,with short breeches of the same,covered his body and a part of his limbs;and he wore on his shoulders,instead of a cloak,the skin of a black bear.
The head of this formidable person was uncovered,except by his shaggy,black hair,which descended on either side around features of that huge,lumpish,and heavy cast which are often annexed to men of very uncommon size,and which,notwithstanding some distinguished exceptions,have created a general prejudice against giants,as being a dull and sullen kind of persons.This tremendous warder was appropriately armed with a heavy club spiked with steel.In fine,he represented excellently one of those giants of popular romance,who figure in every fairy tale or legend of knight-errantry.
The demeanour of this modern Titan,when Wayland Smith bent his attention to him,had in it something arguing much mental embarrassment and vexation;for sometimes he sat down for an instant on a massive stone bench,which seemed placed for his accommodation beside the gateway,and then ever and anon he started up,scratching his huge head,and striding to and fro on his post,like one under a fit of impatience and anxiety.It was while the porter was pacing before the gate in this agitated manner,that Wayland,modestly,yet as a matter of course (not,however,without some mental misgiving),was about to pass him,and enter the portal arch.The porter,however,stopped his progress,bidding him,in a thundering voice,Stand back!and enforcing his injunction by heaving up his steel-shod mace,and dashing it on the ground before Wayland's horse's nose with such vehemence that the pavement flashed fire,and the archway rang to the clamour.Wayland,availing himself of Dickie's hints,began to state that he belonged to a band of performers to which his presence was indispensable,that he had been accidentally detained behind,and much to the same purpose.But the warder was inexorable,and kept muttering and murmuring something betwixt his teeth,which Wayland could make little of;and addressing betwixt whiles a refusal of admittance,couched in language which was but too intelligible.A specimen of his speech might run thus:--What,how now,my masters?(to himself)--Here's a stir--here's a coil.--(Then to Wayland)--You are a loitering knave,and shall have no entrance.--(Again to himself)--Here's a throng--here's a thrusting.--I shall ne'er get through with it--Here's a--humph--ha.--(To Wayland)--Back from the gate,or I'll break the pate of thee.--(Once more to himself)--Here's a--no--I shall never get through it.Stand still,whispered Flibbertigibbet into Wayland's ear,Iknow where the shoe pinches,and will tame him in an instant.He dropped down from the horse,and skipping up to the porter,plucked him by the tail of the bearskin,so as to induce him to decline his huge head,and whispered something in his ear.Not at the command of the lord of some Eastern talisman did ever Afrite change his horrid frown into a look of smooth submission more suddenly than the gigantic porter of Kenilworth relaxed the terrors of his looks at the instant Flibbertigibbet's whisper reached his ears.He flung his club upon the ground,and caught up Dickie Sludge,raising him to such a distance from the earth as might have proved perilous had he chanced to let him slip.