Sir Dinadan the Humorist

It seemed to me that this quaint lie was most simply and beautifully told; but then I had heard it only once, and that makes a difference; it was pleasant to the others when it was fresh, no doubt.

I thought this quaint lie was told simply and beautifully. But I had heard it only once, and that makes a difference. No doubt the others enjoyed it when it was new to them.

Sir Dinadan the Humorist was the first to awake, and he soon roused the rest with a practical joke of a sufficiently poor quality. He tied some metal mugs to a dog’s tail and turned him loose, and he tore around and around the place in a frenzy of fright, with all the other dogs bellowing after him and battering and crashing against everything that came in their way and making altogether a chaos of confusion and a most deafening din and turmoil; at which every man and woman of the multitude laughed till the tears flowed, and some fell out of their chairs and wallowed on the floor in ecstasy. It was just like so many children. Sir Dinadan was so proud of his exploit that he could not keep from telling over and over again, to weariness, how the immortal idea happened to occur to him; and as is the way with humorists of his breed, he was still laughing at it after everybody else had got through.

Sir Dinadan the Humorist was the first to wake up. He soon woke the rest with a rather poor practical joke. He tied some metal mugs to a dog’s tail and let him loose. The dog ran around and around the place in a frenzy of fear. All the other dogs barked furiously as they chased him, crashing into everything in their way. The result was complete chaos and a deafening racket. Every man and woman in the crowd laughed until tears flowed. Some fell out of their chairs and rolled on the floor in delight. They were just like children. Sir Dinadan was so proud of his feat that he kept telling everyone how the immortal idea had occurred to him. He repeated the story until it became tiresome. And, like other humorists of his kind, he was still laughing at the joke after everyone else had stopped.

He was so set up that he concluded to make a speech—of course a humorous speech. I think I never heard so many old played-out jokes strung together in my life. He was worse than the minstrels, worse than the clown in the circus. It seemed peculiarly sad to sit here, thirteen hundred years before I was born, and listen again to poor, flat, worm-eaten jokes that had given me the dry gripes when I was a boy thirteen hundred years afterwards. It about convinced me that there isn’t any such thing as a new joke possible. Everybody laughed at these antiquities—but then they always do; I had noticed that, centuries later. However, of course the scoffer didn’t laugh—I mean the boy. No, he scoffed; there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t scoff at. He said the most of Sir Dinadan’s jokes were rotten and the rest were petrified. I said “petrified” was good; as I believed, myself, that the only right way to classify the majestic ages of some of those jokes was by geologic periods. But that neat idea hit the boy in a blank place, for geology hadn’t been invented yet. However, I made a note of the remark, and calculated to educate the commonwealth up to it if I pulled through. It is no use to throw a good thing away merely because the market isn’t ripe yet.

He was so pleased with himself that he decided to make a speech. Of course, it was a humorous speech. I don’t think I had ever heard so many worn-out jokes strung together in my life. He was worse than the minstrels, worse than the clown in the circus. It seemed especially sad to sit here, thirteen hundred years before I was born, listening to those jokes again. They were poor, flat, and worm-eaten. They had given me a stomachache when I was a boy, thirteen hundred years later. It nearly convinced me that there could be no such thing as a new joke. Everybody laughed at these ancient jokes, but they always do. I had noticed that centuries later. Of course, the scoffer didn’t laugh. I mean the boy. No, he scoffed. There was nothing he wouldn’t scoff at. He said most of Sir Dinadan’s jokes were rotten and the rest were petrified. I said “petrified” was good. I thought the only proper way to classify the majestic ages of some of those jokes was by geological periods. But that clever idea went right over the boy’s head, because geology hadn’t been invented yet. Still, I made a note of the remark. If I pulled through, I planned to educate the commonwealth until it could appreciate the remark. There’s no point in throwing away a good thing just because the market isn’t ready for it yet.

Now Sir Kay arose and began to fire up on his history-mill with me for fuel. It was time for me to feel serious, and I did. Sir Kay told how he had encountered me in a far land of barbarians, who all wore the same ridiculous garb that I did—a garb that was a work of enchantment, and intended to make the wearer secure from hurt by human hands. However he had nullified the force of the enchantment by prayer, and had killed my thirteen knights in a three hours’ battle, and taken me prisoner, sparing my life in order that so strange a curiosity as I was might be exhibited to the wonder and admiration of the king and the court. He spoke of me all the time, in the blandest way, as “this prodigious giant,” and “this horrible sky-towering monster,” and “this tusked and taloned man-devouring ogre”, and everybody took in all this bosh in the naivest way, and never smiled or seemed to notice that there was any discrepancy between these watered statistics and me. He said that in trying to escape from him I sprang into the top of a tree two hundred cubits high at a single bound, but he dislodged me with a stone the size of a cow, which “all-to brast” the most of my bones, and then swore me to appear at Arthur’s court for sentence. He ended by condemning me to die at noon on the 21st; and was so little concerned about it that he stopped to yawn before he named the date.

Now Sir Kay stood up and started his storytelling mill, with me for fuel. It was time for me to get serious, and I did. Sir Kay told how he had met me in a distant land of barbarians. They all wore the same ridiculous outfit I did. He said the outfit was enchanted to protect its wearer from harm by human hands. But he had broken the enchantment through prayer. He had killed my thirteen knights in a three-hour battle and taken me prisoner. He had spared my life so that the king and court could gaze at such a strange curiosity with wonder and admiration. All the while, he spoke of me in the mildest way as “this enormous giant,” “this horrible monster towering into the sky,” and “this man-eating ogre with tusks and claws.” Everyone swallowed all this nonsense in the most innocent way. No one smiled or seemed to notice any difference between these inflated descriptions and me. He said I had tried to escape by leaping into the top of a tree two hundred cubits high in a single bound. But he had knocked me down with a stone the size of a cow, which had “smashed” most of my bones. Then he had made me swear to appear at Arthur’s court for sentencing. He ended by condemning me to die at noon on the 21st. He was so unconcerned about it that he stopped to yawn before naming the date.

I was in a dismal state by this time; indeed, I was hardly enough in my right mind to keep the run of a dispute that sprung up as to how I had better be killed, the possibility of the killing being doubted by some, because of the enchantment in my clothes. And yet it was nothing but an ordinary suit of fifteen-dollar slop-shops. Still, I was sane enough to notice this detail, to wit: many of the terms used in the most matter-of-fact way by this great assemblage of the first ladies and gentlemen in the land would have made a Comanche blush.

By this time, I was in a miserable state. In fact, I was hardly clearheaded enough to follow the argument over how best to kill me. Some doubted I could be killed because of the magic in my clothes. Yet they were just an ordinary cheap suit that cost fifteen dollars. Still, I was sane enough to notice one detail. Many of the words used so casually by this great gathering of the country's finest ladies and gentlemen would have made a Comanche blush.

Indelicacy is too mild a term to convey the idea. However, I had read “Tom Jones,” and “Roderick Random,” and other books of that kind, and knew that the highest and first ladies and gentlemen in England had remained little or no cleaner in their talk, and in the morals and conduct which such talk implies, clear up to a hundred years ago; in fact clear into our own nineteenth century—in which century, broadly speaking, the earliest samples of the real lady and real gentleman discoverable in English history—or in European history, for that matter—may be said to have made their appearance. Suppose Sir Walter, instead of putting the conversations into the mouths of his characters, had allowed the characters to speak for themselves? We should have had talk from Rebecca and Ivanhoe and the soft lady Rowena which would embarrass a tramp in our day. However, to the unconsciously indelicate all things are delicate. King Arthur’s people were not aware that they were indecent and I had presence of mind enough not to mention it.

“Indelicacy” is too mild a word for it. But I had read “Tom Jones,” “Roderick Random,” and other books like them. I knew that England’s highest-ranking ladies and gentlemen had talked little or no more cleanly until just a hundred years ago. Their morals and behavior, as their talk suggested, were little or no cleaner either. In fact, this continued well into our own nineteenth century. Broadly speaking, the first real ladies and gentlemen in English history appeared in this century. The same might be said of European history, for that matter. Suppose Sir Walter had let his characters speak for themselves instead of writing their conversations for them. Rebecca, Ivanhoe, and the gentle lady Rowena would have talked in ways that would embarrass a tramp today. But to people who are indecent without knowing it, everything is decent. King Arthur’s people did not know they were indecent, and I had enough presence of mind not to mention it.

They were so troubled about my enchanted clothes that they were mightily relieved, at last, when old Merlin swept the difficulty away for them with a common-sense hint. He asked them why they were so dull—why didn’t it occur to them to strip me. In half a minute I was as naked as a pair of tongs! And dear, dear, to think of it: I was the only embarrassed person there. Everybody discussed me; and did it as unconcernedly as if I had been a cabbage. Queen Guenever was as naively interested as the rest, and said she had never seen anybody with legs just like mine before. It was the only compliment I got—if it was a compliment.

They were so worried about my enchanted clothes that they were greatly relieved when old Merlin solved the problem with a common-sense suggestion. He asked why they were so slow. Why hadn’t they thought to strip me? In half a minute I was as naked as a pair of tongs! And, dear me, to think of it: I was the only embarrassed person there. Everyone discussed me as casually as if I had been a cabbage. Queen Guenever was as innocently interested as the rest. She said she had never seen anyone with legs quite like mine before. It was the only compliment I got, if it was a compliment.

Finally I was carried off in one direction, and my perilous clothes in another. I was shoved into a dark and narrow cell in a dungeon, with some scant remnants for dinner, some moldy straw for a bed, and no end of rats for company.

Finally, I was taken one way, and my dangerous clothes were taken another. I was shoved into a dark, narrow cell in a dungeon. I had a few scraps for dinner, some moldy straw for a bed, and endless rats for company.