Ivanhoe begins with a “Dedicatory Epistle,” a letter written by its ostensible writer, Lawrence Templeton, to his friend Dr. Jonas Dryasdust. In it, Templeton suggests an opposition between “romance” or fiction and “history,” hinting that serious readers and thinkers will prefer the latter. Yet, ultimately, Templeton and the book itself argue for an amalgam between the two, claiming that one can—and, indeed, should—look to the past to understand the present. Ivanhoe was composed at a moment of political and social upheaval in England; it is not accidental, therefore, that its medieval setting features political and social upheaval, too. By imagining its Saxon and Norman characters overcoming their differences and learning to live in harmony, the book hopefully suggests that the problems of its own day—and by extension, in the eras of all future readers down to the present day—can likewise be overcome.
In part, this faith in progress rests on the assertion that, no matter how distant in time, human beings are—and always have been, and always will be—human beings. Although habits, dress, and social customs differ across time and place, emotions like familial love, romantic love, the desire for respect, fear, anger, hatred, and more will remain the same. Even where Templeton intervenes to point out big differences between the past and the present—such as when witnesses present dubious evidence of Rebecca’s guilt on the charge of witchcraft—the actions of the characters in the story itself argue for greater continuity than division between past and present. The fact that Rebecca can see the racism and prejudice that animate the flimsy charges suggests the ability of any unprejudiced person, medieval or modern, to do the same—and indeed, Sir Brian also recognizes his peers’ “bigotry.” For this reason, the book supports Templeton’s assertion that a good historical romance uses its readers’ emotional involvement as a force for change and social progress. Ivanhoe’s unflinching portrayal of the antisemitism and violence Isaac and Rebecca face, for example, can make modern readers feel compassion for their fate; by extension, Ivanhoe claims, this compassion can be leveraged for progress in the modern world, too.
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History vs. Romance Quotes in Ivanhoe
What I have applied to language, is still more justly applicable to sentiments and manners. The passions, the sources from which these must spring in all their modifications, are generally the same in all ranks and conditions, all countries and ages; and it follows, as a matter of course, that the opinions, habits of thinking, and actions, however influenced by the particular state of society must still, upon the whole, bear a strong resemblance to each other. Our ancestors were not more distinct from us, surely, than Jews are from Christians; they had “eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;” were “fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer” as ourselves. The tenor, therefore, of their affections and feelings must have borne the same general proportion to our own.
“By St Dunstan,” answered Gurth, “thou speakest but sad truths; little is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved with much hesitation, clearly for the purpose of enabling us to endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and fattest is for their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant land with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God’s blessing on our master Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will avail him.”
Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling defenseless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armor of the combatants was now faced with dust and blood, and gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was beautiful and graceful in the marital array had disappeared, and what was now visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion.
Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the vulgar spectators, who are naturally attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with thrilling interest certainly, but without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible.
[I]t was the misfortune of this Prince, that his levity and petulance were perpetually breaking out, and undoing all that had been gained by his previous dissimulation.
Of this fickle temper he gave a memorable example in Ireland […]. Upon this occasion, the Irish chieftains contended which should first offer to the young Prince their loyal homage and the kiss of peace. But, instead of receiving their salutations with courtesy, John and his petulant attendants could not resist the temptation of pulling the long beards of the Irish chieftains, a conduct which, as might have been expected, was highly resented by these insulted dignitaries, and produced fatal consequences to the English domination of Ireland.
Cedric and Athelstane were both dressed in the ancient Saxon garb, which, although not unhandsome in itself […] was so remote in shape and appearance from that of the other guests, that Prince John took great credit to himself […] for refraining from laughter. […] Yet, in the eye of sober judgement, that short close tunic and long mantle of the Saxons was a more graceful, as well as a more convenient dress, than the garb of the Normans, whose under garment was a long doublet, so loose as to resemble a shirt or waggoner’s frock, covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions, neither fit to defend the wearer from cold or from rain, and the only purpose of which seemed to be to display as much fur, embroidery, and jewellery work, as the ingenuity of the tailor could contrive to lay upon it.
Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which the roof had partly fallen in. […] The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof had fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire. The entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low round arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding, resembling shark’s teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient Saxon churches. A belfry rose above the porch on four small pillars, within which hung the green and weather-beaten bell […].
The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before the eyes of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the night; since it was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in the woods to exercise hospitality toward benighted or bewildered passengers.
“It may be so […] but I cannot look on that stained lattice without its awakening other reflections than those which concern the passing moment, or its privations. When that window was wrought, my dear friend, our hardy fathers knew not the art of making glass, or of staining it—The pride of Wolfganger’s father brought an artist from Normandy to adorn his hall with this new species of emblazonment, that breaks the golden light of God’s blessed day into so many fantastic hues. The foreigner came here, poor, beggarly, cringing, and subservient, ready to doff his cap to the meanest native of the household. He returned pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious countrymen of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon noble—a folly, oh Athelstane, foreboded of old, as well as foreseen, by those descendants of Hengist and his hardy tribes who retained the simplicity of their manners.
Novelty in society and in adventure was the zest of life to Richard Coeur de Lion, and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless character, of a knight of romance, was in great measure realized; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination than that which a course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government. Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid meteor […]; his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his country on which history loves to pause […]. But in his present company Richard shewed to the greatest imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humored, liberal, and fond of manhood in every rank of life.
It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the whole vicinage had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or rural feast. But the evident desire to look on blood and death, is not peculiar to these dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the blood spectacle of brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising match between two professors, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects at considerable hazard to themselves an immense crowd of spectators, otherwise little interested, excepting to see how matters are to be conducted, and whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills.
