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TALES FROM THE GESTA ROMANORUM

Translated by Rev. C. Swan

New York and London

G. P. Putnam’s Sons

The Knickerbocker Press, New Rochelle, N. Y.

PREFACE
TO THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION (PUBLISHED BY WILEY & PUTNAM IN 1845).

You have here, my good friends, sundry moral and entertaining stories, invented by the monks of old, and used by them for amusement, as well as for instruction; from which the most celebrated poets, of our own and other lands, have condescended to draw their plots.

The improvements and refinements of this age will naturally lead you to condemn as absurdities, many of the incidents with which these tales abound. Considering the knowledge of the present day, you are justified in so doing. But I pray you to bear in mind that few qualities are more dependent on time, than probability and improbability. When you read these tales, you must, for the time, retrace your steps to the age in which they were written; and though the tale may seem absurd to us of this day, yet if it was calculated to impress the minds of those for whom it was invented, and to whom it was told, its merit was great, and therefore deserving of due praise. A giant or a magician was as probable to the people of the middle ages, as electricity to us. I pray you bear this in mind whilst you judge of these tales.

Romantic fiction pleases all minds, both old and young: the reason is this, says an old Platonist, “that here things are set down as they should be; but in the true history of the world, things are recorded indeed as they are, but it is but a testimony that they have not been as they should be. Wherefore, in the upshot of all, when we shall see that come to pass, that so mightily pleases us in the reading the most ingenious plays and heroic poems, that long afflicted Virtue at last comes to the crown, the mouth of all unbelievers must be stopped.”

To the work of the ingenious Mr. Swan, the only translator of these stories that I know of in this country, I am indebted for my first introduction to these old tales; and I cannot conclude these few words without thanking him for having often lightened my labors by his close and admirable versions.

G. B.

December, 1844.

CONTENTS.

THE GESTA ROMANORUM

CHAPTER I.

The Gesta Romanorum—Its Origin—Tale of the Ungrateful Man—Sources of Didactic Fiction—Jovinian the Proud Emperor—Morals of the Tales.

It was a dull, cold Christmas evening; the snow fell fast and small, and the cutting northeast wind blew its white shower into heaps and ridges in every corner of St. John’s quadrangle, and piled its clear flakes against every projecting part of the old building. No one was moving in college, at least out-of-doors; but the rude laugh from the buttery, and the dull-red gleam through the closely drawn curtains of one of the upper rooms in the outer quadrangle, proved that in two portions of the college Christmas was being kept with plenty and with gayety.

The change from the white cold of the quadrangle to the ruddy blaze of that upper room was inspiriting. The fire burnt bright; the small table, drawn immediately in front of its merry blaze, glittered with after-dinner good cheer; and three young and happy faces sat by that little table, and compared their former Christmases at home, with this one, during which they were determined to remain up in Oxford and read for the ensuing examination.

“Morrison is always in good luck,” said Henry Herbert, the youngest of the party. “Whatever it is, whether drawing lots for a Newham party, or cramming for an examination, he always succeeds; and now he is the last man that got away from Oxford before the roads were blocked up by this snow-drift.”

“Fortunate fellow!” said Lathom. “We are shut up now—fifteen feet of snow at Dorchester, and Stokenchurch bottom quite impassable.”

“Ay, and Oxford streets equally so,” said Frederick Thompson, the last of the triumvirate, “and we shut up here with the pleasant prospect of taking our constitutional, for some days to come, under the old Archbishop’s cloisters.”

“By the by,” said Herbert, “what were you after in the old library last week, Lathom?”

“Looking for a copy of the Gesta Romanorum, with the idea of reading some of its amusing stories during our after-dinner sittings.”

“Any thing but those Romans: it is bad enough to have read and believed all that Livy wrote, from his Sucking Wolf to his Capitol Goose, and then to have a shrewd German prove that kings were not kings, and consuls not consuls, just when you are beginning to think that you really do know something about your Roman history.”

“You will have but little of Roman history, Thompson; the title of the book but ill agrees with its contents: fables of all climes contribute their share in the formation of this singular composition. The majority of the tales are entirely unconnected with the history of Rome, though the writer, in order to, in some manner, cover this deviation from his title, has taken care to preface almost every story with the name of some emperor, who in most cases never existed, and sometimes has little to do with the incidents of the narrative.”

“To whom, most learned antiquary, are we indebted for this very stout volume?”

“To the imagination, knowledge, and literary labor of the monks of the middle ages. In the refectory, whilst the monks ate their meals, one, the youngest generally, of the society, read from some such collection as this, a tale at once amusing and instructive. Nor was the use of these fables confined to the refectory. The success which has always attended instruction by fables, and the popularity ever consequent on this form of teaching, led the monks to use this medium to illustrate their public discourses, as well as for their own daily relaxation.”

“Few things are more certain,” said Herbert, “than that an argument, however clear,—a deduction, however logical,—operates but faintly except on trained intellects; but an apposite story at once arouses the attention, and makes a more durable impression on illiterate auditors. Knowledge in the garb of verse is soonest appreciated by an uneducated mind, and remains there far longer than in any other form. A ballad will descend from generation to generation without a fault or an interpolation.”

“Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “and next to poetry comes poetic prose, at the head of which class stands didactic fiction. Many a clever man has confessed that he was more indebted to Shakspeare and Scott for his English and Scottish history, than to the standard historians of either land.”

“And as far as the general belief goes,” said Thompson, “the popular dramatist or poet will always outweigh the learned historian. Let Walpole or Turner write what they will about Richard the Third; to the majority—ay, to more than four fifths of the people—he is still Shakspeare’s Richard, the Humpbacked Murderer.”

“One of the best of the old monks’ stories,” said Lathom, “was translated in Blackwood’s Magazine some years since. It well illustrates the popular method by which the writers of these tales inculcated Christian duties on their brethren of the convent, or on their hearers in the Church. If you like, I will read it.”

The following was the tale of

THE UNGRATEFUL MAN.

Vitalis, a noble Venetian, one day, at a hunting party, fell into a pit, which had been dug to catch wild animals. He passed a whole night and day there, and I will leave you to imagine his dread and his agony. The pit was dark. Vitalis ran from the one side of it to the other, in the hope of finding some branch or root by which he might climb its sides and get out of his dungeon; but he heard such confused and extraordinary noises, growlings, hissings, and plaintive cries, that he became half-dead with terror, and crouched in a corner motionless, awaiting death with the most horrid dismay. On the morning of the second day he heard some one passing near the pit, and then raising his voice he cried out with the most dolorous accent: “Help, help! draw me out of this; I am perishing!”

A peasant crossing the forest heard his cry. At first he was frightened; but after a moment or two, taking courage, be approached the pit, and asked who had called.

“A poor huntsman,” answered Vitalis, “who has passed a long night and day here. Help me out, for the love of God. Help me out, and I will recompense you handsomely.”

“I will do what I can,” replied the peasant.

Then Massaccio (such was the name of the peasant) took a hedge-bill which hung at his girdle, and cutting a branch of a tree strong enough to bear a man,—“Listen, huntsman,” said he, “to what I am going to say to you. I will let down this branch into the pit. I will fasten it against the sides, and hold it with my hands; and by pulling yourself out by it, you may get free from your prison.”

“Good,” answered Vitalis; “ask me anything you will, and it shall be granted.”

“I ask for nothing,” said the peasant, “but I am going to get married, and you may give what you like to my bride.”

So saying, Massaccio let down the branch—he soon felt it heavy, and the moment after a monkey leapt out of the pit. He had fallen like Vitalis, and had seized quickly on the branch of Massaccio. “It was the devil surely which spoke to me from the pit,” said Massaccio, running away in affright.

“Do you abandon me, then?” cried Vitalis, in a lamentable accent; “my friend, my dear friend, for the love of the Lord, for the love of your mistress, draw me out of this; I beg, I implore you; I will give her wedding gifts, I will enrich you. I am the Lord Vitalis, a rich Venetian; do not let me die of hunger in this horrible pit.”

Massaccio was touched by these prayers. He returned to the pit—let down another branch, and a lion jumped out, making the woods echo with a roar of delight.

“Oh certainly, certainly, it was the devil I heard,” said Massaccio, and fled away again; but stopping short, after a few paces, he heard again the piercing cries of Vitalis.

“O God, O God,” cried he, “to die of hunger in a pit! Will no one then come to my help? Whoever you may be, I implore you return; let me not die, when you can save me. I will give you a house and field, and cows and gold, all that you can ask for; save me, save me only.”

Massaccio, thus implored, could not help returning. He let down the branch, and a serpent, hissing joyously, sprang out of the pit. Massaccio fell on his knees, half-dead with fear, and repeated all the prayers he could think of to drive away the demon. He was only brought to himself by hearing the cries of despair which Vitalis uttered.

“Will no one help me?” said he. “Ah, then, must I die? O God, O God!” and he wept and sobbed in a heart-breaking manner.

“It is certainly the voice of a man for all that,” said Massaccio.

“Oh, if you are still there,” said Vitalis, “in the name of all that is dear to you, save me, that I may die at least at home, and not in this horrible pit. I can say no more; my voice is exhausted. Shall I give you my palace at Venice, my possessions, my honors? I give them all; and may I die if I forfeit my word. Life, life only; save only my life.”

Massaccio could not resist such prayers, and mingled with such promises. He let down the branch again.

“Ah, here you are at last,” said he, seeing Vitalis come up.

“Yes,” said he, and uttering a cry of joy he fainted in the arms of Massaccio.

Massaccio sustained, assisted him, and brought him to himself; then, giving him his arm,—“Let us,” said he, “quit this forest”; but Vitalis could hardly walk,—he was exhausted with hunger.

“Eat this piece of bread,” said Massaccio, and he gave him some which he took out of his wallet.

“My benefactor, my savior, my good angel,” said Vitalis, “how can I ever sufficiently recompense you!”

“You have promised me a marriage portion for my bride, and your palace at Venice for myself,” said Massaccio. But Vitalis now began to regain his strength.

“Yes, certainly, I will give a portion to your wife, my dear Massaccio, and I will make you the richest peasant of your village. Where do you live?”

“At Capalatta in the forest; but I would willingly quit my village to establish myself at Venice in the palace you have promised me.”

“Here we are out of the forest,” said Vitalis; “I know my road now; thank you, Massaccio.”

“But when shall I come for my palace and the portion for my intended?” returned the peasant.

“When you will,” said the other, and they separated.

Vitalis went to Venice, and Massaccio to Capalatta, where he related his adventure to his mistress, telling her what a rich portion she was to have, and what a fine palace she was to live in.

The next day early he set out for Venice, and asked for the palace of the Signor Vitalis,—went straight to it, and told the domestics that he should come shortly with his mistress, in a fine carriage, to take possession of the palace which the Signor Vitalis had promised to give him. Massaccio appeared to those who heard him mad, and Vitalis was told that there was a peasant in his hall, who asked for a marriage portion, and said the palace belonged to him.

“Let him be turned out immediately,” said Vitalis, “I know him not.”

The valets accordingly drove him away with insults, and Massaccio returned to his cottage in despair, without daring to see his mistress. At one corner of his fireplace was seated the monkey, at the other corner the lion, and the serpent had twisted itself in spiral circles upon the hearth. Massaccio was seized with fear. “The man has driven me from his door,” thought he; “the lion will certainly devour me, the serpent sting me, and the monkey laugh at me; and this will be my reward for saving them from the pit.” But the monkey turned to him with a most amicable grimace; the lion, vibrating gently his tail, came and licked his hand, like a dog caressing his master; and the serpent, unrolling its ringy body, moved about the room with a contented and grateful air, which gave courage to Massaccio.

“Poor animals!” said he, “they are better than the Signor Vitalis; he drove me like a beggar from the door. Ah! with what pleasure I would pitch him again into the pit! And my bride! whom I thought to marry so magnificently! I have not a stick of wood in my wood-house, not a morsel of meat for a meal, and no money to buy any. The ungrateful wretch, with his portion and his palace!”

Thus did Massaccio complain. Meanwhile the monkey began to make significant faces, the lion to agitate his tail with great uneasiness, and the serpent to roll and unroll its circles with great rapidity. Then the monkey, approaching his benefactor, made him a sign to follow, and led him into the wood-house, where was regularly piled up a quantity of wood sufficient for the whole year. It was the monkey who had collected this wood in the forest, and brought it to the cottage of Massaccio. Massaccio embraced the grateful ape. The lion then uttering a delicate roar, led him to a corner of the cottage, where he saw an enormous provision of game, two sheep, three kids, hares and rabbits in abundance, and a fine wild boar, all covered with the branches of trees to keep them fresh. It was the lion who had hunted for his benefactor. Massaccio patted kindly his mane. “And you, then,” said he to the serpent, “have you brought me nothing? Art thou a Vitalis, or a good and honest animal like the monkey and the lion?” The serpent glided rapidly under a heap of dried leaves, and reappeared immediately, rearing itself superbly on its tail, when Massaccio saw with surprise a beautiful diamond in its mouth. “A diamond!” cried Massaccio, and stretched forth his hand to stroke caressingly the serpent and take its offering.

Massaccio then set out immediately for Venice to turn his diamond into money. He addressed himself to a jeweller. The jeweller examined the diamond; it was of the finest water.

“How much do you ask for it?” said he.

“Two hundred crowns,” said Massaccio, thinking his demand to be great; it was hardly the tenth part of the value of the stone. The jeweller looked at Massaccio, and said: “To sell it at that price you must be a robber, and I arrest you!”

“If it is not worth so much, give me less,” said Massaccio; “I am not a robber, I am an honest man; it was the serpent who gave me the diamond.”

But the police now arrived and conducted him before the magistrate. There he recounted his adventure, which appeared to be a mere fairy vision. Yet as the Signor Vitalis was implicated in the story, the magistrate referred the affair to the state inquisition, and Massaccio appeared before it.

“Relate to us your history,” said one of the inquisitors, “and lie not, or we will have you thrown into the canal.”

Massaccio related his adventure.

“So,” said the inquisitor, “you saved the Signor Vitalis?”

“Yes, noble signors.”

“And he promised you a marriage portion for your bride, and his palace at Venice for yourself?”

“Yes, noble signors.”

“And he drove you like a beggar from his door?”

“Yes, noble signors.”

“Let the Signor Vitalis appear,” said the same inquisitor.

Vitalis appeared.

“Do you know this man, Signor Vitalis?” said the inquisitor.

“No, I know him not,” replied Vitalis.

The inquisitors consulted together. “This man,” said they, speaking of Massaccio, “is evidently a knave and a cheat; he must be thrown into prison. Signor Vitalis, you are acquitted.” Then, making a sign to an officer of police, “Take that man,” said he, “to prison.”

Massaccio fell on his knees in the middle of the hall. “Noble signors, noble signors,” said he, “it is possible that the diamond may have been stolen; the serpent who gave it me may have wished to deceive me. It is possible that the ape, the lion, and the serpent may all be an illusion of the demon, but it is true that I saved the Signor Vitalis. Signor Vitalis” (turning to him), “I ask you not for the marriage portion for my bride, nor for your palace of marble, but say a word for me; suffer me not to be thrown into prison; do not abandon me; I did not abandon you when you were in the pit.”

“Noble signors,” said Vitalis, bowing to the tribunal, “I can only repeat what I have already said: I know not this man. Has he a single witness to produce?”

At this moment the whole court was thrown into fear and astonishment, for the lion, the monkey, and the serpent, entered the hall together. The monkey was mounted on the back of the lion, and the serpent was twined round the arm of the monkey. On entering, the lion roared, the monkey spluttered, and the serpent hissed.

“Ah! these are the animals of the pit,” cried Vitalis, in alarm.

“Signor Vitalis,” resumed the chief of the inquisitors, when the dismay which this apparition had caused had somewhat diminished, “you have asked where were the witnesses of Massaccio. You see that God has sent them at the right time before the bar of our tribunal. Since, then, God has testified against you, we should be culpable before Him if we did not punish your ingratitude. Your palace and your possessions are confiscated, and you shall pass the rest of your life in a narrow prison. And you,” continued he, addressing himself to Massaccio, who was all this time caressing the lion, the monkey, and the serpent, “since a Venetian has promised you a palace of marble, and a portion for your bride, the republic of Venice will accomplish the promise; the palace and possessions of Vitalis are thine. You,” said he to the secretary of the tribunal, “draw up an account of all this history, that the people of Venice may know, through all generations, that the justice of the tribunal of the state inquisition is not less equitable than it is rigorous.”

Massaccio and his wife lived happily for many years afterwards in the palace of Vitalis with the monkey, the lion, and the serpent; and Massaccio had them represented in a picture, on the wall of his palace, as they entered the hall of the tribunal, the lion carrying the monkey, and the monkey carrying the serpent.

“To what source can this tale be traced?”

“To the Arabian fable book called Callah-u-Dumnah,” replied Lathom. “Mathew Paris recites it as a fable commonly used by our crusading Richard to reprove his ungodly nobles, and old Gower has versified it in his Confessio Amantis. The translator in Blackwood seems not to have been aware of its existence in the Gesta Romanorum, content to translate it from the later version of Massenius, a German Jesuit, who lived at Cologne in 1657.”

“Few subjects,” said Herbert, “seem more involved than the history of didactic fiction. The more mysterious an investigation bids fair to be, the less we have to depend on fact, and the more we are at the mercy of conjecture, so much the more does the mind love to grasp at the mystery, and delight in the dim perspective and intricacies of the way. Each successive adventurer finds it more easy to pull down the various bridges, and break in the various cuttings by which his predecessor has endeavored to make the way straight, than to throw his own bridge over the river or the morass of time that intervenes between the traveller and the goal.”

“Four distinct sources,” said Lathom, “have been contended for: the Scandinavian bards, the Arabians of the Spanish peninsula, the Armoricans or Bretons, and the classical authors of Greece and Rome. Mallet and Bishop Percy came forward as the advocates of Scandinavia; Dr. Wharton writes himself the champion of the Spanish Arabians; Wilson is rather inclined to the Breton theory; and Dr. Southey and Mr. Dunlop come forward as the advocates of the classical and mythological authors; whilst Sir Henry Ellis would reconcile all differences by a quiet jumble of Breton scenes colored by Scandinavia and worked by Arabian machinery. Let us, however, adjourn this subject until to-morrow, as I wish to read you another of these tales, in order to give you some idea of the moral applications and explanations appended to them by the monkish writers. We will take Jovinian the Proud Emperor, and in this case you must be content with my own translation.”

JOVINIAN THE PROUD EMPEROR.

In the days of old, when the empire of the world was in the hands of the lord of Rome, Jovinian was emperor. Oft as he lay on his couch, and mused upon his power and his wealth, his heart was elated beyond measure, and he said within himself: “Verily, there is no other god than me.”

It happened one morning after he had thus said unto himself, that the emperor arose, and summoning his huntsmen and his friends, hastened to chase the wild deer of the forest. The chase was long and swift, and the sun was high in the heavens, when Jovinian reined up his horse on the bank of a clear bright stream that ran through the fertile country on which his palace stood. Allured by the refreshing appearance of the stream, he bade his attendants abide still, whilst he sought a secluded pool beneath some willows, where he might bathe unseen.

The emperor hastened to the pool, cast off his garments, and revelled in the refreshing coolness of the waters. But whilst he thus bathed, a person like to him in form, in feature, and in voice, approached the river’s bank, arrayed himself unperceived in the imperial garments, and then sprang on Jovinian’s horse, and rode to meet the huntsmen, who, deceived by the likeness and the dress, obeyed his commands, and followed their new emperor to the palace gates.

Jovinian at length quitted the water, and sought in every direction for his apparel and his horse, but could not find them. He called aloud upon his attendants, but they heard him not, being already in attendance on the false emperor. And Jovinian regarded his nakedness and said: “Miserable man that I am! to what a state am I reduced! Whither shall I go? Who will receive me in this plight? I bethink me there is a knight hereabout whom I have advanced to great honor; I will seek him, and with his assistance regain my palace, and punish the person who has done me this wrong.”

Naked and ashamed, Jovinian sought the gate of the knight’s castle, and knocked loudly at the wicket.

“Who art thou, and what dost thou seek?” asked the porter, without unclosing the gate.

“Open, open, sirrah!” replied the emperor, with redoubled knocks on the wicket.

“In the name of wonder, friend, who art thou?” said the old porter as he opened the gate, and saw the strange figure of the emperor before the threshold.

“Who am I, askest thou, sirrah? I am thy emperor. Go, tell thy master, Jovinian is at his gate, and bid him bring forth a horse and some garments, to supply those that I have been deprived of.”

“Rascal,” rejoined the porter—“thou the emperor! Why, the emperor but just now rode up to the castle, with all his attendants, and honored my master by sitting with him at meat in the great hall. Thou the emperor! a very pretty emperor indeed; faugh, I’ll tell my master what you say, and he will soon find out whether you are mad, drunk, or a thief.”

The porter, greatly enraged, went and told his lord how that a naked fellow stood at the gate, calling himself the emperor, and demanding clothes and a good steed.

“Bring the fellow in,” said the knight.

So they brought in Jovinian, and he stood before the lord of the castle, and again declared himself to be the emperor Jovinian. Loud laughed the knight to the emperor.

“What, thou my lord the emperor! art mad, good fellow? Come, give him my old cloak; it will keep him from the flies.”

“Yes, sir knight,” replied Jovinian, “I am thy emperor, who advanced thee to great honor and wealth, and will shortly punish thee for thy present conduct.”

“Scoundrel!” said the knight, now enraged beyond all bounds, “traitor! thou the emperor! ay, of beggars and fools. Why, did not my lord but lately sit with me in my hall, and taste of my poor cheer? and did not he bid me ride with him to his palace gate, whence I am but now returned? Fool, I pitied thee before; now I see thy villany. Go, turn the fellow out, and flog him from the castle-ditch to the river-side.”

And the people did as the knight commanded them. So when they ceased from flogging the emperor, he sat him down on the grass, and covered him with the tattered robe, and communed on his own wretchedness.

“Oh, my God!” said Jovinian,—for he now thought of other gods but himself,—“is it possible that I have come to such a state of misery, and that, through the ingratitude of one whom I have raised so high!” And as he thus spake, he thought not of his own ingratitude to his God, through whom alone all princes reign and live. And now he brooded over vengeance—“Ay,” said he, as he felt the sore weals on his back from the scourging; “ay, I will be avenged. When he next sees me, he shall know that he who gives can also take away. Come, I will seek the good duke, my ablest counsellor; he will know his sovereign, and gladly aid him in his calamity.” And with these thoughts he wrapped his cloak round him, and sought the house of the good duke.

Jovinian knocked at the gate of the duke’s palace, and the porter opened the wicket, and seeing a half-naked man, asked him why he knocked, and who he was.

“Friend,” replied the emperor, “I am Jovinian. I have been robbed of my clothes whilst bathing, and am now with no apparel, save this ragged cloak, and no horse; so tell the duke the emperor is here.”

The porter, more and more astonished at the emperor’s words, sought his master, and delivered Jovinian’s message to him.

“Bring in the poor man,” said the duke; “peradventure he is mad.”

So they brought Jovinian unto the duke’s great hall, and the duke looked on him, but knew him not. And when Jovinian reiterated his story, and spoke angrily unto the duke, he pitied him. “Poor mad fellow,” said the good duke, “I have but just now returned from the palace, where I left the very emperor thou assumest to be. Take him to the guard-house. Perhaps a few days’ close confinement on bread and water may cool his heated brain. Go, poor fellow; I pity thee!”

So the servants did as their lord commanded, and they fed Jovinian on bread and water, and after a time turned him out of the castle; for he still said he was the emperor.

Sorely and bitterly did the emperor weep and bewail his miserable fate when the servants drove him from the castle gate. “Alas, alas!” he exclaimed in his misery, “what shall I do, and whither shall I resort? Even the good duke knew me not, but regarded me as a poor madman. Come, I will seek my own palace, and discover myself to my wife. Surely she will know me at least.”

“Who art thou, poor man?” asked the king’s porter of him when he stood before the palace gate and would have entered in.

“Thou oughtest to know me,” replied Jovinian, “seeing thou hast served me these fifteen years.”

“Served you, you dirty fellow,” rejoined the porter. “I serve the emperor. Serve you, indeed!”

“I am the emperor. Dost thou not know me? Come, my good fellow, seek the empress, and bid her, by the sign of the three moles on the emperor’s breast, send me hither the imperial robes, which some fellow stole whilst I was bathing.”

“Ha! ha! fellow; well, you are royally mad. Why, the emperor is at dinner with his wife. Well, well, I’ll do thy bidding, if it be but to have the whipping of thee afterwards for an impudent madman. Three moles on the emperor’s breast! how royally thou shalt be beaten, my friend.”

When the porter told the empress what the poor madman at the gate had said, she held down her head, and said, with a sorrowful voice, unto her lord: “My good lord and king, here is a fellow at the palace gate that hath sent unto me, and bids me, by those secret signs known only to thee and me, to send him the imperial robes, and welcome him as my husband and my sovereign.”

When the fictitious emperor heard this, he bade the attendants bring in Jovinian. And lo, as he entered the hall, the great wolf-hound, that had slept at his feet for years, sprang from his lair, and would have pulled him down, had not the attendants prevented him; whilst the falcon, that had sat on his wrist in many a fair day’s hawking, broke her jesses, and flew out of the hall: so changed was Jovinian the emperor.

“Nobles and friends,” said the new emperor, “hear ye what I will ask of this man.”

And the nobles bowed assent, whilst the emperor asked Jovinian his name, and his business with the empress.

“Askest thou me who I am, and wherefore I am come?” rejoined Jovinian. “Am not I thy emperor, and the lord of this house and this realm?”

“These our nobles shall decide,” replied the new king. “Tell me now, which of us twain is your emperor?”

And the nobles answered with one accord: “Thou dost trifle with us, sire. Can we doubt that thou art our emperor, whom we have known from his childhood? As for this base fellow, we know not who he is.”

And with one accord the people cried out against Jovinian that he should be punished.

On this the usurper turned to the empress of Jovinian—“Tell me,” said he, “on thy true faith, knowest thou this man who calls himself emperor of this realm?”

And the empress answered: “Good my lord, have not thirty years passed since I first knew thee, and became the mother of our children? Why askest thou me of this fellow? and yet it doth surprise me how he should know what none save you and I can know?”

Then the usurper turned to Jovinian, and with a harsh countenance rebuked his presumption, and ordered the executioners to drag him by the feet by horses until he died. This said he before all his court; but he sent his servant to the tailor, and commanded him to scourge Jovinian; and for this once to set him free.

The deposed emperor desired death. “Why,” said he to himself, “should I now live? my friends, my dependents, yea, even the partner of my bed shuns me, and I am desolate among those whom my bounties have raised. Come, I will seek the good priest, to whom I so often have laid open my most secret faults: of a surety, he will remember me.”

Now the good priest lived in a small cell, nigh to a chapel about a stone’s-cast from the palace gate; and when Jovinian knocked, the priest, being engaged in reading, answered from within: “Who is there? why troublest thou me?”

“I am the emperor Jovinian; open the window, I would speak to thee,” replied the fugitive.

Immediately the narrow window of the cell was opened, and the priest, looking out, saw no one save the poor half-clothed Jovinian. “Depart from me, thou accursed thing!” cried the priest; “thou art not our good lord the emperor, but the foul fiend himself, the great tempter.”

“Alas, alas!” cried Jovinian, “to what fate am I reserved, that even my own good priest despises me! Ah me, I bethink me—in the arrogance of my heart, I called myself a god: the weight of my sin is grievous unto me. Father, good father, hear the sins of a miserable penitent.”

Gladly did the priest listen to Jovinian; and when he had told him all his sins, the good priest comforted the penitent, and assured him of God’s mercy, if his repentance was sincere. And so it happened that on this a cloud seemed to fall from before the eyes of the priest; and when he again looked on Jovinian he knew him to be the emperor, and he pitied him, clothing him with such poor garments as he had, and went with him to the palace gate.

The porter stood in the gateway, and as Jovinian and the priest drew near he made a lowly obeisance, and opened the gate for the emperor. “Dost thou know me?” asked the emperor.

“Very well, my lord,” replied the servant; “but I wish that you had not left the palace.”

So Jovinian passed on to the hall of his palace; and as he went, all the nobles rose and bowed to the emperor; for the usurper was in another apartment, and the nobles knew again the face of Jovinian.

But a certain knight passed into the presence of the false emperor. “My lord,” said he, “there is one in the great hall to whom all men bow, for he so much resembleth you that we know not which is the emperor.”

Then said the usurper to the empress: “Go and see if you know this man.”

“Oh, my good lord,” said the empress, when she returned from the hall, “whom can I believe? are there, then, two Jovinians?”

“I will myself go and determine,” rejoined the usurper, as he took the empress by her hand, and, leading her into the great hall, placed her on the throne beside himself.

“Kinsfolk and nobles,” said the usurper, “by the oaths ye have sworn, determine between me and this man.”

And the empress answered: “Let me, as in duty bound, speak first. Heaven be my witness, I know not which is my lord and husband.”

And all the nobles said the same.

Thereupon the feigned Jovinian rose and spake: “Nobles and friends, hearken! that man is your emperor and your master; hear ye him; know that he did exalt himself above that which was right, and make himself equal unto God. Verily he hath been rewarded; he hath suffered much indignity and wrong, and, of God’s will, ye knew him not; he hath repented him of his grievous sin, and the scourge is now removed; he has made such satisfaction as man can make. Hear ye him, know him, obey him.”

As the feigned emperor thus addressed the astonished nobles, his features seemed illumined with a fair and spiritual light, his imperial robes fell from off him, and he stood confessed before the assembly an angel of God, clothed in white raiment. And, as he ended his speech, he bowed his head, and vanished from their sight.

Jovinian returned to his throne, and for three years reigned with so much mercy and justice, that his subjects had no cause to regret the change of their emperor. And it came to pass, after the space of three years, the same angel appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of his death. So Jovinian dictated his troublous life to his secretaries, that it might remain as a warning unto all men against worldly pride, and an incitement to the performance of our religious duties. And when he had so done, he meekly resigned himself, and fell asleep in death.

“So much for the story, as a story; now for the moral, with all that eccentric spirit of refinement and abstraction with which the age was characterized,” said Herbert.

“The moral in this case is less eccentric than in many to which I hope we shall come before Christmas is over.”

“Jovinian was but the picture of the proud, worldly-minded man, entirely given up to vanity and folly. The first knight whose castle he visited was True Wisdom, ever disdainful of the pomps and vanities of the world. The next knight was Conscience. The dog that turned against his old master, was the lusts of the flesh, our own evil desires, which will ever in the end turn against those who have pampered them. The falcon is God’s grace; the empress, man’s soul; and the clothes in which the good priest clothed the half-frozen emperor, are those kingly virtues which he had thrown off, when he gave loose rein to the vanities of the world.”

“It must be admitted,” remarked Herbert, “that from very early times a secondary meaning was commonly attached to every important work; it progressed from the sacred writings through the poetic fictions of the classics, to compositions professedly allegorical. The want of discrimination, which in our eyes assumes much of the appearance of profane levity, with which the fictions of the classics were interpreted to signify the great truths and mysteries of religion, was, perhaps, hardly reprehensible in the simple state of knowledge which prevailed at the time when these attempts at secondary interpretation were made.”

“And hence it was,” said Lathom, “that in the early ages it might seem to partake of little levity to prefigure our Saviour’s birth in that of Bacchus; his sufferings and death in that of Actæon, or his resurrection in the legend of Hercules, as related by Lycophron; as late as the thirteenth century the Franciscan Walleys wrote a moral and theological exposition of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.”

“But surely the writers of that age did not stop there,” said Thompson; “was it not the case, that to these expositions succeeded compositions professedly allegorical, and which the spirit of refinement of that age resolved into further allegories, for which they were never intended?”

“Undoubtedly so!” replied Lathom; “it was not enough that the writer of the ‘Romaunt of the Rose’ had allegorized the difficulties of an ardent lover in the accomplishment of his object, under the mystery of the rose which was to be gathered in a fair but almost inaccessible garden. Every profession saw in this allegory the great mystery of their craft. To the theologian it was the rose of Jericho, the New Jerusalem, the Blessed Virgin, or any other mystery to which obstinate heretics were unable to attain; to the chemist it was the philosopher’s stone; to the lawyer it was the most consummate point of equity; to the physician the infallible panacea, the water of life; and does not this spirit of allegory extend to the present day, only in a somewhat different form?”

“Not unlike the present system of commentating,” remarked Henry Herbert. “As soon as a poet has attained to any great reputation, and death has sealed up his writings, then comes the host of annotators and critics, each one more intent than his predecessor to develop the mind of the writer, to discover with what hidden intentions, with what feelings, this or that passage was written, and to build on some stray expression a mighty theory, for some more clever writer to overthrow, and raise a new fabric on its ruins. And in these attempts it is not the old author whose glory is sought to be heightened, but the new man who would ascend the ladder of reputation on the labors of the ‘man of old.’”

“Far different,” rejoined Lathom, “was the spirit which prompted the fashion of resolving every thing into allegories in the middle ages; nor, indeed, is it to be solely charged to an unmeaning and wanton spirit of refinement. ‘The same apology,’ says Wharton, ‘may be offered for cabalistic interpreters, both of the classics and of the old romances. The former, not willing that those books should be quite exploded which contained the ancient mythology, labored to reconcile the apparent absurdities of the pagan system with the Christian mysteries, by demonstrating a figurative resemblance. The latter, as true learning began to dawn, with a view of supporting for a time the expiring credit of giants and magicians, were compelled to palliate those monstrous incredibilities, by a bold attempt to unravel the mystic web which had been woven by fairy hands, and by showing that truth was hid under the gorgeous veil of gothic invention.’ And now, Thompson, we must adjourn, you to your real Greeks and Romans, Herbert and I to Aristotle’s Summum Bonum.”

CHAPTER II.

Discussion on the Source of Fiction Renewed—The King and the Glutton—Guido, the Perfect Servant—The Middle-Age Allegories—Pliny and Mandeville’s Wonders Allegorized.

“Surely,” said Henry Herbert, when the friends were again assembled, “surely the poems of the northern Scalds, the legends of the Arabians of Spain, the songs of the Armoricans, and the classics of the ancient world, have been the sources of the most prevalent fictions.”

“The sources from which the monks themselves compiled these stories, but by no means the original sources,” replied Lathom. “The immediate source must be sought in even earlier times and more eastern climes. In some instances perverted notions of Scripture characters furnished the supernatural agency of the legend; in the majority the machinery came direct from the East, already dilated and improved. In many parts of the old Scriptures we learn how familiar the nations of the East were with spells; and the elevation of Solomon Daoud to the throne of the Genii and to the lordship of the Talisman, proves the traditional intercourse between God’s own people and the nations of the far East.”

“The theory is probable,” said Thompson. “We can easily conceive how the contest of David and Goliath may have formed the foundation of many a fierce encounter between knight and giant, and the feats of Samson been dilated into the miracles of the heroes of chivalry.”

“There is one very pertinent instance of such a conversion in this very book. In the Book of Tobit, which is indeed referred to in the application of the tale of ‘The Emperor Vespasian and the Two Rings,’ we find an angel in the place of a saint, enchantments, antidotes, distressed damsels, demons, and nearly all the recognized machinery of fiction. The vagaries of the Talmud, clearly derived from Eastern sources, were no small treasure on which to draw for wonders and miracles. And when we find all the machinery of the East in the poems of the Scalds, we cannot but perceive how much more reasonable it is to suppose the cold conceptions of the Northern bards to have been fed from the East, than the warm imaginations of the East to have drawn their inspiration from the North.”

“Very plausible, Lathom,” replied Herbert; “but still this objection must not be neglected—the ignorance and misrepresentation of the religions of the East, shown through every page of the popular legends of the chivalric age.”

“An objection of apparent weight, I will admit; and yet may it not have been the aim of the Christian writers to represent the infidels in the worst possible light, to pervert their creed, to exaggerate their vices? The charge of idolatry, and the adoration of the golden image of Mahomet, may have been mere pious frauds.”

“Admitting even this apology,” rejoined Herbert, “the difference of religion in the East and North seems another objection. The Romans adopted the legends of Greece, and naturalized them. With the mythology came the religious rites appendant to it. How did it happen that the Scalds adopted the one without falling into the other error?”

“Are the cases similar?” replied Lathom; “were the nations alike? Was there no difference of predisposition in the Romans and the Scalds as to the adoption of the mythologies of the East and Greece? Had not long intercourse in the one case prepared the Romans to receive? did it not agree with their preconceived notions? Such was not the case with the Northern nations. Children, and rude children of nature, they were in no way prepared for a similar effect; but, seizing on the prominent features of the legends presented to them, they engrafted them on their own wild and terrible stories, adding to the original matter in some cases, and rejecting portions of it in others.”

“Well, I will not carry this discussion further,” said Herbert, “for fear of losing a story to-night; but I by no means give up my sources of didactic fictions.”

“Well, then, a truce for this evening. I will read the tale of The King and the Glutton, by which the old monk wished to illustrate the moral, that men are blinded by their own avarice.”

THE KING AND THE GLUTTON.

There once lived a king of Rome, who, out of charity to the blind, decreed that every subject of his that was so afflicted, should be entitled to receive a hundred shillings from the royal treasury. Now there was in Rome a club of men who lived for the world alone, and spent all they had in rioting and eating. Seven days had they continued revelling in one tavern, when the host demanded to be paid his bill. Every one searched his pockets, but still there was not enough to pay the reckoning.

“There still wants one hundred shillings,” said the innkeeper; “and until that is paid, ye go not hence.”

These young men knew not what to do, as they were penniless. “What shall we do?” said they one to another. “How can we pay so large a sum?” At length one bethought him of the king’s edict.

“Listen,” said he, “listen to me; does not the king give one hundred shillings to every blind man that applies for it?”

“Even so,” said the rest; “but what then? we are not blind.”

“What then?” rejoined the young man. “Come, let us cast lots who shall be made blind, that when he is deprived of sight we may take him to the king’s palace, and obtain the hundred shillings.”

So the young men cast lots, and the lot fell upon the man who had proposed this plan. And the rest took him, and putting out his eyes, led him to the king’s palace. When they knocked at the gate, the porter opened the wicket, and demanded their business.

“Business,” said they; “see ye not our companion is blind? he seeks to receive the king’s benevolent gift.”

“The blindness is rather sudden,” muttered the porter, who knew the young man by sight. “Well, well, I will fetch the almoner.”

So the almoner, who distributed the king’s charity, came to the gate, and looking on the young man, asked him what he wanted.

“A hundred shillings, which my lord the king gives to those that are blind,” replied the youth.

“Thy blindness is very sudden,” rejoined the almoner; “when did it happen, and where? for I saw thee yesterday with both eyes perfect in the tavern by the city wall.”

“Last night, noble sir,” replied the blind man, “last night at that tavern I became blind.”

“Go fetch the host,” said the almoner sternly, “we will look into this matter more fully.”

So when the innkeeper came, he inquired of him how the matter was; and when he had heard all their deeds, he turned to the young man, and said—

“Of a surety thou knowest but half the law, and dost interpret it wrong; to such as are blind by God’s act, does our gracious king give his charity; such the law protects and relieves. But thou—why art thou blind? Thinkest thou that thou dost deserve to be rewarded for voluntarily surrendering thine eyes, in order to discharge the debt thou and thy companions had contracted by gluttony and rioting? Begone, foolish man: thy avarice hath made thee blind.”

So they drove away the young men from the king’s gate, lamenting their folly and wickedness.

“There can be little doubt,” said Herbert, “what moral the author of this tale intended to teach. The king’s gift clearly illustrates God’s reward for forgiveness, to those that by natural infirmity and temptation fall into sin; as the withholding it from the glutton, is meant to teach us how difficult it will be to obtain the forgiveness of voluntary sin, done out of pure wickedness.”

“You have found out the monk’s moral rightly in this tale, Henry; but I think you will not be so successful in that which I now propose reading to you—the story of

“GUIDO, THE PERFECT SERVANT.”

There was once a great emperor of Rome named Valerius, who would that every man, according to his wishes, should serve him; so he commanded that whosoever should strike three times on the gate of his palace should be admitted to do him service. In the emperor’s kingdom was also a poor man named Guido, who, when he heard of his lord’s commands, thus spake with himself: “Now, I am a poor man, and lowly born; is it not better to live and serve than to starve and be free?” So he went to the king’s gate, and knocked three knocks; and lo, it was opened to him, according as it had been said; and he was brought before the emperor.

“What seek you, friend?” asked Valerius, as Guido bowed before him.

“To serve my king,” was Guido’s reply.

“What service can you perform for me?” rejoined the emperor.

“Six services can I perform, O king: as your body-guard, I can prepare your bed and your food, and attend your chamber. I can sleep when others watch, and watch while others sleep. As your cup-bearer, I can drink good wine, and tell whether it be so or not. I can summon the guests to my master’s banquet, to his great honor and benefit. I can kindle a fire which shall warm all that seek it, and yet not smoke. And I can show the way to the Holy Land, to the health of such as shall go thither.”

“By my truth,” rejoined the emperor, “these are great things that thou dost promise. See that thou do them. Each for one year. Serve me first as my body-guard.”

Guido was content to obey the emperor; and he prepared to perform his duties as his body-guard. Every night he made ready the emperor’s bed, and prepared his apparel. Every night he lay before the emperor’s chamber-door, armed at all points; whilst by his side watched a faithful dog to warn him of the approach of danger. In every thing did he minister so faithfully to his lord, that the emperor was well pleased with him, and after his first year, made him seneschal of his castle and steward of his household. Then did Guido commence his labors in his second office. During the entire summer he gathered large stores of every thing needful into the castle, and collected much provision at little cost, by carefully watching his opportunities. Anon came on the winter, and when those who had slept during the times of plenty began to labor and lay up in their store-houses, Guido remained at ease, and completed his second year’s service with credit to himself.

And now the third year of Guido’s service came on; and the emperor called for his chief butler, and said: “Mix in a cup good wine, must, and vinegar, and give it to Guido to drink; that we may know how he doth taste good drink, and what he knoweth of its qualities.”

So the butler did as he was ordered, and gave the cup to Guido, who, when he had tasted of it, said: “Of a truth it was good, it is good, and it will be good.” And when the emperor asked him how these things could be, he said: “The vinegar was good, the old wine is good, and the must will be good when it is older.” So the emperor saw that he had answered rightly and discreetly of the mixture, which he knew not of before. “Go, therefore,” said Valerius, “through my country, and invite my friends to a banquet at the festival of Christmas now at hand”; and Guido bowed assent, and departed on his way.

But Guido did not execute his lord’s commands—going not unto his friends, but unto his enemies. So that when the emperor descended into his banquet-hall his heart was troubled; for his enemies sat round his table, and there was not a friend among them. So he called Guido, and spake angrily to him.

“How, sir! didst thou not tell me that thou knewest whom to invite to my banquet?”

And Guido said: “Of a surety, my lord.”

“Did not I bid thee invite my friends? and how, then, hast thou summoned all mine enemies?”

And Guido said: “May thy servant speak?”

So the emperor said: “Speak on.”

And the servant said: “My lord, there is no season or time that thy friends may not visit thee, and be received with pleasure and honor; but it is not so with thine enemies. Then I said to myself: ‘Conciliation and kindness would go far to convert enemies into friends.’”

Now it turned out as Guido hoped; for ere the feast was ended, the king and his enemies were reconciled to each other, and became friends even unto the end of their days. So the emperor called Guido, and said: “With God’s blessing, thy design has prospered. Come, now, make for my reconciled enemies and me a fire that shall burn without smoke.”

And Guido answered: “It shall be done as thou hast required, O king.”

So he sent and gathered much green wood, and dried it in the sun until it was quite dry, and therewith made a fire that did cast out much heat, and yet did not smoke. So that the emperor and his friends rejoiced greatly therein. And so it was when the emperor saw how well Guido had performed his five ministries, he bade him execute his sixth service—that he might attain to great honor in his kingdom.

“My lord,” said Guido, “he that would know the way to the Holy Land must follow me to the sea-shore.”

So a proclamation went forth from the king to that effect; and great multitudes of men and women flocked to the sea-shore after Guido. When the people were come, Guido said: “My friends, do ye see in the ocean the things that I see?”

And the people answered: “We know not.”

“See ye in the midst of the waves a huge rock?”

And the people answered: “It is even so. Why ask you this of us?”

“Know ye all,” replied Guido, “that on that rock liveth a bird, that sitteth continually on her nest, in which are seven eggs. While she so sitteth, behold the sea is calm, and men may pass to and fro over the wide waters in safety. But when she doth quit her nest, the winds blow, and the waves rise, and many perish on the waters.”

Then said the people: “How shall we know when this bird quitteth her nest?”

And Guido answered: “She sitteth always, unless a sudden emergency happen; and then when she is away there cometh another bird, great and strong, that defileth her nest and breaketh her seven eggs, which, when the first bird seeth, she flieth away, and the winds and storms arise; then must the shipman remain in port.”

Then said the people: “Master, how may we prevent these things, and defend the bird and her nest from her enemy?”

And Guido said: “The enemy hateth the blood of the lamb, and cannot come where that is. Sprinkle, therefore, the inside and outside of the nest with this blood; and so long as one drop remaineth the friendly bird will sit in peace, and the waves will not rage and swell, and there shall be safety on the waves of the sea.”

And the people did as Guido said. They took the blood of a lamb, and sprinkled the nest and the rock therewith. Then passed the emperor and all his people to the Holy Land, and returned in peace and safety. And the emperor did as he had promised unto Guido, and rewarded the perfect servant with great riches, promoting him to high honor among the people.

“I confess myself conquered,” said Henry Herbert, as soon as the story was concluded. “Some points in the allegory are clear, as the way to the Holy Land, and the sprinkling of the blood of the Lamb, but the rest are beyond my discovering.”

“The explanation,” said Herbert, “is undoubtedly more recondite than any we have read as yet. The great emperor is our Father in heaven; the three blows on his gate are prayer, self-denial, charity; by these three any one may become his faithful servant. Guido is a poor Christian, by baptism made his servant. His first service is to serve his God, and to prepare the heart for virtue. His second duty is to watch; ‘for he knoweth not the day nor the hour when the Son of Man cometh.’ His third task is to taste of repentance, which was good to the saints who are departed, is good to such of us as it brings to salvation, and will be good to all in the last day. The fourth duty is to invite Christ’s enemies to be his friends, and to come to the banquet of his love for he ‘came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ The fire that burneth without smoke, is the fire of charity, which burneth free of all ill-will and bad feeling. The way to the Holy Land is our course heavenward. We are to sail over our sea, the world; in the midst of which standeth our rock, even our heart, on which the holy bird of God’s Spirit resteth. The seven eggs are the gifts of the Spirit. When the Spirit leaves us, the Devil hasteth to defile our hearts; but the blood of the Lamb which was slain for us, even our Saviour, will ward off the attack of our enemy, so long as we are sprinkled therewith.”

“The explanation is characteristic of the age,” said Herbert. “What then,” rejoined Lathom, “will you say to the moral drawn by these writers from the wonders that Pliny believed in, without seeing, and Sir John de Mandeville tried to persuade the world he believed in, from seeing?”

“What,” said Thompson, “the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders?”

“No creature is so monstrous, no fable so incredible, but that the monkish writers could give it a moral form, and extract from its crudities and quiddities some moral or religious lesson.”

“They believed in the words of the song,” said Thompson—

“‘Reason sure will always bring

Something out of every thing.’”

“Pliny’s dog-headed race,” said Lathom, “whom Sir John places in the island of Macumeran, and at the same time gives to them a quasi pope for a king, who says three hundred prayers per diem before he either eats or drinks, were naturally regarded by the middle-age writers as symbolical and priestly preachers of faithful hearts and frugal habits; whilst of those other islanders, who ‘have but one eye, and that in the middest of their front, and eat their flesh and fish raw,’ the monk says, ‘These be they that have the eye of prayer.’ The Astomes who have no mouths, ‘are all hairie over the whole bodie, yet clothed with soft cotton and downe, that cometh from the leaves of trees, and live only on aire, and by the smelling of sweet odors, which they draw through their nose-thrills,’ are the abstemious of this world, who die of the sin of gluttony, even as an Astome by the accidental inhalation of bad odor. Humility is signified by the absence of the head, and the placing of the face in the breast; and a tendency to sin is foreshadowed by a desire and habit of walking on all fours, or pride by short noses and goat’s feet. The Mandevillean islanders, who had flat faces without noses, and two round holes for their eyes, and thought whatsoever they saw to be good, were earth’s foolish ones; as those foul men, who have their lips so great, that when they sleep in the sun they cover all their face therewith, are the just men, the salt of the earth.”

“One would as soon dream of allegorizing the Sciapodes of Aristophanes, or Homer’s Cranes and Pigmies,” said Thompson.

“And so the monk has,” said Lathom.

“What, the old Greek’s parasol-footed people, of whom Mandeville says with such gravity, ‘There be in Ethiope such men as have but one foot, and they go so fast that it is a great marvel; and that is a large foot, for the shadow thereof covereth the body from sun or rain, when they lie upon their back’?”

“Both Aristophanes and his follower would doubtless be as surprised in learning that their sciapodes were allegorical of the charitable of this world, as Homer would in discovering in his crane-fighting pigmies those mortals who begin well but cease to do well before they attain perfection; or in their neighbors who boast of six hands, and despise clothes in favor of long hair, and live in rivers, the hardworking and laborious among men.”

“The last is decidedly the most intelligible,” remarked Herbert.

“The reason of the explanation is not always clear,” replied Lathom; “it is not very easy to decide why those who have six fingers and six toes are the unpolluted, and why virtuous men are represented by a race of women with bald heads and beards flowing to their breast; nor is it very clear that virtue is well represented by a double allowance of eyes. But one curiosity remains—the beautiful men of Europe who boast a crane’s head, neck, and beak. These, says the author of the Gesta, represent judges, who should have long necks and beaks, that what the heart thinks, may be long before it reach the mouth.”

“That reminds me of long Jack Bannister,” said Thompson, “who was always five minutes after every one else in laughing at a joke, as it took that extra time for it to travel from his ears to his midriff, and then back again to his mouth.”

And so the evening ended with a laugh.

CHAPTER III.

Progress of Fiction from the East to the West—The Early Christians—The Monks—The Spanish Arabians—The Crusades—The Knight and the King of Hungary—The English Gesta.

“Admitting the East as the immediate source of fiction,” said Henry Herbert, when they were met once more, “you must still regard the Spanish Arabians as the great disseminators of those extravagant inventions which were so peculiar to their romantic and creative genius.”

“Less, perhaps, than many other sources. The absence of Moorish subjects from the earliest tales of chivalry, if it proves no more, at least shows how prevalent the tales of Charlemagne and his peers were in the eighth century, that a nation of conquerors could do little to infect them with legends of their own.”

“How and when, then, Lathom, would you introduce Eastern invention?” asked Thompson.

“I would refer it to much earlier ages, to the earliest of the Christian centuries, and contend that it was gradual, and therefore more natural; was the production of times and of ages, not the sudden birth and growth of one age; gradually augmenting until it attained to full and perfect stature.”

“Still,” rejoined Herbert, “we want the means by which this knowledge of Eastern fable was introduced.”

“Some share may be due to the return of those primitive Christians who sought refuge in the East from the persecutions of the pagan rulers of the West. Their minds were well prepared to adopt the fervent expressions of the East, and their condition prevented them from investigating the tales they heard. Hence, in the lives of these saints they were as ready to interweave the prodigies of another land, hoping, perhaps, to conciliate the minds of the Eastern Oriental to the tenets of their faith, by introducing fictitious incidents of Oriental structure, as, to conciliate the heathen, they placed their gods and goddesses in the Christian temple, dignifying them with a new name, and serving them with novel ceremonies.”

“Admitting the probability, still your machinery seems deficient.”

“It is but a portion of my machinery. Much more was due to the clouds of monks, who, during the third and fourth centuries, wandered over the face of the habitable world.”

“When Gibbon admits that the progress of monachism was co-extensive with that of Christianity,” suggested Frederick Thompson.

“The disciples of Antony,” said Herbert, “we are assured, spread themselves beyond the tropic, over the Christian empire of Ethiopia.”

“Their distribution was universal,” said Lathom; “every province, almost every city of the empire, had its ascetics; they feared no dangers, and deemed no seas, mountains, or deserts a barrier to their progress.”

“The roving character of the monks, therefore,” says the last translator of the Gesta, “is another link of the chain by which I introduce Oriental fiction into the West; and it is utterly impossible (maturely weighing the habits and propensities of this class of people) that they should not have picked up and retained the floating traditions of the countries through which they passed. Some of the early romances, as well as the legends of the saints, were undoubtedly fabricated in the deep silence of the cloister. Both frequently sprung from the warmth of fancy which religious seclusion is so well tended to nourish; but the former were adorned with foreign embellishments.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” said Thompson, “that the story of Ulysses and Circe bears a wondrous likeness to that of Beder the prince of Persia and Giahame princess of Samandal, and that the voyages of Sindbad afford the counterpart of the Cyclops of the Odysee?”

“It would be but consistent with the reported travels of Homer, to allow an Eastern origin to a portion of his fable,” said Lathom.

“After your banished Christians and roving monks,” said Herbert, “you would admit the Spanish Arabians.”

“As one means, certainly,” replied Lathom; “and after them the Crusaders.”

“It were almost superfluous,” rejoined Herbert, “to allude to the Crusades as further sources of romantic and didactic fiction. No one will dispute their right to a place in the system. About the period of the third crusade this kind of writing was at its height.”

“Undoubtedly,” rejoined Lathom, “that age was the full tide of chivalry. Twenty years elapsed between that and the fourth and fifth expeditions into the east; and nearly a generation passed before, for the sixth and the last time, the wealth and blood of Europe was poured upon the plains of the East. Enough of money and life had been now spent to satisfy the most enthusiastic of the crusading body, and to check, if not to stem, the tide of popular feeling which had formerly run so strong in favor of the restoration of the sepulchre and the holy city to the guardianship of the faithful. Time was now at last beginning to allay the Anti-Saracenic passion. With the decline of these remarkable expeditions romantic fiction began to be regarded. For though originally extraneous and independent, romantic fictions had of late years become incorporated with chivalry and its institutions, and, with them, they naturally fell into decay.”

“Come, come, we must break off this discussion,” said Thompson, “or else we shall have no time to judge of Lathom’s performance this evening.”

“The story I selected to begin with is one replete with eccentricity, and peculiarly characteristic of this age; it is entitled

“THE KNIGHT AND THE KING OF HUNGARY.”

There was a merry feast in the palace of Philonimus, the emperor of Rome, and his fair child, the maiden Aglae, sat by his side, whilst a brave knight, that loved the maiden dearly, sat on the other hand of the emperor. For the knight was bound for Palestine, to aid in rescuing the holy city from the power of the infidels and the emperor held a high festival in honor of that knight.

The feast was over in the hall, and the knight led the maiden from beside her father’s throne to the floor of the hall, and danced with her, whilst the king’s minstrels played a measure.

And as he danced, the knight talked with the lady, and the lady talked with the knight, and often sighed she when he spoke of his voyage to the Holy Land, and the great deeds he would perform for the glory of God, and the love of the fair lady. Then said the knight: “Lady, fair lady! to-morrow’s dawn sees me on my way to Palestine, and for seven years I bind myself to fight for the holy city. Plight me, dearest, thy troth, that this seven years you take no other husband, and I will plight thee my troth that for that time I will take no wife; and if this day seven years I come not again, then art thou free from thy promise.”

The lady was pleased with the words of the knight, and they vowed their vow, the one to the other.

Then sailed the knight for Palestine, and for years they wist not where he was. At length, the king of Hungary came to the emperor’s court, and he looked on the beauty of Aglae, and sought her of her father for his queen. And the emperor was glad; for the king was a great and good king. Then said he: “So be it, if my daughter consent.”

And Aglae bowed her head, when the king of Hungary spoke to her, and said: “Oh lord, the king, I am not free to be thy wife; for lo, these six years past I vowed to marry no man, and lo, one year more remains of my vow; until the end of which, I cannot accept the honor of my lord the king.”

Then said the father: “Since thou hast so vowed, I will not break thy vow. Wait then, my lord, yet one year, and then my daughter shall be thy bride.”

So the king of Hungary returned to his kingdom.

Aglae sat at her chamber window, and looked out upon the road that led towards her father’s palace. “Alas, alas!” she said, “it wants but one day to complete the seven years of my vow. To-morrow, my love promised to be with me again from the Holy Land. To-morrow, the king of Hungary comes to claim me. Ah me, what shall I do, if my love comes not, I must be the king’s bride”; and she bent her face on her hand, and wept sorely.

As the day drew near, the king of Hungary prepared to seek his bride. A great company was gathered together, and many wagons of presents were prepared to accompany the king. But when he saw them, and how slowly they journeyed, he left all his company, and went his way alone, eager to claim Aglae as his bride, so soon as the seven years were ended. The king was royally arrayed in purple, and his steed was clothed in gorgeous trappings. Now, as he drew nigh to Rome, a knight rode after him, who was covered from head to foot in a long black cloak, and bore on his shoulder a white embroidered cross. “Hail, Sir Knight,” said the king, “whither travellest thou; what news from the Holy Land?”

“To Rome, my lord,” rejoined the knight, halting his steed alongside of the king’s, “the Cross has gained the victory.”

“Thither, too, do I travel, Sir Knight; I am the king of Hungary, I go to seek my bride, the emperor’s fair daughter; I pray thee bear me company on the road.”

The knight acceded to the king’s proposal, and as they journeyed, they talked of the holy war in Palestine, and rejoiced that the city of the holy sepulchre was free from the power of the Saracens. As they thus talked together, the sky became cloudy, the wind howled through the woods, and the rain fell so fast, that the king’s apparel was wet through.

“My lord,” said the knight, “ye have done foolishly in that ye have not brought your house with you.”

“My house, Sir Knight! how meanest thou? my house is large and broad, made of stones and mortar; how should I bring with me my house; thou art beside thyself, Sir Knight!”

But the knight said nothing until they came to the bank of a broad stream, into which the king, being out of humor, plunged his horse, at the same time striking his spurs deeply into him, so he missed the ford, and would have been drowned but for the knight’s help.

“My lord,” said the knight, when they were safe on the river’s bank, “thou shouldest have brought thy bridge with thee.”