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 ridges1 in every corner of St. John’s quadrangle, and piled its clear flakes2 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 drawn3 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 determined4 to remain up in Oxford5 and read for the ensuing examination.
“Morrison is always in good luck,” said Henry Herbert, the youngest of the party. “Whatever it is, 2whether drawing lots for a Newham party, or cramming6 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 prospect7 of taking our constitutional, for some days to come, under the old Archbishop’s cloisters9.”
“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 consuls10 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: fables11 of all climes contribute their share in the formation of this singular composition. The majority of the tales are entirely13 unconnected with the history of Rome, though the writer, in order to, in some manner, cover this deviation14 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 narrative15.”
3“To the imagination, knowledge, and literary labor17 of the monks18 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 illustrate19 their public discourses20, as well as for their own daily relaxation21.”
“Few things are more certain,” said Herbert, “than that an argument, however clear,—a deduction22, however logical,—operates but faintly except on trained intellects; but an apposite story at once arouses the attention, and makes a more durable23 impression on illiterate24 auditors25. Knowledge in the garb26 of verse is soonest appreciated by an uneducated mind, and remains27 there far longer than in any other form. A ballad28 will descend29 from generation to generation without a fault or an interpolation.”
“Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “and next to poetry comes poetic30 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 outweigh31 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 4years since. It well illustrates32 the popular method by which the writers of these tales inculcated Christian33 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 dread34 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 dungeon35; but he heard such confused and extraordinary noises, growlings, hissings, and plaintive37 cries, that he became half-dead with terror, and crouched38 in a corner motionless, awaiting death with the most horrid39 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 dolorous40 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 5or 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 spoke41 to me from the pit,” said Massaccio, running away in affright.
“Do you abandon me, then?” cried Vitalis, 6in a lamentable42 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 implore43 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 implored44, could not help returning. He let down the branch, and a serpent, hissing36 joyously45, 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 demon46. He was only brought to himself by hearing the cries of despair which Vitalis uttered.
7“Will no one help me?” said he. “Ah, then, must I die? O God, O God!” and he wept and sobbed47 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 exhausted48. Shall I give you my palace at Venice, my possessions, my honors? I give them all; and may I die if I forfeit49 my word. Life, life only; save only my life.”
Massaccio could not resist such prayers, and mingled50 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 benefactor51, my savior, my good angel,” 8said Vitalis, “how can I ever sufficiently52 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 regain53 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 9fine 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 hearth54. Massaccio was seized with fear. “The man has driven me from his door,” thought he; “the lion will certainly devour55 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 amicable56 grimace57; the lion, vibrating gently his tail, came and licked his hand, like a dog caressing58 his master; and the serpent, unrolling its ringy body, moved about the room with a contented59 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 10I 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 morsel60 of meat for a meal, and no money to buy any. The ungrateful wretch61, with his portion and his palace!”
Thus did Massaccio complain. Meanwhile the monkey began to make significant faces, the lion to agitate62 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 kindly63 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 glided64 rapidly 11under 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 forth65 his hand to stroke caressingly66 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 magistrate67. There he recounted his adventure, which appeared to be a mere68 fairy vision. Yet as the Signor Vitalis was implicated69 in the story, the magistrate referred the affair to the state inquisition, and Massaccio appeared before it.
12“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 knave70 and a cheat; he must be thrown into prison. Signor Vitalis, you are acquitted71.” 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 13been 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 astonishment72, 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 hissed73.
“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 apparition74 had caused had somewhat diminished, “you have asked where were the witnesses of Massaccio. You see that God has sent them at 14the right time before the bar of our tribunal. Since, then, God has testified against you, we should be culpable75 before Him if we did not punish your ingratitude76. Your palace and your possessions are confiscated77, 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 equitable78 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 fable12 book called Callah-u-Dumnah,” replied Lathom. “Mathew Paris recites it as a fable commonly used by our crusading Richard to reprove his 15ungodly 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 investigation79 bids fair to be, the less we have to depend on fact, and the more we are at the mercy of conjecture80, 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 predecessor81 has endeavored to make the way straight, than to throw his own bridge over the river or the morass82 of time that intervenes between the traveller and the goal.”
“Four distinct sources,” said Lathom, “have been contended for: the Scandinavian bards83, the Arabians of the Spanish peninsula, the Armoricans or Bretons, and the classical authors of Greece and Rome. Mallet84 and Bishop8 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 mythological85 authors; whilst Sir Henry Ellis would reconcile all differences by a quiet jumble86 of Breton scenes colored by Scandinavia and worked by Arabian machinery87. Let us, however, adjourn88 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 monkish89 writers. We will take Jovinian the Proud Emperor, and in this case you must be content with my own translation.”
16
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 mused90 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 reined92 up his horse on the bank of a clear bright stream that ran through the fertile country on which his palace stood. Allured93 by the refreshing94 appearance of the stream, he bade his attendants abide95 still, whilst he sought a secluded96 pool beneath some willows97, where he might bathe unseen.
The emperor hastened to the pool, cast off his garments, and revelled98 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 17to meet the huntsmen, who, deceived by the likeness99 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: “Miserable100 man that I am! to what a state am I reduced! Whither shall I go? Who will receive me in this plight101? I bethink me there is a knight102 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 18emperor. 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 enraged103, 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 19beyond 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 tattered104 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 misery105, 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 reign106 and live. And now he brooded over vengeance—“Ay,” said he, as he felt the sore weals on his back from the scourging107; “ay, I will be avenged108. 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 calamity109.” And with these thoughts he 20wrapped 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 ragged110 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 reiterated111 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 confinement112 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 21after 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. “Alas113, 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 moles114 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 22have the whipping of thee afterwards for an impudent115 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 fictitious116 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 lair117, and would have pulled him down, had not the attendants prevented him; whilst the falcon118, that had sat on his wrist in many a fair day’s hawking119, 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 assent120, whilst the emperor asked Jovinian his name, and his business with the empress.
“Askest thou me who I am, and wherefore I 23am 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 usurper121 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 countenance122 rebuked123 his presumption124, 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 24scourge Jovinian; and for this once to set him free.
The deposed126 emperor desired death. “Why,” said he to himself, “should I now live? my friends, my dependents, yea, even the partner of my bed shuns127 me, and I am desolate128 among those whom my bounties129 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 chapel130 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?”
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 foul132 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 arrogance133 of my heart, I called myself a god: 25the weight of my sin is grievous unto me. Father, good father, hear the sins of a miserable penitent134.”
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 repentance135 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 gateway136, and as Jovinian and the priest drew near he made a lowly obeisance137, 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 26bow, 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 feigned138 Jovinian rose and spake: “Nobles and friends, hearken! that man is your emperor and your master; hear ye him; know that he did exalt139 himself above that which was right, and make himself equal unto God. Verily he hath been rewarded; he hath suffered much indignity140 and wrong, and, of God’s will, ye knew him not; he hath repented141 him of his grievous sin, and the scourge125 is now removed; he has made such satisfaction as man can make. Hear ye him, know him, obey him.”
27As 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 reigned142 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 dictated143 his troublous life to his secretaries, that it might remain as a warning unto all men against worldly pride, and an incitement144 to the performance of our religious duties. And when he had so done, he meekly145 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 refinement146 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 folly147. The first knight whose castle he visited was True Wisdom, ever disdainful of the pomps and vanities of the world. 28The next knight was Conscience. The dog that turned against his old master, was the lusts148 of the flesh, our own evil desires, which will ever in the end turn against those who have pampered149 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 virtues150 which he had thrown off, when he gave loose rein91 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 profane151 levity152, with which the fictions of the classics were interpreted to signify the great truths and mysteries of religion, was, perhaps, hardly reprehensible153 in the simple state of knowledge which prevailed at the time when these attempts at secondary interpretation154 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 Act?on, 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’ 29had allegorized the difficulties of an ardent155 lover in the accomplishment156 of his object, under the mystery of the rose which was to be gathered in a fair but almost inaccessible157 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 Virgin158, or any other mystery to which obstinate159 heretics were unable to attain160; to the chemist it was the philosopher’s stone; to the lawyer it was the most consummate161 point of equity162; to the physician the infallible panacea163, 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 attained164 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 mighty165 theory, for some more clever writer to overthrow166, and raise a new fabric167 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 ascend168 the ladder of reputation on the labors169 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 solely170 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 mythology171, labored172 to reconcile the apparent absurdities173 of the pagan system with the Christian mysteries, 30by 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 monstrous174 incredibilities, by a bold attempt to unravel175 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.”
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1
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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2
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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3
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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7
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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consuls
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| 领事( consul的名词复数 )； （古罗马共和国时期）执政官 （古罗马共和国及其军队的最高首长，同时共有两位，每年选举一次） | |
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11
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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13
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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15
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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24
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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29
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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30
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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32
illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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33
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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34
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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35
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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36
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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37
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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38
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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40
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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41
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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42
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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43
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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44
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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46
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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47
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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48
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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49
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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50
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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51
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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52
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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53
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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54
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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55
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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56
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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57
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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58
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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59
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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60
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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61
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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62
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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64
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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67
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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68
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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70
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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71
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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72
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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73
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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74
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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75
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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76
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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77
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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80
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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81
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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82
morass
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| n.沼泽，困境 | |
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83
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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84
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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85
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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86
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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88
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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89
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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90
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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91
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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92
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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95
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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96
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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99
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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100
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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101
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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102
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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103
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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104
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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105
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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106
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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107
scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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108
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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109
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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110
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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111
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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113
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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114
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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115
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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116
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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117
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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118
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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119
hawking
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| 利用鹰行猎 | |
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120
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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121
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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122
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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123
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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125
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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126
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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127
shuns
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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129
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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130
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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131
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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132
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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133
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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134
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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135
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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136
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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137
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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138
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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139
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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140
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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141
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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143
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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144
incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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145
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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146
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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147
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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148
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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149
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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151
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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152
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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153
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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154
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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155
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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156
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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157
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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158
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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159
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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160
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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161
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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162
equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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163
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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164
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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165
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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166
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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167
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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168
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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169
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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170
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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171
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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172
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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173
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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174
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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175
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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