by Charles Swan
* Lovel, in his Panzoohgico-minerdlogia. has enumerated all the rare properties which ancient medicine attributed to dogs; but what particular virtue the tongue was held to possess, does not appear. Lovers work must have been one of immense labour; yet it is very useless.
TALE XIII.
OF INORDINATE LOVE.
A CERTAIN emperor was strongly attached to a beautiful wife. In the first year of their marriage, she was delivered of a son, upon whom she doated with extravagant fondness. When the child had completed its third year, the king died; for whose death great lamentation was made through the whole kingdom. The queen bewailed him bitterly; and, after his remains were deposited in the royal sepulchre, took up her residence in another part of the country, accompanied by her son. This child became the object of an affection so violent, that no consideration could induce her to leave him; and they invariably occupied the same bed, even till the boy had attained his eighteenth year. Now, when the devil perceived the irregular attachment of the mother, and the filial return exhibited by the son, he insinuated black and unnatural thoughts into their minds; and from time to time repeating his detestable solicitations, finally overthrew them. The queen became pregnant; and the unhappy son, filled with the deepest horror, and writhing beneath the most intolerable agony, quitted the kingdom, and never was heard of again. In due time the queen was delivered of a lovely female, whom her eyes no sooner beheld, than—(mark, ye who dream that one dereliction from virtue may be tried with impunity—mark!) desperate at the remembrance of her fearful crime, and apprehensive of detection, she snatched up a knife that lay beside her, and plunged it into the infant’s breast. Not content with this exhibition of maternal inhumanity, she cut it directly across the throat, from whence the blood rapidly gushed forth, and falling upon the palm of her left hand, distinctly impressed four circular lines, which no human power could erase. Terrified, not less at the singular consequence of her guilt than at the guilt itself, she carefully concealed this awful and mysterious evidence, and dedicated herself for life to the service of the blessed Virgin. Yet, though penitent for what she had done, and regularly every fifteenth morning duly confessed, she scrupulously avoided any disclosure relating to that horrid transaction. She distributed alms with the most unbounded liberality; and the people, experiencing her kindness and benevolence, evinced towards her the greatest respect and love.
It happened on a certain night, as her confessor knelt at his devotions, repeating five times aloud the “Ave Maria,” that the blessed Virgin herself appeared to him, and said, “I am the Virgin Mary, and have an important communication to make to thee.” The confessor, full of joy, answered, “Oh, dear Lady, wherein can thy servant please thee ? “She replied, “The queen of this kingdom will confess herself to you; but there is one sin she has committed, which shame and horror will not permit her to disclose. On the morrow she will come to you; tell her from me, that her alms and her prayers have been accepted in the sight of my Son; I command her, therefore, to confess that crime which she secretly committed in her chamber—for, alas! she slew her daughter. I have entreated for her, and her sin is forgiven, if she will confess it. But if she yield no attention to your words, bid her lay aside the cover upon her left hand; and on her palm you will read the crime she refuses to acknowledge. If she deny this also, take it off by force.” When she had thus spoken, the blessed Virgin disappeared. In the morning, the queen with great humility was shrieved of all her sins—that one excepted. After she had uttered as much as she chose, the confessor said, “Madam, and dear daughter, people are very inquisitive to know for what strange reason you constantly wear that cover upon your left hand. Let me see it, I beseech you, that I may ascertain why it is concealed, and whether the concealment be pleasing to God.” The queen answered, “Sir, my hand is diseased, and therefore I cannot show it.” Hearing this, the confessor caught hold of her arm, and notwithstanding her resistance, drew off the cover. “Lady,” said he, “fear not; the blessed Virgin Mary loves you; and it is she who hath commanded me to do this.” When the hand was uncovered, there appeared four circles of blood. In the first circle there were four letters in the form of a C; in the second, four D’s; in the third, four M’s; and in the fourth, four B’s. Upon the outward edge of the circles, in the manner of a seal, a blood-coloured writing was distinguishable, containing the legend beneath. First, of the letter C,—which was interpreted, “Casu cecidisti carne cœcata” [Blinded by the flesh thou hast fallen.] The letter D, “Dœmoni dedisti dona donata,” [The gifts that were bestowed on thee thou hast given to the devil.] The letter M, “Monstrat manifestè manus maculata” [The stain upon thy hand discovers thee.] The letter R, “Recedet rubigo, regina rogata” [When the queen is interrogated the red marks will vanish.] The lady beholding this, fell at the confessor’s feet, and with many tears meekly related her dreadful offences. Then being entirely and truly penitent, she was absolved; and a very few days afterwards, slept in the Lord. Her death was long lamented by the whole state.*
APPLICATION.
My beloved, the emperor is Jesus Christ, who married a beautiful girl, that is, our human nature, when He became incarnate. But first He was betrothed to her, when the Father, speaking to the Son and Holy Ghost, said—“Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness.” Our Lord had a fair child, that is to say, the soul made free from all spot by His Passion, and by virtue of baptism. That soul is slain in us by sin. Do you ask how? I will tell you. By giving ourselves up to carnal delights, whose fruit is death. The blood on the hand is sin, which tenaciously clings to us: as it is said, “My soul is ever in my own hands”—that is, whether it does well or ill is as openly apparent as if it were placed in the hands for the inspection and sentence of the Supreme Judge.
[There are two moralizations to this story; but there is nothing in either worth examination.]
* “This story is in the SPECULUM HISTORIALE of Vincent of Beauvais, who wrote about the year 1250.”—WARTON.
TALE XIV.
OF HONOURING PARENTS.
IN the reign of the Emperor Dorotheus a decree was passed that children should support their parents. There was, at that time, in the kingdom, a certain soldier, who had espoused a very fair and virtuous woman, by whom he had a son. It happened that the soldier went upon a journey, was made prisoner, and very rigidly confined. Immediately he wrote to his wife and son for ransom. The intelligence communicated great uneasiness to the former, who wept so bitterly that she became blind. Whereupon the son said to his mother, “I will hasten to my father, and release him from prison.” The mother answered, “Thou shalt not go; for thou art my only son —even the half of my soul,* and it may happen to thee as it has done to him. Hadst thou rather ransom thy absent parent than protect her who is with thee, and presses thee to her affectionate arms? Is not the possession of one thing better than the expectation of two?† Thou art my son as well as thy father’s; and, I am present, while he is absent. I conclude, therefore, that you ought by no means to forsake me though to redeem your father.” The son very properly answered,” Although I am thy son, yet he is my father. He is abroad and surrounded by the merciless; but thou art at home, protected and cherished by loving friends. He is a captive, but thou art free—blind, indeed; but he perhaps sees not the light of heaven, and pours forth unheeded groans in the gloom of a loathsome dungeon oppressed with chains, with wounds, and misery. Therefore it is my determination to go to him and redeem him.” The son did so; and every one applauded and honoured him for the indefatigable industry with which he achieved his father’s liberation.
APPLICATION.
My beloved, the emperor is our heavenly Father, who imposes upon sons the duty of maintaining and obeying their parents. But who is our father and mother ? Christ is our father, as we read in Deut. 32. His affection for us partakes more of this than of the maternal character. You know that when the son transgresses, the father corrects him somewhat harshly, even with stripes and blows; while the doating mother soothes a
nd coaxes her favourite into humour. Christ permits us to be scourged, because of our many failings; on the contrary, our mother, the world, promises us infinite pleasures and lascivious enjoyments. Christ forsakes us, and goes into a far country, as it is written in the Psalms, “I am made a stranger by my brethren.” Christ is still bound and in prison; not indeed by Himself, but by those who are the members of His Church; for so says the apostle to the Hebrews. “Whosoever lives in any mortal sin is cast into the prison of the devil;” but our Father wills that we labour for his redemption. Luke 9: “Let the dead bury their dead,” said our blessed Lord; “but go thou, and preach the kingdom of God,”—and this is to redeem Christ. For whosoever powerfully preaches the word of God, advantages his brother, and in him redeems Christ. Matt. 25 : “That which you have done to the least of these my followers, ye have also done unto me.” But the mother, that is, the world, will not permit a man to follow Christ into exile and poverty, but detains him with diverse arguments. “I cannot,” she says, “endure a life of abstinence and privation which I must necessarily submit to, if you repent and turn after Christ.” Thus it is with whatsoever she proposes to man’s acceptance: but do not comply with her wishes. She is blind indeed, for she exclaims, “Let us enjoy the good things of life, and speedily use the universe like as in youth;” but, my beloved, if you are good and grateful sons, thus answer your worldly minded mother: “My father is the source of my being—that is, of my soul; and all things which I possess are his free gift.” Therefore, I advise you not to desire length of years, which may approach in suffering, poverty, and blindness; for then the world will flee you, how much soever you cling to it. No longer than you can be serviceable will you be valued.* Remember this, and study to amend your lives with all diligence ; that so you may come eventually to everlasting life. To which may God lead us, who lives, &c.
* “Animæ dimidium meæ.” This phrase is met with frequently in these volumes, and would almost lead one to suspect that the Author was acquainted with Horace (Carm. i. 3).
[See also Carm. ii. 17, 5. Pythagoras is said to have spoken of a friend of his as .—ED.]
† The Latin text is, “Quotiens ita est quòd aliquid est sequale duobus ei qui est præsens; magis est adhærendum.” Literally, “How often does it happen that one thing is valued as much as two by him who is present: [or, by him who has it in possession:] It is therefore to be adhered to the most.” The sense answers to the English proverb, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
[I have examined several of the printed copies in the British Museum, in hopes of finding cui in some one of them, as a variant for qui in this passage, but without success. Cui could be translated with much less difficulty than qui, which is awkward in the extreme.—ED.]
* The sentiment here expressed, implies a greater knowledge of the world than we should have looked for in an ascetic; but we frequently meet with a shrewd reflection, when least prepared for it —as the forest-ranger finds the “cowslip, violet, and the primrose pale,” ornamenting the wildest and most sequestered nooks. Old Burton has a passage so similar, both in thought and expression, that I cannot forbear affixing it at foot: “Our estate and bene esse ebbs and flows with our commodity; and as we are endowed or enriched, so we are beloved or esteemed: it lasts no longer than our wealth; when that is gone, and the object removed, farewell friendship: as long as bounty, good cheer, and rewards were to be hoped, friends enough; they were tied to thee by the teeth, and would follow thee as crows do a carcase: but when thy goods are gone and spent, the lamp of their love is out; and thou shalt be contemned, scorned, hated, injured.”—Anatomy of Melancholy, vol. ii. p. 169.
TALE XV.
OF THE LIFE OF ALEXIUS, SON OF THE SENATOR EUFEMIAN.*
IN the reign of one of the Roman emperors† lived a youth, named Alexius, the son of Eufemian, a noble Roman, at that time the chief ornament of the emperor’s court. He was attended by a band of three thousand youths, girded with golden zones, and habited in silken vestures. Eufemian was well known for his charity. He daily maintained three tables, to which the widow and the orphan were ever welcome. Their necessities were often supplied by his own person; and at the ninth hour, in company with other devout men, he sat down to dinner. His wife, whose name was Abael, was as religious and charitable as himself. But there is ever some bitterness mixed up with the draught of human joy; and in the midst of so much splendour, the want of a successor was long a source of unavailing affliction. At length their prayers were heard; Heaven, in its benevolence, blessed them with a son, who was carefully instructed in all the polite learning of the period. Arriving at the age of manhood, he proved himself an acute and solid reasoner. But reason is no barrier against love; he became attached to a lady of the blood-royal, and was united to her. On the very evening of their nuptials, when the clamour of the feast had subsided, the pious youth commenced a theological disquisition, and strove with much force and earnestness to impress his bride with the fear and love of God. When he had concluded, recommending her to preserve the same modesty of demeanour for which she had always been distinguished, he consigned to her care his gold ring, and the clasp‡ of the sword-belt which usually begirt him. “Take charge of these vanities,” said he, “for I abjure them; and as long as it shall please God, keep them in remembrance of me: may the Almighty guide us.” He then provided a sum of money, and going down to the sea-coast, secretly embarked in a ship bound for Laodicea. From thence he proceeded to Edessa,* a city of Syria. It was here that the image of our Lord Jesus Christ, wrought upon linen by supernatural hands, was preserved. On reaching this place he distributed whatever he had brought with him to the poor; and putting on a worn and tattered garment, joined himself to a number of mendicants who sat in the porch of the temple dedicated to the Virgin Mary. He now constantly solicited alms; but of all that he received, only the smallest portion was retained—an unbounded charity leading him to bestow the residue upon his more needy, or more covetous brethren.
The father of Alexius, however, was overwhelmed with sorrow at the inexplicable departure of his son; and despatched his servants in pursuit of him to various parts of the world. These servants were very diligent in their inquiries; and it chanced that certain of them came to the city of Edessa, and were recognized by Alexius ; but, pertinaciously concealing himself under the garb of want and misery, he passed unknown and unsuspected. The men, little aware who was experiencing their bounty, conferred large alms upon the paupers amongst whom he sojourned; and his heart silently but gratefully acknowledged the benefaction: “I thank thee, O my God, that thou hast thought good to dispense thine alms by the hands of my own servants.”
On this unsuccessful issue of their search, the messengers returned; and when the intelligence of their failure reached his mother, she shut herself up in a remote chamber, and there gave utterance to her griefs. She slept upon the ground, with sackcloth only for a covering; and solemnly vowed never to change her way of life until she recovered her lost son. The bride said to her father-in-law, “Until I hear tidings from my sweet husband I will remain with you.” In the mean time, Alexius remained a beggar in the porch of St. Mary’s church for the space of seventeen years ; until at length the image of the Virgin, which stood within the sacred edifice, said to the warden, “Cause that man of God to enter the sanctuary: for he is worthy of the kingdom of heaven, upon whom the spirit of God rests. His prayer ascends like incense to the throne of grace.” But since the warden knew not of whom she spake, she said once more, “It is the man who sits at the entrance of the porch.” The warden then went out quickly, and brought him into the church. Now, a circumstance of this extraordinary nature soon attracted remark; and the veneration with which they began to consider Alexius, approached almost to adoration. But he despised human glory, and entering a ship, set sail for Tarsus,* in Cilicia; but the providence of God so ordered, that a violent tempest carried them into a Roman port. Alexius, informed of this circumstance, said within himself, “I will hast
en to my father’s house; no one will know me, and it is better that I prove burthensome to him, than to another.” As he proceeded, he met his father coming from the palace, surrounded by a large concourse of dependants, and immediately he shouted after him, “Servant of God, command a poor and desolate stranger to be conveyed into your house, and fed with the crumbs which fall from the table: so shall the Lord have pity on the wanderer you love.” The father, out of love to his son, gave him into the charge of his followers, and appropriated to him a room in his house. He supplied him with meat from his own table, and appointed one who was accustomed to attend upon himself to serve him. But Alexius discontinued not the fervency of his devotion, and macerated his body with fasts and other austerities. And though the pampered servants derided him, and frequently emptied their household utensils on his head, his patience was always invincible. In this manner, for seventeen years under his own father’s roof, his life was spent; but at last, perceiving by the spirit that his end approached, he procured ink and paper, and recorded the narrative of his life. Now, on the succeeding Sunday, after the solemnization of Mass, a voice echoing like thunder among the mountains, was heard through the city. It said, “Come unto me, all ye that labour, and I will give you rest.” The people, terrified and awe-struck, fell upon their faces ; when a second time the voice exclaimed, “Seek out a man of God to offer a prayer for the iniquity of Rome.” Search was accordingly made, but no such man could be found; and the same voice waxing louder, and breathing as it were with the mingled blast of ten thousand thousand trumpets, again spoke, “Search in the house of Eufemian.” Then the Emperors Arcadius and Honorius,* in conjunction with the Pontiff Innocent, proceeded towards the house to which the words of the Invisible directed them, and as they approached, the servant who attended upon Alexius came running to his master, and cried, “What think you, my Lord ? Is not the mendicant stranger a man of exemplary life ? “Eufemian, following up the suggestion, hastened to his chamber and found him extended upon the bed. Life had already passed, but his countenance retained a dazzling emanation of glory, like the countenance of a cherub in its own pure and beatified element. A paper occupied the right hand, which Eufemian would have borne away, but he was unable to extricate it from the grasp of the dead man. Leaving him, therefore, he returned to the emperors and the pontiff, and related what he had seen. They were astonished, and entering the apartment exclaimed, “Sinners though we are, we direct the helm of State, and provide for the well-being of the pastoral government. Give us, then, the paper, that we may know what it contains.” Immediately the pontiff drew near, and put his hand upon the scroll which the deceased yet firmly grasped,—and he instantly relaxed his hold. It was read to the people; and when the father, Eufemian, heard its contents, he was paralyzed with grief. His strength deserted him, and he staggered and fell. Returning to himself a little, he rent his garment, plucked off the silver hairs of his head, and tore the venerable beard that swept his unhappy bosom. He even inflicted severe wounds upon himself, and falling upon the dead body, cried, “Alas ! my son—my son! why hast thou laid up for me such deadly anguish ? Why, for so many years, hast thou endured a bitterness which death itself cannot exceed ? Wretched man that I am, he who should have been the guardian of my increasing infirmities, and the hope and the honour of my age, lies upon this miserable pallet, and speaks not. Oh! where is consolation to be found ?” At this instant, like an enraged and wounded lioness breaking through the toils with which the hunters had encompassed her, the poor broken-hearted Abael, who had followed in the press, rushed desperately forward. Her garments were torn, and hanging about her in shreds; her hair dishevelled and flying; her eyes, wild and sparkling with the violence of emotion, were raised piteously to heaven. With that strength which frenzy sometimes supplies, she burst through the multitude who struggled to detain her; and approaching the body of her deceased child, said, or rather shrieked, in a heart-piercing accent, “I will pass; I will look upon my soul’s only comfort. Did not this dried fountain suckle him ? Have not these withered arms supported him ? Hath he not slept—ah I not such sleep as this!—while I have watched him ? Oh, my child! “Saying this, she threw her emaciated form upon the unconscious object of her solicitude; and again giving vent to her sorrows, exclaimed, “My own dear boy! light of the dimmed eyes that will soon close upon all, since thou art gone—why hast thou wrought this ? why hast thou so inhuman ? Thou didst see our tears— thou didst hearken to our groans—yet earnest not forward to abate them! The slaves scoffed at and injured thee, but thou wert patient—too, too patient.” Again and again the unfortunate mother prostrated herself upon the body; one while clasping him in her arms, at another, passing her hand reverently over his seraphic features. Now, she impressed a kiss upon the cold cheek and eyelids which her tears had moistened—and now bending over him, muttered something in a low and inaudible voice. Suddenly turning to the spectators, she said, “Weep, I pray ye, weep: ye who are regarding the agonies of a bereaved parent—have ye no tear to spare her ? Abiding together for seventeen years, I knew him not! not him, my beloved and beautiful! They taunted him, and showered their unmanly blows upon his enduring head. Oh! who will again bring tears to my burning eyelids? Who—who will bear a part in my misery ?”
