by Charles Swan
TALE LXXIX.
OF PRESUMPTION.
THERE was a certain king who had a singular partiality for little dogs that barked loudly; so much so, indeed, that they usually rested in his lap. Being long accustomed to eat and sleep in this situation, they would scarcely do either elsewhere: seeming to take great pleasure in looking at him, and putting their paws upon his neck; and thus the king got much amusement from their antics. Now, it happened that an ass, who noticed this familiarity, thought to himself, “If I should sing and dance before the king, and put my feet round his neck, he would feed me also upon the greatest dainties, and suffer me to rest in his lap.” Accordingly, quitting his stable, he entered the hall, and running up to the king, raised his clumsy feet with difficulty around the royal neck. The servants, not understanding the ass’s courteous intention, imagined that he was mad; and pulling him away, belaboured him soundly. He was then led back to the stable.*
APPLICATION.
My beloved, the king is Christ; the barking dogs are zealous preachers. The ass is any one who, without the necessary qualifications, presumes to take upon himself the interpretation of the word of God.
* We have here a new version of an Æsopian fable.
TALE LXXX.
OF THE CUNNING OF THE DEVIL, AND OF THE SECRET JUDGMENTS OF GOD.
THERE formerly lived a hermit, who in a remote cave passed night and day in the service of God. At no great distance from his cell a shepherd tended his flock. It happened that this person one day fell into a deep sleep, and in the mean time a robber, perceiving his carelessness, carried off his sheep. When the keeper awoke and discovered the theft, he began to swear in good set terms that he had lost his sheep; and where they were conveyed was totally beyond his knowledge. Now, the lord of the flock, when he heard this, was filled with rage, and commanded him to be put to death. This gave great umbrage to the hermit before mentioned. “Oh, Heaven,” said he to himself, “seest thou this deed? the innocent suffers for the guilty: why permittest thou such things? If thus injustice triumph, why do I remain here? I will again enter the world, and do as other men do.”
With these feelings he quitted his hermitage, and returned into the world; but God willed not that he should be lost: an angel in the form of a man was commissioned to join him. Accordingly, crossing the hermit’s path, he thus accosted him—“My friend, where are you going?” “I go,” said the other, “to the city before us.” “I will accompany you,” replied the angel; “I am a messenger from heaven, and come to be the associate of your way.” They walked on together towards the city. When they had entered, they entreated for the love of God* harbourage during the night at the house of a certain knight, who received them with cheerfulness, and entertained them with much magnificence. The knight had an only son lying in the cradle, whom he exceedingly loved. After supper, their bed-chamber was sumptuously decorated; and the angel retired with the hermit to rest. But about the middle of the night the former got up and strangled the sleeping infant. The hermit, horror-struck at what he witnessed, said within himself, “Never can this be an angel of God: the good knight gave him everything that was necessary; he had but this poor innocent, and this strange companion of mine has strangled him.” Yet he was afraid to reprove him.
In the morning both arose and went forward to another city, in which they were honourably entertained at the house of one of the inhabitants. This person possessed a superb golden cup which he highly valued; and which, during the night, the angel purloined. The hermit thought, “Verily, this is one of the lost angels; our host has treated us well, and yet he has robbed him.” But still he held his peace, for his apprehension was extreme. On the morrow they continued their journey; and as they walked they came to a certain river, over which a bridge was thrown; they ascended the bridge, and about mid-way a poor man met them. “My friend,” said the angel to him, “show us the way to yonder city.” The pilgrim turned, and pointed with his finger to the road they were to take; but as he turned, the angel seized him by the shoulders, and precipitated him into the stream below. At this the terrors of the hermit were again aroused—“It is the devil,” exclaimed he internally—“it is the devil, and no good angel! What evil had the poor man done that he should be drowned? “He would now have gladly departed alone; but was afraid to give utterance to the thoughts of his heart. About the hour of vespers they reached a city, in which they again sought shelter for the night; but the master of the house to whom they applied sharply refused it. “For the love of Heaven,” said the angel, “afford us a shelter, lest we fall a prey to the wolves and other wild beasts.” The man pointed to a stye—“That,” said he, “is inhabited by pigs; if it please you to lie there, you may—but to no other place will I admit you.” “If we can do no better,” returned the angel, “we must accept your ungracious offer.” They did so; and in the morning the angel, calling their host, said, “My friend, I give you this cup;” and he presented to him the stolen goblet. The hermit, more and more astonished at what he saw, said to himself, “Now I am certain this is the devil. The good man who received us with all kindness he despoiled, and gives the plunder to this fellow who refused us a lodging.” Turning to the angel, he exclaimed, “I will travel with you no longer. I commend you to God.” “Dear friend,” answered the angel, “first hear me, and then go thy way. When thou wert in thy hermitage, the owner of the flock unjustly put to death his servant. True it is he died innocently, but he had formerly done deeds for which he deserved to die. God allowed him to be slain, to enable him to escape the future consequences of those former sins of which he had not repented. But the guilty man who stole the sheep will suffer eternally, while the owner of the flock will repair, by alms and good works, that which he ignorantly committed. As for the son of the hospitable knight, whom I strangled in the cradle, know that before the boy was born he performed numerous works of charity and mercy, but afterwards grew parsimonious and covetous, in order to enrich the child, of which he was inordinately fond. This was the cause of its death; and now its distressed parent again is become a devout Christian. Then, for the cup which I purloined from him who received us so kindly, know that before the cup was made, there was not a more abstemious person in the world; but afterwards he took such pleasure in it, and drank from it so often, that he was intoxicated twice or thrice during the day. I took away the cup, and he has turned to his former sobriety. Again, I cast the pilgrim into the river; and know that he whom I drowned was a good Christian, but had he proceeded much further, he would have fallen into a mortal sin. Now he is saved, and reigns in celestial glory. Then, that I bestowed the cup upon the inhospitable citizen, know nothing is done without reason. He suffered us to occupy the swine-house, and I gave him a valuable consideration. But he will hereafter reign in hell. Put a guard, therefore, on thy lips, and detract not from the Almighty. For He knoweth all things.” The hermit, hearing this, fell at the feet of the angel and entreated pardon. He returned to his hermitage, and became a good and pious Christian. (7)
* The common mode of supplication, and will be frequently noticed in these volumes.
TALE LXXXI.
OF THE WONDERFUL DISPENSATIONS OF PROVIDENCE, AND OF THE RISE OF POPE GREGORY.
THE Emperor Marcus had an only son and daughter, to whom he was extremely attached. When he was much advanced in years, he was seized with a grievous sickness; and seeing his end approach, summoned into his presence the chief nobles of his empire. “My friends,” said he, “know that this day my spirit will return to the God who gave it. All my concern resides in an only daughter, whom I have not yet bestowed in marriage. Therefore, do thou, my son and heir, upon my blessing, provide for her an honourable and befitting husband; and as long as thou livest, value her as thine own self.” Saying these words, he turned toward the wall, and his spirit fled. The state made great lamentation, and interred him with much magnificence.
The young emperor commenced his reign with great wisdom, and in all that related to his sister strictly fulfilled
his father’s dying injunction. He seated her in the same chair with him at table, and assigned to her a separate couch in the same apartment that he occupied himself. Here began their unhappiness. Tempted by the devil, he gave way to the most horrible desires; and finally, in spite of the pleading of the wretched girl, violated every law both human and divine. Her tears, if tears could have retrieved the ignominy, had been enough: she wept bitterly, and refused all comfort; although the emperor attempted to console her, and evinced the excess of grief and love. About the middle of the year, as they sat at table, the brother narrowly scrutinized his sister’s looks. “My beloved sister,” said he, “why dost thou change colour? the upper part of thine eyelids darken.” “No wonder,” she returned, “for I bear the weight of thy most fearful wickedness.” Hearing this, the emperor felt his spirit sink within him, and turning round, wept very bitterly. “Perish,” said he, “the evil day that I was born; what is to be done?” “My brother,” said the lady, “hear me; we are not, alas, the first who have grievously offended God. There is, as you well know, a certain ancient knight, one of the most approved counsellors of our late father: call him hither, and, under the seal of confession, let us tell him the whole sad story; he will give us counsel how we may make atonement to God, and avoid disgrace before the world.” The emperor assented—“but,” said he, “let us study in the first place to be reconciled to God.” They were then both confessed, and their contrition was perfect as sincere. Afterwards sending for the knight, they revealed amid a flood of tears their crime. “My lord,” he replied, “since ye are reconciled to God, hear what I counsel. As well for your own sins, as for the sins of your father, hasten to the Holy Land; and before you embark, call together the noblemen of the kingdom, and explain to them your intent. And because your sister is your only heir, charge them to be obedient to her. Then, turning to me, command that she be placed under my custody; and that, as I value my life, she be securely and happily lodged. I will so provide that her parturition be kept secret, and every one remain ignorant of her fate—unless, indeed, my wife be made acquainted with it, in order to wait upon her in her necessity.” “You counsel well,” rejoined the king, “and I will do as you have said.”
Immediately the noblemen were summoned, and preparations made for the emperor’s departure to the Holy Land. His sister was conveyed to the knight’s castle; and when his wife beheld her she inquired whom he had brought. He answered, “The king’s sister; but, wife, swear to me by all that thou holdest sacred, on penalty of thy life, never to communicate to a living soul that which I am about to impart.” She swore accordingly; and the knight then informed her of the situation of the lady, and his desire that no one might attend her but herself. The obedient spouse promised compliance, and the lady was privately introduced into the hall appointed for her residence. She was splendidly attended, and when the time of her confinement came on, she was safely delivered of a beautiful boy. As soon as the knight understood this, he entreated permission to call in a priest for the purpose of performing the rite of baptism. But she positively refused, declaring that its shameful birth forbade her to interfere, since it would expose her to detection and disgrace. “Your crime indeed is heavy,” returned the knight, “but consider, should your child, therefore, perish immortally?” “My vow is registered in heaven,” said the lady; “I have sworn, nor will I add perjury to my faults. Moreover, I command you to prepare an empty cask.” The knight obeyed; and the lady, placing therein the cradle with the new-born boy, inscribed on small tablets the following words: “Know ye, to whomsoever chance may conduct this infant, that it is not baptized, because it is the unholy offspring of incestuous affection. For the love of God, then, cause it to be baptized. Under the child’s head you will discover a, quantity of gold, and with this let it be nurtured. At the feet is an equal weight of silver, designed to assist it in the future prosecution of study.” This done, she deposited the tablets by the infant’s side, the gold at the head, and the silver at its feet; then, enveloping it in silk garments embroidered with gold, she enclosed it in the cask, and directed the knight to cast it forthwith into the sea—trusting that, by the overruling providence of God, it might be carried into a place of safety. The knight faithfully executed the lady’s wishes; he threw the cask into the sea, and, standing upon the shore, watched its progress, until it was at length lost to his sight.
As he returned to his castle, a king’s messenger met him, whom he thus accosted: “Friend, whence come you?”
“From the Holy Land.”
“Indeed! what rumours are abroad?”
“My lord the king is dead; and we have brought his corpse to one of his own castles.”
Hearing this, the good knight could not refrain from tears. At that moment, his wife approached, and, learning the unwelcome tidings, joined her tears to his. But the knight, recovering somewhat of the dejection of spirit into which the intelligence had thrown him, said to his wife, “Weep not, I pray thee, lest our mistress should perceive it, and inquire the cause. It were better to keep silence on this unwelcome subject, until she be risen from her child-bed.” Saying this, the knight entered the queen’s apartment, followed by his wife. But the manifest sorrow on their countenances could not escape the penetration of the lady, and she eagerly asked the occasion. “Dear lady, we are not sad,” they said, “but rather joyful at your rapid recovery.” “That is not true,” replied she; “I conjure you, conceal nothing, be it for good or evil.” “A messenger,” answered the knight, “has just returned from the Holy Land, conveying intelligence of my lord, your brother.”
“What does the messenger say? Let him be called hither.”
This was done; and the lady asked after the king. “He is dead,” said the messenger, “and we have brought the body to his own kingdom, to be buried according to the rites of his country.” The lady, possessed of this fatal intelligence, fell upon the ground; and the knight and his wife, participating in her extreme grief, cast themselves beside her. For a length of time, they all three continued in this attitude; and so intense was their sorrow, that neither sound nor sense appeared remaining. The lady arose first; tore her hair, wounded her face, and exclaimed in a shrill voice, “Woe is me ! May that day perish in which I was conceived! May that night be no more remembered in which so great a wretch was born. How vast is my iniquity! In me all things are fulfilled. My hope is broken, and my strength; he was my only brother—the half of my soul. What I shall do hereafter, alas! I know not.” The knight arose and said, “Dearest lady, listen to me. If you suffer yourself to be thus concerned, the whole kingdom will perish. You only are left; and you are the lawful heir. Should you destroy yourself, the nation will remain at the mercy of foreign powers. Arise, then, and direct the body to be brought hither, and honourably interred. Afterwards, we will debate concerning the prosperity of the kingdom.” Quieted, if not comforted, by the knight’s words, she arose, and proceeded with a noble company to the castle, where her brother’s body lay. It was placed upon a bier; and no sooner had the queen entered, than she fell upon the corpse and kissed it, from the crown of his head, even to the soles of his feet. Now, the soldiers, perceiving the violent grief cf their queen, drew her from the bier, and led her into the hall; and then, with great pomp, carried the body to its sepulchre.
A short period after this, a certain Duke of Burgundy sent messengers to demand the lady in marriage; but she declared her fixed determination never to marry. Irritated at her refusal, the duke observed, “If she had married me, I should indeed have been king of the country; but since it is her pleasure to despise me, she who fills the throne shall enjoy little satisfaction.” Whereupon he collected his troops, and devastated every place to which he marched. He perpetrated an immensity of ill, and subdued all opposition. The queen, in this extremity, fled to a strongly fortified city, where there was a castle well appointed and defended; and here she continued many years.
Let us now return to the boy, who was thrown into the sea. The cask in wh
ich he was placed floated through many countries, until it reached, at length, a certain monastery, about the sixth festival.* On that day, the abbot of the monastery proceeded to the sea-shore, and said to his fishermen, “My friends, make ready to fish;” and whilst they were preparing their nets, the vessel was tossed by the motion of the waves upon the shore. The abbot observed it, and said to his servants, “See ye that cask? open it, and find out what is within.” They did so, and behold, it was a newly born boy covered with very rich clothing. No sooner had the child looked upon the abbot, than it smiled. The sight greatly concerned the worthy monk. “Oh, my God,” said he,” how comes it that we find a child in this deplorable situation?” Raising it with his own hands, he perceived the tablets under its side, which the mother had placed there; and when he had read them, he discovered that it was the offspring of an incestuous bed, and not yet baptized—and saw that this sacrament was implored, for the sake of Heaven; and that gold and silver were deposited for his nurture and education. When he had read this, and observed that the cradle was ornamented with rich cloth, he saw that the boy was of noble blood. He immediately baptized and called him after his own name, Gregory. He then intrusted him to a fisherman to nurse, with the gold and silver found upon him. The boy grew up universally beloved. In his seventh year the abbot provided for his studies, which he mastered in a surprising manner; insomuch that the monks were as fond of him as though he had been of their own order. In a short time he acquired more knowledge than them all.
It happened that one day, as he played at ball with the son of the fisherman, his presumed father, by chance he struck him with the ball. The lad wept bitterly, and running home, complained to his mother that he had been struck by his brother Gregory. Instantly the angry mother issued out of doors, and harshly reproved him, exclaiming, “Audacious little vagabond, why hast thou struck my son? Thou!—of whose origin and country we know nothing—how darest thou do this?” “Dear mother,” answered Gregory, “am I not your son? Why do yon speak to me in this manner?” “My son!” said the woman; “no, in good troth; neither do I know whose thou art. All I know is that thou wert one day discovered in a cask, and that the abbot delivered thee to me to bring up.” When the boy heard this he burst into tears, ran hastily to the superior, and said, “Oh, my lord, I have been a long time with you, and I believed that I was the fisherman’s son; but I learn that it is not so: consequently, I am ignorant who my parents are. If it please you, my lord, suffer me to become a soldier, for here I will not remain.” “My son,” said the abbot, “think not of it. The monks all love you, and I doubt not, after my decease, will promote you to the abbacy.” “My good lord,” answered Gregory, “I know not my parents, and I will not continue longer than I can help in this intolerable suspense.” The abbot, finding solicitation useless, entered the treasury and brought to him the tablets which he had found in the cradle. “My son,” he said, “read this; and what you are will be clear to you.” When he had read, he fell to the earth, and exclaimed, “Alas! are such, then, my parents ? I will hasten to the Holy Land, and do battle for the sins of the unhappy authors of my being; and there I will end my life. I entreat you, therefore, my lord, without delay to make me a knight.”* The abbot complied, and when his departure was made known, the whole convent and neighbourhood were loud in their lamentation.
