Gesta Romanorum

by Charles Swan

  An early banquet deck’d the splendid hall;

  Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac’d,

  Which the kind master forc’d his guests to taste.

  Then pleas’d and thankful, from the porch they go;

  And, but the landlord, none had cause for woe;

  His cup was vanish’d; for in secret guise,

  The younger guest purloin’d the glittering prize.

  As one who spies a serpent in his way,

  Glist’ning and basking in the sunny ray,

  Disorder’d stops to shun the danger near,

  Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;

  So seem’d the sire ; when, far upon the road,

  The shining spoil his wily partner shew’d :

  He stopp’d with silence, walk’d with trembling heart,

  And much he wish’d, but durst not ask, to part;

  Murm’ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard

  That gen’rous actions meet a base reward.

  While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,

  The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;

  A sound in air presag’d approaching rain,

  And beasts to covert scud across the plain.

  Warn’d by the signs, the wand’ring pair retreat,

  To seek for shelter at a neighb’ring seat.

  ’Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,

  And strong, and large, and unimprov’d around;

  Its owner’s temper, tim’rous and severe,

  Unkind and griping, caus’d a desert there.

  As near the miser’s heavy doors they drew,

  Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew;

  The nimble light’ning mix’d with show’rs began,

  And o’er their heads loud rolling thunders ran.

  Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,

  Driv’n by the wind, and batter’d by the rain.

  At length some pity warm’d the master’s breast,

  (’Twas then his threshold first receiv’d a guest,)

  Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,

  And half he welcomes in the shiv’ring pair;

  One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,

  And nature’s fervour thro’ their limbs recalls:

  Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager1 wine,

  (Each hardly granted) served them both to dine

  And when the tempest first appear’d to cease,

  A ready warning bade them part in peace.

  With still remark the pond’ring hermit view’d,

  In one so rich, a life so poor and rude:

  ‘And why should such,’ within himself he cried,

  ‘Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? ’

  But what new marks of wonder soon took place,

  In every settling feature of his face;

  When from his vest the young companion bore

  That cup the gen’rous landlord own’d before,

  And paid profusely with the precious bowl

  The stinted kindness of the churlish soul.

  But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;

  The sun emerging opes an azure sky;

  A fresher green the smelling leaves display,

  And, glitt’ring as they tremble, cheer the day;

  The weather tempts them from the poor retreat,

  And the glad master bolts the wary gate.

  While hence they walk, the pilgrim’s bosom wrought

  With all the travel of uncertain thought;

  His partner’s acts without their cause appear,

  ’Twas there a vice and seem’d a madness here,

  Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,

  Lost and confounded with the various shows.

  Now night’s dim shades again involve the sky,

  Again the wand’rers want a place to lie;

  Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.

  The soil improv’d around, the mansion neat,

  And neither poorly low, nor idly great:

  It. seem’d to speak its master’s turn of mind,

  Content,—and not for praise, but virtue kind.

  Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,

  Then bless the mansion, and the master greet:

  Their greeting fair, bestow’d with modest guise,

  The modest master hears, and thus replies:

  ‘Without a vain, without a grudging heart,

  To him, who gives us all, I yield a part;

  From him you come, for him accept it here,

  A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.’

  He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,

  Then talk’d of virtue till the time of bed,

  When the grave household round his hall repair,

  Warn’d by a bell, and close the hours with pray’r.

  At length the world, renew’d by calm repose,

  Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose;

  Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept

  Near the clos’d cradle, where an infant slept,

  And writh’d his neck: the landlord’s little pride,

  O strange return ! grew black, and gasp’d, and died.

  Horrors of horrors! what! his only son !

  How look’d the hermit when the fact was done;

  Not hell, tho’ hell’s black jaws in sunder part,

  And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.

  Confus’d, and struck with silence at the deed,

  He flies, but trembling fails to fly with speed.

  His steps the youth pursues: the country lay

  Perplex’d with roads, a servant show’d the way:

  A river cross’d the path; the passage o’er

  Was nice to find; the servant trod before;

  Long arms of oak an open bridge supplied,

  And deep the waves beneath the bending branches glide.

  The youth, who seem’d to watch a time for sin,

  Approach’d the careless guide, and thrust him in:

  Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head,

  Then flashing turns, and sinks amongst the dead.

  Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father’s eyes,

  He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,

  ‘Detested wretch ’—but scarce his speech began,

  When the strange partner seem’d no longer man.

  His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;

  His robe turn’d white and flow’d upon his feet;

  Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;

  Celestial odours breathe thro’ purple air;

  And wings, whose colours glitter’d on the day,

  Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.

  The form etherial bursts upon his sight,

  And moves in all the majesty of light.

  Tho’ loud at first the pilgrim’s passion grew,

  Sudden he gaz’d, and wist not what to do ;

  Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,

  And in a calm his settling temper ends.

  But silence here the beauteous angel broke,

  (The voice of Music ravish’d as he spoke):

  ‘Thy pray’r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,

  In sweet memorial rise before the throne:

  These charms success in our bright region find,

  And force an angel down to calm thy mind;

  For this commission’d, I forsook the sky:—

  Nay, cease to kneel—thy fellow-servant I.

  ‘Then know the truth of government divine,

  And let these scruples be no longer thine.

  The Maker justly claims the world he made,

  In this the right of Providence is laid;

  Its sacred majesty thro’ all depends,

  On using second means to work his ends;

  ’Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye
,

  The Power exerts his attributes on high,

  Your action uses, nor controls your will,

  And bids the doubting sons of men be still.

  ‘What strange events can strike with more surprise,

  Than those which lately struck thy wond’ring eyes ?

  Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just,

  And, where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust!

  ‘The great vain man, who far’d on costly food,

  Whose life was too luxurious to be good;

  Who made his iv’ry stands with goblets shine,

  And forc’d his guests to morning draughts of wine,

  Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,

  And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

  ‘The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door

  Ne’er mov’d in pity to the wand’ring poor;

  With him I left the cup, to teach his mind

  That Heav’n can bless, if mortals will be kind.

  Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,

  And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.

  Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,

  With heaping coals of fire upon his head;

  In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,

  And loose from dross the silver runs below.

  ‘Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,

  But now the child half-wean’d his heart from God ;

  (Child of his age) for him he liv’d in pain,

  And measur’d back his steps to earth again.

  To what excesses had his dotage run ?

  But God, to save the father, took the son.

  To all, but thee, in fits he seem’d to go,

  (And ’twas my ministry to deal the blow,)

  The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,

  Now owns in tears the punishment was just.

  ‘But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack,

  Had that false servant sped in safety back ;

  This night his treasur’d heaps he meant to steal,

  And what a fund of charity would fail!

  Thus Heav’n instructs thy mind: this trial o’er,

  Depart in peace, resign and sin no more.’

  On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,

  The sage stood wond’ring as the seraph flew.

  Thus look’d Elisha, when to mount on high,

  His Master took the chariot of the sky;

  The fiery pomp ascending left the view;

  The prophet gaz’d, and wish’d to follow too.

  The bending hermit here a pray’r begun,

  ‘LORD, AS IN HEAV’N, ON EARTH THY WILL BE DONE.’

  Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place,

  And pass’d a life of piety and peace.”

  “The same apologue occurs, with some slight additions and variations for the worse, in Howell’s LETTERS; who professes to have taken it from the speculative Sir Philip Herbert’s CONCEPTIONS to his Son, a book which I have never seen. These Letters were published about the year 1650. It is also found in the DIVINE DIALOGUES of Doctor Henry More, who has illustrated its important moral with the following fine reflections:—

  “‘The affairs of this world are like a curious, but intricately contrived comedy; and we cannot judge of the tendency of what is past, or acting at present, before the entrance of the last act, which shall bring in righteousness in triumph: who, though she hath abided many a brunt, and has been very cruelly and despitefully used hitherto in the world, yet at last, according to our desires, we shall see the knight overcome the giant. For what is the reason we are so much pleased with the reading romances and the fictions of the poets, but that here, as Aristotle says, things are set down as they should be; but in the true history hitherto of the world, things are recorded indeed as they are, but it is but a testimony, that they have not been as they should be? Wherefore, in the upshot of all, when we shall see that come to pass that so mightily pleases us in the reading the most ingenious plays and heroic poems, that long afflicted virtue at last comes to the crown, the mouth of all unbelievers must be for ever stopped. And for my own part, I doubt not but that it will so come to pass in the close of the world. But impatiently to call for vengeance upon every enormity before that time, is rudely to overturn the stage before the entrance into the fifth act, out of ignorance of the plot of the comedy; and to prevent the solemnity of the general judgment by more paltry and particular executions.’

  “Pamell seems to have chiefly followed the story as it is told by this Platonic theologist, who had not less imagination than learning. Pope used to say that it was originally written in Spanish. This I do not believe: but from the early connection between the Spaniards and Arabians, this assertion tends to confirm the suspicion that it was an oriental tale.”1—WARTON.

  NOTE 8. Page 176.

  “In Adam Davie’s Gest, or romance of Alexander Nectabanus, a king and magician, discovers the machinations of his enemies by embattling them in figures of wax. This is the most extensive necromantic operation of the kind that I remember, and must have formed a puppet-show equal to the most splendid pantomime.

  “Barons were whilome wise and good,

  That this art well understood:

  And one there was Nectabanus

  Wise in this art, and malicious:

  When king or earl came on him to war,

  Quick he looked in the star;

  Of wax made him puppéts,

  And made them fight with bats:2

  And so he learned, je vous dis,

  Ay to quell his enemy,

  With charms and with conjurisons:3

  Thus he essayed the regiouns,

  That him came for to assail,

  In very manner of battaile;

  By clear candle in the night,

  He made each one with other fight,

  Of all manner of nations

  That comen by ship or dromouns,4

  At the last, of many londe

  Kings thereof had great onde,5

  Well thirty6 y-gathered beoth,

  And bespeaketh all his death,

  King Philip of great thede,7

  Master was of that fede.8

  He was a man of mighty hand,

  And with him brought, of divers land,

  Nine and twenty rich kings

  To make on him bataylings:1

  Nectabanus it understood;

  Y-changed was all his mood;

  He was afraid sore of harm :

  Anon he did cast his charm,

  His image he made anon,

  And of his barons every one,

  And afterward of his fone2

  He made them together gone3

  In a basin all by charm:

  He saw on him fall the harm;

  He saw fly of his bardns

  Of all his land distinctions,4

  He looked, and knew in the star,

  Of all these kings the great war.

  “Afterwards he frames an knage of the qneen Olympias, or Olympia, while sleeping, whom he violates in the shape of a dragon.

  “The lady lay upon her bed,

  Covered well with silken web

  In a chaysel5 smock she lay,

  And in a mantle of douay;6

  Of the brightness of her face

  All about shone the place,—

  Herbs he took in an herber,7

  And stamped them in a mortar,

  And wrung it in a box:

  After, he took virgin wox,8

  And made a puppet of the queen,

  His art-table he ‘gan unwene ;9

  The queen’s name in the wax he wrote,

  While it was some deal hot:

  In a bed he it dight,

  All about with candle-light,

  And spread thereon of the herbis:

  Thus charmed Nectanabus.

  The lady in her bed lay

  About midnight, ere the da
y,

  Whiles he made conjuring;

  She saw fly in her metyng10

  She thought a dragon light;

  To her chamber he made his flight,

  In he came to her bower

  And crept under her coverture.”

  “Theocritus, Virgil, and Horace have left instances of incantations conducted by figures in wax. In the beginning of the last century, many witches were executed for attempting the lives of persons, by fabricating representations of them in wax and clay. King James the First, in his DÆMONOLOGIE, speaks of the practice as very common ; the efficacy of which he peremptorily ascribes to the power of the devil.1 His majesty’s arguments, intended to prove how the magician’s image operated on the person represented, are drawn from the depths of moral, theological, physical, and metaphysical knowledge. The Arabian magic abounded with these infatuations, which were partly founded on the doctrine of sympathy.

  “But to return to the GESTA ROMANORUM. In this story one of the magicians is styled magister peritus, and sometimes simply magister. That is, a cunning man. The title magister in our universities has its origin from the use of this word in the Middle Ages. With what propriety it is now continued I will not say. Mystery, anciently used for a particular art,2 or skill in general, is a specious and easy corruption of maistery or mastery, the English of the Latin MAGIS-TERIUM, or artificium; in French maistrise, mestier, mestrie, and in Italian magisterio, with the same sense.”3—WARTON.

  “Niderus,” says Hey wood (Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels, p. 475), “speaketh of one Œniponte, a most notorious witch, who, by making a picture of wax, and pricking it with needles in divers parts, and then burying it under the threshold of her neighbour’s house, whom she much hated, she was tormented by such grievous and insufferable prickings in her flesh, as if so many needles had been then sticking at once in her body. But the image being found and burned, she was instantly restored to her former health and strength.”

  These kinds of tales are innumerable, and appear to have been most implicitly believed.

  NOTE 9. Page 180.

  This is an Eastern fiction, and is thus told in the Turkish Tales:—

  “STORY OF A KING, A SOFI, AND A SURGEON.

  “An ancient king of Tartary went abroad one day to take a walk with his beys. He met on the road an abdal, who. cried out aloud, ‘Whoever will give me a hundred dinaras, I will give him some good advice.’ The king stopped to look on him, and said,’ Abdal, what is this good advice thou offerest for a hundred dinaras?’ ‘Sir (answered the abdal), order that sum to be given me, and I will tell it you immediately.’ The king did so; and expected to have heard something extraordinary for his money; when the dervise said to him, ‘Sir, my advice is this; Never begin any thing till you have reflected what will be the end of it.’