No More Learning

Were virtue by descent, a noble name
Could never villanize his father's fame;
But, as the first, the last of all the line,
Would, like the sun, even in descending shine.
Take fire, and bear it to the darkest house,
Betwixt king Arthur's court and Caucasus,
If you depart, the flame shall still remain,
And the bright blaze enlighten all the plain;
Nor, till the fuel perish, can decay,
By nature formed on things combustible to prey.
Such is not man, who, mixing better seed
With worse, begets a base degenerate breed.
The bad corrupts the good, and leaves behind
No trace of all the great begetter's mind.
The father sinks within his son, we see,
And often rises in the third degree;
If better luck a better mother give,
Chance gave us being, and by chance we live.
Such as our atoms were, even such are we, }
Or call it chance, or strong necessity: }
Thus loaded with dead weight, the will is free. }
And thus it needs must be; for seed conjoined
Lets into nature's work the imperfect kind;
But fire, the enlivener of the general frame,
Is one, its operation still the same.
Its principle is in itself: while ours
Works, as confederates war, with mingled powers;
Or man or woman, which soever fails;
And, oft, the vigour of the worse prevails.
Æther, with sulphur blended, alters hue,
And casts a dusky gleam of Sodom blue.
Thus, in a brute, their ancient honour ends,
And the fair mermaid in a fish descends:
The line is gone; no longer duke or earl;
But, by himself degraded, turns a churl.
Nobility of blood is but renown }
Of thy great fathers by their virtue known, }
And a long trail of light, to thee descending down. }
If in thy smoke it ends, their glories shine;
But infamy and villanage are thine.
Then what I said before is plainly showed,
That true nobility proceeds from God:
Not left us by inheritance, but given
By bounty of our stars, and grace of heaven.
Thus from a captive Servius Tullius rose,
Whom for his virtues the first Romans chose.
Fabricius from their walls repelled the foe,
Whose noble hands had exercised the plough.
From hence, my lord, and love, I thus conclude,
That, though my homely ancestors were rude,
Mean as I am, yet I may have the grace
To make you father of a generous race.
And noble then am I, when I begin,
In virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin.
If poverty be my upbraided crime,
And you believe in heaven, there was a time
When he, the great controller of our fate,
Deigned to be man, and lived in low estate;
Which he who had the world at his dispose,
If poverty were vice, would never choose.
Philosophers have said, and poets sing,
That a glad poverty's an honest thing;
Content is wealth, the riches of the mind,
And happy he who can that treasure find;
But the base miser starves amidst his store, }
Broods on his gold, and, griping still at more, }
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor; }
The ragged beggar, though he wants relief,
Has not to lose, and sings before the thief. [210]
Want is a bitter and a hateful good,
Because its virtues are not understood.
Yet many things, impossible to thought,
Have been, by need, to full perfection brought:
The daring of the soul proceeds from thence,
Sharpness of wit, and active diligence;
Prudence at once, and fortitude, it gives,
And, if in patience taken, mends our lives;
For even that indigence, that brings me low,
Makes me myself, and him above, to know;
A good which none would challenge, few would choose,
A fair possession, which mankind refuse.
If we from wealth to poverty descend,
Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
If I am old and ugly, well for you,
No lewd adulterer will my love pursue;
Nor jealousy, the bane of married life,
Shall haunt you for a withered homely wife;
For age and ugliness, as all agree,
Are the best guards of female chastity.
Yet since I see your mind is worldly bent,
I'll do my best to further your content;
And therefore of two gifts in my dispose,--
Think ere you speak,--I grant you leave to choose:
Would you I should be still deformed and old,
Nauseous to touch, and loathsome to behold;
On this condition, to remain for life
A careful, tender, and obedient wife,
In all I can contribute to your ease,
And not in deed, or word, or thought displease?
Or would you rather have me young and fair,
And take the chance that happens to your share?
Temptations are in beauty, and in youth.
And how can you depend upon my truth?
Now weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss,
And thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss,--
Sore sighed the knight, who this long sermon heard;
At length considering all, his heart he cheered,
And thus replied:--My lady, and my wife,
To your wise conduct I resign my life:
Choose you for me, for well you understand
The future good and ill, on either hand:
But if an humble husband may request,
Provide, and order all things for the best;
Your's be the care to profit, and to please,
And let your subject-servant take his ease. --
Then thus in peace, quoth she, concludes the strife,
Since I am turned the husband, you the wife:
The matrimonial victory is mine,
Which, having fairly gained, I will resign;
Forgive, if I have said or done amiss,
And seal the bargain with a friendly kiss.
I promised you but one content to share,
But now I will become both good and fair.
No nuptial quarrel shall disturb your ease;
The business of my life shall be to please:
And for my beauty, that, as time shall try;
But draw the curtain first, and cast your eye. --
He looked, and saw a creature heavenly fair,
In bloom of youth, and of a charming air.
With joy he turned, and seized her ivory arm;
And, like Pygmalion, found the statue warm.
Small arguments there needed to prevail,
A storm of kisses poured as thick as hail.
Thus long in mutual bliss they lay embraced,
And their first love continued to the last;
One sunshine was their life, no cloud between,
Nor ever was a kinder couple seen.
And so may all our lives like their's be led;
Heaven send the maids young husbands fresh in bed!
May widows wed as often as they can,
And ever for the better change their man.
And some devouring plague pursue their lives,
Who will not well be governed by their wives.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 204: Derrick, _glance_. ]

[Footnote 205: The disappearance of the Fairies, which Chaucer ascribes
to the exercitation of the friars, a latter bard, in the same vein of
irony, imputes to the Reformation:

By which we note the fairies,
Were of the old profession;
Their songs were Ave Marie's;
Their dances were procession.

But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.

See "The Fairies Farewell," a lively little song, by the witty Bishop
Corbet. ]

[Footnote 206: Our author, to whom, now so far advanced in life, the
recollection of some of his plays could not be altogether pleasant, is
willing to seek an excuse for their licence in the debauchery of Charles
and of his court. The attack of Collier had been too just to admit of
its being denied; and our author, like other people, was content to make
excuses where defence was impossible. ]

[Footnote 207: Or Ganore, or Vanore, or Guenever, the wife of Arthur in
romance. ]

[Footnote 208: Ovid, indeed, tells the story in the Metamor. lib. xi.
But how will the fair reader excuse Chaucer for converting the talkative
male domestic of Midas into that king's wife? ]

[Footnote 209: The sound which the bittern produces by suction among the
roots of water plants, is provincially called _bumping_. ]

[Footnote 210:

_Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator. _

JUVENAL, Satire X.
]




THE

CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON.


This beautiful copy of a beautiful original makes us regret, that Dryden
had not translated the whole Introduction to the "Canterbury Tales," in
which the pilgrims are so admirably described. Something might have been
lost for want of the ancient Gothic lore, which the writers of our
poet's period did not think proper to study; but when Dryden's learning
failed, his native stores of fancy and numbers would have helped him
through the task.

"The Character of the Good Priest" may be considered as an _amende
honorable_ to the reverend order whom Dryden had often satirized, and he
himself seems to wish it to be viewed in that light. See Preface, p.
225. With a freedom which he has frequently employed elsewhere, Dryden
has added the last forty lines, in which, availing himself of the
Revolution, which in Chaucer's time placed Henry IV. on the throne, he
represents the political principles of his priest as the same with those
of the non-juring clergy of his own day. Indeed, the whole piece is
greatly enlarged upon Chaucer's sketch.




THE

CHARACTER

OF

A GOOD PARSON.


A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor, }
(As God had clothed his own ambassador;) }
For such on earth his blessed Redeemer bore. }
Of sixty years he seemed, and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense,
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere;
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see,
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity;
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was armed,
Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charmed.
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft, with holy hymns, he charmed their ears,
(A music more melodious than the spheres,)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look,
But sweetly tempered awe, and softened all he spoke.
He preached the joys of heaven, and pains of hell, }
And warned the sinner with becoming zeal; }
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. }
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive, but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapped in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightnings and thunder, (heaven's artillery,)
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.
The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took,
But never sued, or cursed with bell and book;
With patience bearing wrong, but offering none,
Since every man is free to lose his own.
The country churls, according to their kind,
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind,)
The less he sought his offerings, pinched the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.
Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famished, and to clothe the bare;
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
True priests, he said, and preachers of the word,
Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord;
Nothing was theirs, but all the public store;
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor;
Who, should they steal, for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief.
Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distressed;
Tempting on foot alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.
All this, the good old man performed alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none.
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold;
But duly watched his flock by night and day, }
And from the prowling wolf redeemed the prey, }
And hungry sent the wily fox away. }
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheered;
Nor to rebuke the rich offender feared.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought;
(A living sermon of the truths he taught;)
For this by rules severe his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard.
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest;
(The gold of heaven, who bear the God impressed;)
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.
The prelate, for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised;
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show,
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind, }
These marks of church and churchmen he designed, }
And living taught, and dying left behind. }
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn;
In purple he was crucified, not born.
They, who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.
Not but he knew the signs of earthly power
Might well become Saint Peter's successor;
The Holy Father holds a double reign,
The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain. [211]
Such was the saint, who shone with every grace,
Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face.
God saw his image lively was expressed;
And his own work, as in creation, blessed.
The tempter saw him too with envious eye,
And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.
He took the time when Richard was deposed,
And high and low with happy Harry closed.
This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood:
Near though he was, yet not the next of blood.
Had Richard, unconstrained, resigned the throne, }
A king can give no more than is his own: }
The title stood entailed, had Richard had a son. }
Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside;
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by Providence
Was, by a flattering priest, invented since;
And lasts no longer than the present sway,
But justifies the next who comes in play.
The people's right remains; let those who dare
Dispute their power, when they the judges are.
He joined not in their choice, because he knew
Worse might, and often did, from change ensue.
Much to himself he thought, but little spoke;
And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.
Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretched,
And like a primitive apostle preached.
Still cheerful; ever constant to his call;
By many followed; loved by most, admired by all.
With what he begged, his brethren he relieved,
And gave the charities himself received;
Gave, while he taught; and edified the more,
Because he shewed, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor.
He went not, with the crowd, to see a shrine;
But fed us, by the way, with food divine.
In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To shew you what the rest in orders were:
This brilliant is so spotless, and so bright,
He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.

[Footnote 211: This passage is obviously introduced by the author, to
apologize for the splendid establishment of the clergy of his own
community. What follows, applies, as has been noticed, to the non-juring
clergy, who lost their benefices for refusing the oath of allegiance to
King William. ]




FABLES.

TRANSLATIONS FROM BOCCACE.




SIGISMONDA AND GUISCARDO.


This celebrated tale was probably taken by Boccacio from some ancient
chronicle or traditional legend. It excited great attention among the
learned of his time, and was translated into Latin by Leonardo Aretino.
Francesco di Michele Accolti de Arezzo, who was accounted one of the
best civilians of his age, rendered into Italian verse the lamentation
of Sigismonda over her lover's heart; and the learned Philip Beroald
made a Latin poetical version of the whole fable. Translations and
imitations without number have been executed in foreign languages,
without mentioning the tragedies which have been founded upon it. In
England, the story was translated and versified in the octave stanza by
William Walter, a follower of Sir Henry Marney, chancellor of the duchy
of Lancaster. [212] A prose translation is to be found in Painter's
"Palace of Pleasure;" and the tale being wrought into a tragedy by
Robert Wilmot and others, was presented before Queen Elizabeth, at the
Inner Temple, in 1568. [213] Dryden will not readily be suspected of
deriving much aid from his black-lettered predecessors. He made
Boccacio's story his own, and told it in his own way. One gross fault he
has engrafted upon his original; I mean the coarseness of Sigismonda's
character, whose love is that of temperament, not of affection. This
error, grounded upon Dryden's false view of the passion and of the
female character, and perhaps arising from the depravity of the age
rather than of the poet, pervades and greatly injures the effect of the
tale. Yet it is more than counterbalanced by preponderating beauties.
Without repeating the praise, elsewhere given to the majesty of the
poet's versification, and which this piece alone would be sufficient to
justify, the reader's attention may be solicited to the colours with
which Dryden has drawn a mind wrought up to the highest pitch of
despair. Sigismonda is placed in that situation, in which, above all
others, the human disposition seems to acquire a sort of supernatural
strength or obstinacy: for although guilty of a crime, she is punished
in a degree far exceeding the measure of the offence. In such a
situation, that acuteness of feeling, which would otherwise waste itself
in fluctuations betwixt shame, fear, and remorse, is willingly and
eagerly turned into the channel of resistance and recrimination; and
perhaps no readier mode can be discovered of hardening the human heart,
even to the consistence of the nether millstone. It is in this state,
that Sigismonda resolutely, and even joyfully, embraces death, in order
to punish her father, and rejoin her lover. The previous arguments with
Tancred, sufficiently, and, in the circumstances, naturally, intimate
the tone of her mind, and are a striking instance of Dryden's power in
painting passion wrought up to desperation.

The scene is laid in the middle ages, when the principality of Salerno
was ruled by a dynasty of Norman princes, deriving their family from the
celebrated Robert de Guiscard.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 212: He flourished in the reign of Henry VII. ; and his work,
entitled, "The Stately Tragedy of Guiscard and Sigismond," is printed in
1597, probably from an earlier edition. ]

[Footnote 213: It was published by Wilmot, in 1592, under the title of
"The Tragedy of Tancred and Gismund," and occurs in the 2d volume of
Dodsley's old plays. ]




SIGISMONDA

AND

GUISCARDO.


While Norman Tancred in Salerno reigned,
The title of a gracious prince he gained;
Till turned a tyrant in his latter days,
He lost the lustre of his former praise,
And, from the bright meridian where he stood
Descending, dipped his hands in lovers' blood.
This prince, of fortune's favour long possessed,
Yet was with one fair daughter only blessed;
And blessed he might have been with her alone,
But oh! how much more happy had he none!
She was his care, his hope, and his delight,
Most in his thought, and ever in his sight:
Next, nay beyond his life, he held her dear;
She lived by him, and now he lived in her.
For this, when ripe for marriage, he delayed
Her nuptial bands, and kept her long a maid,
As envying any else should share a part
Of what was his, and claiming all her heart.
At length, as public decency required,
And all his vassals eagerly desired,
With mind averse, he rather underwent
His people's will, than gave his own consent.
So was she torn as from a lover's side,
And made, almost in his despite, a bride.
Short were her marriage-joys; for in the prime
Of youth, her lord expired before his time;
And to her father's court in little space }
Restored anew, she held a higher place; }
More loved, and more exalted into grace. }
This princess, fresh and young, and fair and wise,
The worshipped idol of her father's eyes,
Did all her sex in every grace exceed,
And had more wit beside than women need.
Youth, health, and ease, and most an amorous mind, }
To second nuptials had her thoughts inclined, }
And former joys had left a secret sting behind. }
But, prodigal in every other grant,
Her sire left unsupplied her only want;
And she, betwixt her modesty and pride,
Her wishes, which she could not help, would hide.
Resolved at last to lose no longer time,
And yet to please herself without a crime,
She cast her eyes around the court, to find
A worthy subject suiting to her mind,
To him in holy nuptials to be tied,
A seeming widow, and a secret bride.
Among the train of courtiers, one she found
With all the gifts of bounteous nature crowned;
Of gentle blood, but one whose niggard fate
Had set him far below her high estate:
Guiscard his name was called, of blooming age,
Now squire to Tancred, and before his page:
To him, the choice of all the shining crowd,
Her heart the noble Sigismonda vowed.
Yet hitherto she kept her love concealed,
And with close glances every day beheld
The graceful youth; and every day increased
The raging fire that burned within her breast:
Some secret charm did all his acts attend,
And what his fortune wanted, hers could mend;
Till, as the fire will force its outward way,
Or, in the prison pent, consume the prey,
So long her earnest eyes on his were set,
At length their twisted rays together met;
And he, surprised with humble joy, surveyed
One sweet regard, shot by the royal maid.
Not well assured, while doubtful hopes he nursed,
A second glance came gliding like the first;
And he, who saw the sharpness of the dart,
Without defence received it in his heart.
In public, though their passion wanted speech,
Yet mutual looks interpreted for each:
Time, ways, and means of meeting, were denied;
But all those wants ingenious love supplied.
The inventive God, who never fails his part,
Inspires the wit, when once he warms the heart.
When Guiscard next was in the circle seen,
Where Sigismonda held the place of queen,
A hollow cane within her hand she brought,
But in the concave had inclosed a note;
With this she seemed to play, and, as in sport,
Tossed to her love, in presence of the court:
Take it, she said; and when your needs require,
This little brand will serve to light your fire. --
He took it with a bow, and soon divined
The seeming toy was not for nought designed:
But when retired, so long with curious eyes
He viewed the present, that he found the prize.
Much was in little writ; and all conveyed }
With cautious care, for fear to be betrayed }
By some false confident, or favourite maid. }
The time, the place, the manner how to meet,
Were all in punctual order plainly writ:
But since a trust must be, she thought it best }
To put it out of laymen's power at least, }
And for their solemn vows prepared a priest. }
Guiscard (her secret purpose understood)
With joy prepared to meet the coming good;
Nor pains nor danger was resolved to spare,
But use the means appointed by the fair.
Near the proud palace of Salerno stood
A mount of rough ascent, and thick with wood;
Through this a cave was dug with vast expence,
The work it seemed of some suspicious prince,
Who, when abusing power with lawless might,
From public justice would secure his flight.
The passage made by many a winding way,
Reached even the room in which the tyrant lay.
Fit for his purpose, on a lower floor
He lodged, whose issue was an iron door;
From whence, by stairs descending to the ground,
In the blind grot a safe retreat he found.
Its outlet ended in a brake o'ergrown
With brambles, choked by time, and now unknown.
A rift there was, which from the mountain's height
Conveyed a glimmering and malignant light,
A breathing place to draw the damps away,
A twilight of an intercepted day.
The tyrant's den, whose use, though lost to fame,
Was now the apartment of the royal dame;
The cavern, only to her father known,
By him was to his darling daughter shewn.
Neglected long she let the secret rest,
Till love recalled it to her labouring breast,
And hinted as the way by heaven designed,
The teacher, by the means he taught, to blind.
What will not women do, when need inspires
Their wit, or love their inclination fires!
Though jealousy of state the invention found,
Yet love refined upon the former ground.
That way, the tyrant had reserved to fly
Pursuing hate, now served to bring two lovers nigh.
The dame, who long in vain had kept the key,
Bold by desire, explored the secret way;
Now tried the stairs, and wading through the night,
Searched all the deep recess, and issued into light.
All this her letter had so well explained,
The instructed youth might compass what remained;
The cavern mouth alone was hard to find,
Because the path, disused, was out of mind:
But in what quarter of the copse it lay,
His eye by certain level could survey:
Yet (for the wood perplexed with thorns he knew)
A frock of leather o'er his limbs he drew;[214]
And, thus provided, searched the brake around,
Till the choked entry of the cave he found.
Thus, all prepared, the promised hour arrived,
So long expected, and so well contrived:
With love to friend, the impatient lover went,
Fenced from the thorns, and trod the deep descent.
The conscious priest, who was suborned before,
Stood ready posted at the postern door;
The maids in distant rooms were sent to rest,
And nothing wanted but the invited guest.
He came, and, knocking thrice without delay,
The longing lady heard, and turned the key;
At once invaded him with all her charms,
And the first step he made was in her arms:
The leathern outside, boisterous as it was,
Gave way, and bent beneath her strict embrace:
On either side the kisses flew so thick,
That neither he nor she had breath to speak.
The holy man, amazed at what he saw,
Made haste to sanctify the bliss by law;
And muttered fast the matrimony o'er,
For fear committed sin should get before.
His work performed, he left the pair alone, }
Because he knew he could not go too soon; }
His presence odious, when his task was done. }
What thoughts he had beseems not me to say; }
Though some surmise he went to fast and pray, }
And needed both to drive the tempting thoughts away. }
The foe once gone, they took their full delight;
'Twas restless rage, and tempest all the night;
For greedy love each moment would employ,
And grudged the shortest pauses of their joy.
Thus were their loves auspiciously begun,
And thus with secret care were carried on.
The stealth itself did appetite restore,
And looked so like a sin, it pleased the more.
The cave was now become a common way,
The wicket, often opened, knew the key:
Love rioted secure, and, long enjoyed,
Was ever eager, and was never cloyed.
But as extremes are short, of ill and good,
And tides at highest mark regorge the flood;
So fate, that could no more improve their joy,
Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.
Tancred, who fondly loved, and whose delight
Was placed in his fair daughter's daily sight,
Of custom, when his state affairs were done,
Would pass his pleasing hours with her alone;
And, as a father's privilege allowed,
Without attendance of the officious crowd.
It happened once, that when in heat of day
He tried to sleep, as was his usual way,
The balmy slumber fled his wakeful eyes,
And forced him, in his own despite, to rise:
Of sleep forsaken, to relieve his care,
He sought the conversation of the fair;
But with her train of damsels she was gone,
In shady walks the scorching heat to shun:
He would not violate that sweet recess,
And found besides a welcome heaviness,
That seized his eyes; and slumber, which forgot
When called before to come, now came unsought.
From light retired, behind his daughter's bed,
He for approaching sleep composed his head;
A chair was ready, for that use designed,
So quilted, that he lay at ease reclined;
The curtains closely drawn, the light to skreen,
As if he had contrived to lie unseen:
Thus covered with an artificial night,
Sleep did his office soon, and sealed his sight.
With heaven averse in this ill-omened hour,
Was Guiscard summoned to the secret bower,
And the fair nymph, with expectation fired,
From her attending damsels was retired:
For, true to love, she measured time so right,
As not to miss one moment of delight.
The garden, seated on the level floor,
She left behind, and locking every door,
Thought all secure; but little did she know,
Blind to her fate, she had inclosed her foe.
Attending Guiscard, in his leathern frock,
Stood ready, with his thrice-repeated knock:
Thrice with a doleful sound the jarring grate
Rung deaf and hollow, and presaged their fate.
The door unlocked, to known delight they haste,
And, panting in each other's arms, embraced;
Rush to the conscious bed, a mutual freight,
And heedless press it with their wonted weight.
The sudden bound awaked the sleeping sire,
And shewed a sight no parent can desire;
His opening eyes at once with odious view
The love discovered, and the lover knew:
He would have cried; but hoping that he dreamt,
Amazement tied his tongue, and stopped the attempt.
The ensuing moment all the truth declared, }
But now he stood collected, and prepared; }
For malice and revenge had put him on his guard. }
So like a lion that unheeded lay, }
Dissembling sleep, and watchful to betray, }
With inward rage he meditates his prey. }
The thoughtless pair, indulging their desires,
Alternate kindled, and then quenched their fires;
Nor thinking in the shades of death they played, }
Full of themselves, themselves alone surveyed, }
And, too secure, were by themselves betrayed. }
Long time dissolved in pleasure thus they lay,
Till nature could no more suffice their play;
Then rose the youth, and, through the cave again
Returned, the princess mingled with her train.
Resolved his unripe vengeance to defer,
The royal spy, when now the coast was clear,
Sought not the garden, but retired unseen,
To brood in secret on his gathered spleen,
And methodize revenge: to death he grieved;
And, but he saw the crime, had scarce believed.
The appointment for the ensuing night he heard, }
And therefore in the cavern had prepared }
Two brawny yeomen of his trusty guard. }
Scarce had unwary Guiscard set his foot
Within the foremost entrance of the grot,
When these in secret ambush ready lay,
And rushing on the sudden seized the prey:
Encumbered with his frock, without defence, }
An easy prize, they led the prisoner thence, }
And, as commanded, brought before the prince. }
The gloomy sire, too sensible of wrong,
To vent his rage in words, restrained his tongue,
And only said,--Thus servants are preferred,
And, trusted, thus their sovereigns they reward.
Had I not seen, had not these eyes received
Too clear a proof, I could not have believed. --
He paused, and choked the rest. The youth, who saw
His forfeit life abandoned to the law,
The judge the accuser, and the offence to him
Who had both power and will to avenge the crime.
No vain defence prepared; but thus replied:--
The faults of love by love are justified:
With unresisted might the monarch reigns,
He levels mountains, and he raises plains;
And not regarding difference of degree,
Abased your daughter, and exalted me. --
This bold return with seeming patience heard,
The prisoner was remitted to the guard.
The sullen tyrant slept not all the night,
But lonely walking by a winking light,
Sobbed, wept, and groaned, and beat his withered breast,
But would not violate his daughter's rest;
Who long expecting lay, for bliss prepared,
Listning for noise, and grieved that none she heard;
Oft rose, and oft in vain employed the key, }
And oft accused her lover of delay, }
And passed the tedious hours in anxious thoughts away. }
The morrow came; and at his usual hour
Old Tancred visited his daughter's bower;
Her cheek (for such his custom was) he kissed,
Then blessed her kneeling, and her maids dismissed.
The royal dignity thus far maintained,
Now left in private, he no longer feigned;
But all at once his grief and rage appeared,
And floods of tears ran trickling down his beard.
O Sigismonda,--he began to say: }
Thrice he began, and thrice was forced to stay, }
Till words with often trying found their way:-- }
I thought, O Sigismonda, (but how blind
Are parents' eyes, their children's faults to find! )
Thy virtue, birth, and breeding, were above
A mean desire, and vulgar sense of love;
Nor less than sight and hearing could convince }
So fond a father, and so just a prince, }
Of such an unforeseen and unbelieved offence. }
Then what indignant sorrow must I have,
To see thee lie subjected to my slave!
A man so smelling of the people's lee,
The court received him first for charity;
And since with no degree of honour graced,
But only suffered, where he first was placed.
A grovelling insect still; and so designed
By nature's hand, nor born of noble kind:
A thing, by neither man nor woman prized,
And scarcely known enough to be despised.
To what has heaven reserved my age? Ah! why
Should man, when nature calls, not chuse to die,
Rather than stretch the span of life, to find
Such ills as fate has wisely cast behind,
For those to feel, whom fond desire to live
Makes covetous of more than life can give!
Each has his share of good; and when 'tis gone,
The guest, though hungry, cannot rise too soon.
But I, expecting more, in my own wrong
Protracting life, have lived a day too long.
If yesterday could be recalled again,
Even now would I conclude my happy reign;
But 'tis too late, my glorious race is run,
And a dark cloud o'ertakes my setting sun.
Had'st thou not loved, or, loving, saved the shame,
If not the sin, by some illustrious name,
This little comfort had relieved my mind,
'Twas frailty, not unusual to thy kind:
But thy low fall beneath thy royal blood,
Shews downward appetite to mix with mud.
Thus not the least excuse is left for thee,
Nor the least refuge for unhappy me.
For him I have resolved; whom by surprise
I took, and scarce can tell it, in disguise;
For such was his attire, as, with intent
Of nature, suited to his mean descent:
The harder question yet remains behind, }
What pains a parent and a prince can find }
To punish an offence of this degenerate kind. }
As I have loved, and yet I love thee more
Than ever father loved a child before,
So that indulgence draws me to forgive:
Nature, that gave thee life, would have thee live.
But, as a public parent of the state,
My justice, and thy crime, requires thy fate.
Fain would I choose a middle course to steer;
Nature's too kind, and justice too severe:
Speak for us both, and to the balance bring
On either side the father and the king.
Heaven knows, my heart is bent to favour thee;
Make it but scanty weight, and leave the rest to me. --
Here stopping with a sigh, he poured a flood
Of tears, to make his last expression good.
She, who had heard him speak, nor saw alone
The secret conduct of her love was known,
But he was taken who her soul possessed,
Felt all the pangs of sorrow in her breast:
And little wanted, but a woman's heart,
With cries and tears, had testified her smart:
But inborn worth, that fortune can controul,
New-strung, and stiffer bent her softer soul;
The heroine assumed the woman's place,
Confirmed her mind, and fortified her face:
Why should she beg, or what could she pretend,
When her stern father had condemned her friend!
Her life she might have had; but her despair
Of saving his, had put it past her care:
Resolved on fate, she would not lose her breath,
But, rather than not die, solicit death.
Fixed on this thought, she, not as women use,
Her fault by common frailty would excuse;
But boldly justified her innocence,
And while the fact was owned, denied the offence:
Then with dry eyes, and with an open look,
She met his glance mid-way, and thus undaunted spoke:--
Tancred, I neither am disposed to make
Request for life, nor offered life to take;
Much less deny the deed; but least of all
Beneath pretended justice weakly fall.
My words to sacred truth shall be confined,
My deeds shall shew the greatness of my mind.
That I have loved, I own; that still I love,
I call to witness all the powers above:
Yet more I own; to Guiscard's love I give
The small remaining time I have to live;
And if beyond this life desire can be,
Not fate itself shall set my passion free.
This first avowed; nor folly warped my mind,
Nor the frail texture of the female kind
Betrayed my virtue; for, too well I knew
What honour was, and honour had his due:
Before the holy priest my vows were tied,
So came I not a strumpet, but a bride.
This for my fame, and for the public voice;
Yet more, his merits justified my choice:
Which had they not, the first election thine,
That bond dissolved, the next is freely mine:
Or grant I erred, (which yet I must deny)
Had parents power even second vows to tie,
Thy little care to mend my widowed nights, }
Has forced me to recourse of marriage-rites, }
To fill an empty side, and follow known delights. }
What have I done in this, deserving blame?
State-laws may alter; nature's are the same;
Those are usurped on helpless womankind,
Made without our consent, and wanting power to bind.
Thou, Tancred, better shouldst have understood,
That, as thy father gave thee flesh and blood,
So gavest thou me: not from the quarry hewed,
But of a softer mould, with sense endued;
Even softer than thy own, of suppler kind,
More exquisite of taste, and more than man refined.
Nor need'st thou by thy daughter to be told,
Though now thy spritely blood with age be cold,
Thou hast been young; and canst remember still,
That when thou hadst the power, thou hadst the will;
And from the past experience of thy fires, }
Canst tell with what a tide our strong desires }
Come rushing on in youth, and what their rage requires. }
And grant thy youth was exercised in arms,
When love no leisure found for softer charms,
My tender age in luxury was trained, }
With idle ease and pageants entertained; }
My hours my own, my pleasures unrestrained. }
So bred, no wonder if I took the bent
That seemed even warranted by thy consent;
For when the father is too fondly kind,
Such seed he sows, such harvest shall he find.
Blame then thyself, as reason's law requires,
(Since nature gave, and thou foment'st my fires;)
If still those appetites continue strong,
Thou may'st consider I am yet but young.
Consider too, that, having been a wife,
I must have tasted of a better life;
And am not to be blamed, if I renew,
By lawful means, the joys which then I knew.
Where was the crime, if pleasure I procured;
Young, and a woman, and to bliss inured?
That was my case, and this is my defence:-- }
I pleased myself, I shunned incontinence, }
And, urged by strong desires, indulged my sense. }
Left to myself, I must avow, I strove
From public shame to screen my secret love,
And, well acquainted with thy native pride, }
Endeavoured what I could not help, to hide; }
For which a woman's wit an easy way supplied. }
How this, so well contrived, so closely laid,
Was known to thee, or by what chance betrayed,
Is not my care; to please thy pride alone,
I could have wished it had been still unknown.
Nor took I Guiscard by blind fancy led,
Or hasty choice, as many women wed;
But with deliberate care, and ripened thought,
At leisure first designed, before I wrought.
On him I rested, after long debate,
And, not without considering, fixed my fate.
His flame was equal, though by mine inspired;
(For so the difference of our birth required:)
Had he been born like me, like me his love
Had first begun, what mine was forced to move:
But thus beginning, thus we persevere; }
Our passions yet continue what they were, }
Nor length of trial makes our joys the less sincere. }
At this my choice, though not by thine allowed,
(Thy judgment herding with the common crowd,)
Thou tak'st unjust offence; and, led by them,
Dost less the merit than the man esteem.
Too sharply, Tancred, by thy pride betrayed,
Hast thou against the laws of kind inveighed;
For all the offence is in opinion placed,
Which deems high birth by lowly choice debased.
This thought alone with fury fires thy breast,
(For holy marriage justifies the rest,)
That I have sunk the glories of the state,
And mixed my blood with a plebeian mate:
In which I wonder thou shouldst oversee }
Superior causes, or impute to me }
The fault of fortune, or the Fates' decree. }
Or call it heaven's imperial power alone,
Which moves on springs of justice, though unknown;
Yet this we see, though ordered for the best,
The bad exalted, and the good oppressed;
Permitted laurels grace the lawless brow;
The unworthy raised, the worthy cast below.
But leaving that: search we the secret springs,
And backward trace the principles of things;
There shall we find, that, when the world began,
One common mass composed the mould of man;
One paste of flesh on all degrees bestowed,
And kneaded up alike with moistening blood.
The same Almighty Power inspired the frame
With kindled life, and formed the souls the same:
The faculties of intellect and will }
Dispensed with equal hand, disposed with equal skill, }
Like liberty indulged, with choice of good or ill. }
Thus born alike, from virtue first began
The difference that distinguished man from man:
He claimed no title from descent of blood,
But that which made him noble made him good.
Warmed with more particles of heavenly flame, }
He winged his upward flight, and soared to fame; }
The rest remained below, a tribe without a name. }
This law, though custom now diverts the course,
As nature's institute, is yet in force;
Uncancelled, though disused: and he, whose mind
Is virtuous, is alone of noble kind;
Though poor in fortune, of celestial race;
And he commits the crime, who calls him base.
Now lay the line, and measure all thy court
By inward virtue, not external port,
And find whom justly to prefer above
The man on whom my judgment placed my love;
So shalt thou see his parts and person shine,
And, thus compared, the rest a base degenerate line.
Nor took I, when I first surveyed thy court,
His valour or his virtues on report;
But trusted what I ought to trust alone,
Relying on thy eyes, and not my own;
Thy praise (and thine was then the public voice)
First recommended Guiscard to my choice:
Directed thus by thee, I looked, and found
A man I thought deserving to be crowned;
First by my father pointed to my sight,
Nor less conspicuous by his native light;
His mind, his mien, the features of his face,
Excelling all the rest of human race:
These were thy thoughts, and thou couldst judge aright,
Till interest made a jaundice in thy sight.
Or should I grant thou didst not rightly see,
Then thou wert first deceived, and I deceived by thee.
But if thou shalt allege, through pride of mind,
Thy blood with one of base condition joined,
'Tis false; for 'tis not baseness to be poor:
His poverty augments thy crime the more;
Upbraids thy justice with the scant regard
Of worth; whom princes praise, they should reward.
Are these the kings entrusted by the crowd
With wealth, to be dispensed for common good?
The people sweat not for their king's delight,
To enrich a pimp, or raise a parasite;
Theirs is the toil; and he, who well has served
His country, has his country's wealth deserved.
Even mighty monarchs oft are meanly born,
And kings by birth to lowest rank return;
All subject to the power of giddy chance,
For fortune can depress, or can advance:
But true nobility is of the mind,
Not given by chance, and not to chance resigned.
For the remaining doubt of thy decree,
What to resolve, and how dispose of me;
Be warned to cast that useless care aside,
Myself alone will for myself provide.
If in thy doating and decrepit age,
Thy soul, a stranger in thy youth to rage,
Begins in cruel deeds to take delight,
Gorge with my blood thy barbarous appetite;
For I so little am disposed to pray
For life, I would not cast a wish away.
Such as it is, the offence is all my own;
And what to Guiscard is already done,
Or to be done is doomed by thy decree, }
That, if not executed first by thee, }
Shall on my person be performed by me. }
Away! with women weep, and leave me here,
Fixed, like a man, to die without a tear;
Or save, or slay us both this present hour,
'Tis all that fate has left within thy power. --
She said; nor did her father fail to find,
In all she spoke, the greatness of her mind;
Yet thought she was not obstinate to die,
Nor deemed the death she promised was so nigh.
Secure in this belief, he left the dame,
Resolved to spare her life, and save her shame;
But that detested object to remove,
To wreck his vengeance, and to cure her love.
Intent on this, a secret order signed
The death of Guiscard to his guards enjoined;
Strangling was chosen, and the night the time;
A mute revenge, and blind as was the crime.
His faithful heart, a bloody sacrifice,
Torn from his breast, to glut the tyrant's eyes,
Closed the severe command; for (slaves to pay)
What kings decree, the soldier must obey:
Waged against foes; and when the wars are o'er,
Fit only to maintain despotic power;
Dangerous to freedom, and desired alone
By kings, who seek an arbitrary throne. [215]
Such were these guards; as ready to have slain
The prince himself, allured with greater gain:
So was the charge performed with better will,
By men inured to blood, and exercised in ill.
Now, though the sullen sire had eased his mind, }
The pomp of his revenge was yet behind, }
A pomp prepared to grace the present he designed. }
A goblet rich with gems, and rough with gold,
Of depth and breadth the precious pledge to hold,
With cruel care he chose; the hollow part
Inclosed, the lid concealed the lover's heart.
Then of his trusted mischiefs one he sent,
And bade him, with these words, the gift present:--
"Thy father sends thee this to cheer thy breast,
And glad thy sight with what thou lov'st the best;
As thou hast pleased his eyes, and joyed his mind,
With what he loved the most of human kind. "--
Ere this, the royal dame, who well had weighed
The consequence of what her sire had said,
Fixed on her fate, against the expected hour,
procured the means to have it in her power;
For this, she had distilled, with early care,
The juice of simples, friendly to despair,
A magazine of death; and thus prepared,
Secure to die, the fatal message heard:
Then smiled severe; nor with a troubled look,
Or trembling hand, the funeral present took;
Even kept her countenance, when the lid removed
Disclosed the heart, unfortunately loved.
She needed not be told, within whose breast
It lodged; the message had explained the rest.
Or not amazed, or hiding her surprise,
She sternly on the bearer fixed her eyes;
Then thus:--Tell Tancred, on his daughter's part,
The gold, though precious, equals not the heart:
But he did well to give his best; and I,
Who wished a worthier urn, forgive his poverty. --
At this she curbed a groan, that else had come,
And, pausing, viewed the present in the tomb;
Then to the heart, adored devoutly, glued
Her lips, and, raising it, her speech renewed:--
Even from my day of birth to this, the bound
Of my unhappy being, I have found
My father's care and tenderness expressed;
But this last act of love excels the rest:
For this so dear a present, bear him back
The best return that I can live to make. --
The messenger dispatched, again she viewed
The loved remains, and, sighing, thus pursued:--
Source of my life, and lord of my desires,
In whom I lived, with whom my soul expires!
Poor heart! no more the spring of vital heat;
Cursed be the hands that tore thee from thy seat!
The course is finished which thy fates decreed,
And thou from thy corporeal prison freed:
Soon hast thou reached the goal with mended pace;
A world of woes dispatched in little space.
Forced by thy worth, thy foe, in death become
Thy friend, has lodged thee in a costly tomb.
There yet remained thy funeral exequies,
The weeping tribute of thy widow's eyes;
And those indulgent heaven has found the way,
That I, before my death, have leave to pay.
My father even in cruelty is kind, }
Or heaven has turned the malice of his mind }
To better uses than his hate designed; }
And made the insult, which in his gift appears,
The means to mourn thee with my pious tears;
Which I will pay thee down before I go,
And save myself the pains to weep below,
If souls can weep. Though once I meant to meet
My fate with face unmoved, and eyes unwet,
Yet, since I have thee here in narrow room,
My tears shall set thee first afloat within thy tomb.
Then (as I know thy spirit hovers nigh)
Under thy friendly conduct will I fly
To regions unexplored, secure to share }
Thy state; nor hell shall punishment appear; }
And heaven is double heaven, if thou art there. -- }
She said: Her brimful eyes, that ready stood,
And only wanted will to weep a flood,
Released their watery store, and poured amain,
Like clouds low-hung, a sober shower of rain;
Mute solemn sorrow, free from female noise,
Such as the majesty of grief destroys;
For, bending o'er the cup, the tears she shed,
Seemed by the posture to discharge her head,
O'er-filled before; and (oft her mouth applied
To the cold heart) she kissed at once, and cried.
Her maids, who stood amazed, nor knew the cause
Of her complaining, nor whose heart it was,
Yet all due measures of her mourning kept,
Did office at the dirge, and by infection wept,
And oft enquired the occasion of her grief,
(Unanswered but by sighs) and offered vain relief.
At length, her stock of tears already shed,
She wiped her eyes, she raised her drooping head,
And thus pursued:--O ever faithful heart,
I have performed the ceremonial part,
The decencies of grief; it rests behind,
That, as our bodies were, our souls be joined;
To thy whate'er abode my shade convey,
And, as an elder ghost, direct the way! --
She said; and bade the vial to be brought,
Where she before had brewed the deadly draught;
First pouring out the med'cinable bane,
The heart, her tears had rinsed, she bathed again;
Then down her throat the death securely throws,
And quaffs a long oblivion of her woes.
This done, she mounts the genial bed, and there
(Her body first composed with honest care)
Attends the welcome rest; her hands yet hold,
Close to her heart, the monumental gold;
Nor farther word she spoke, but closed her sight,
And quiet sought the covert of the night.
The damsels, who the while in silence mourned,
Not knowing, nor suspecting death suborned,
Yet, as their duty was, to Tancred sent,
Who, conscious of the occasion, feared the event.
Alarmed, and with presaging heart, he came,
And drew the curtains, and exposed the dame
To loathsome light; then, with a late relief,
Made vain efforts to mitigate her grief.
She, what she could, excluding day, her eyes
Kept firmly sealed, and sternly thus replies:--
Tancred, restrain thy tears, unsought by me,
And sorrow unavailing now to thee:
Did ever man before afflict his mind,
To see the effect of what himself designed?
Yet if thou hast remaining in thy heart
Some sense of love, some unextinguished part
Of former kindness, largely once professed, }
Let me by that adjure thy hardened breast, }
Not to deny thy daughter's last request: }
The secret love which I so long enjoyed,
And still concealed, to gratify thy pride,
Thou hast disjoined; but, with my dying breath,
Seek not, I beg thee, to disjoin our death:
Where'er his corpse by thy command is laid,
Thither let mine in public be conveyed;
Exposed in open view, and side by side,
Acknowledged as a bridegroom and a bride. --
The prince's anguish hindered his reply;
And she, who felt her fate approaching nigh,
Seized the cold heart, and heaving to her breast,--
Here, precious pledge, she said, securely rest. --
These accents were her last; the creeping death
Benumbed her senses first, then stopped her breath.
Thus she for disobedience justly died;
The sire was justly punished for his pride;
The youth, least guilty, suffered for the offence,
Of duty violated to his prince;
Who, late repenting of his cruel deed,
One common sepulchre for both decreed;
Entombed the wretched pair in royal state,
And on their monument inscribed their fate.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 214: This minute circumstance, which is mentioned by Boccacio,
seems to argue, that the story had a real, at least a traditional
foundation; for there is no other reason why it should have been
introduced. ]

[Footnote 215: The dispute between William and his Parliament about his
favourite Dutch guards, was obviously in Dryden's recollection. ]




ORIGINAL, FROM THE DECAMERON.

THE FOURTH DAY.

NOVEL I.


_Tancred, prince of Salerno, puts his daughter's lover to death,
and sends his heart to her in a golden cup; she pours water upon
it, which she had poisoned, and so dies. _

Our king has given us a most melancholy subject for this day's
discourse; considering that, as we came hither to be merry, we must now
recount other people's misfortunes, which cannot be related without
moving compassion, as well in those who tell, as in those who hear them.
Perhaps it is designed as an allay to the mirth of the preceding days.
But, whatever his reason may be for it, I have no business to make any
alteration with regard to his pleasure. I shall, therefore, mention an
unhappy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion.

Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous lord, had he
not, in his old age, defiled his hands in a lover's blood. He, through
the whole course of his life, had one only daughter; and happy had he
been not to have possessed her. No child could be more dear to a parent
than she was, which made him loth to part with her in marriage: at
length, not till she was a little advanced in years, he married her to
the duke of Capoa, when she was soon left a widow, and came home again
to her father. She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and
continuing thus in the court of her father, who took no care to marry
her again, and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved
at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly, she made choice of a
person of low parentage, but noble qualities, whose name was Guiscard,
with whom she became violently in love; and by often seeing him, and
evermore commending his manner and behaviour, he soon became sensible of
it, and devoted himself entirely to the love of her. Affecting each
other thus in secret, and she desiring nothing so much as to be with
him, and not daring to trust any person with the affair, contrived a new
stratagem in order to apprise him of the means. She wrote a letter,
wherein she mentioned what she would have him do the next day for her;
this she put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said,
pleasantly, "You may make a pair of bellows of this, for your servant to
blow the fire with this evening. " He received it, supposing, very
justly, that it had some meaning, and, taking it home, found the letter;
which, when he had thoroughly considered, and knew what he had to do, he
was the most overjoyed man that could be; and he applied himself
accordingly to answer her assignation, in the manner she had directed
him. On one side of the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto,
which had been made time out of mind, and into which no light could come
but through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the
grotto had been long in disuse, was now grown over with briers and
thorns. Into this grotto was a passage, by a private stair-case, out of
one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady's apartment,
and was secured by a very strong door. This passage was so far out of
every one's thoughts, having been disused for so long a time, that
nobody remembered any thing about it; but love, whose notice nothing can
escape, brought it fresh into the mind of the enamoured lady; who, to
keep this thing entirely private, laboured some days before she could
get the door open; when having gone down into the cave, and observed the
opening, and how high it might be from thence to the bottom, she
acquainted him with the fact. Guiscard then provided a ladder of cords;
and casing himself well with leather, to be defended from the thorns,
fixing one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which was near, he
slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he stayed expecting the
lady. The following day, therefore, having sent her maids out of the
way, under pretence that she was going to lie down, and locking herself
up alone in her chamber, she opened the door, and descended into the
grotto, where they met to their mutual satisfaction. From thence she
shewed him the way to her chamber, where they were together the greatest
part of the day, and taking proper measures for the time to come, he
went away through the cave, and she returned to her maids. The same he
did the next night; and he followed this course for a considerable time,
when fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, thought fit to
change their mirth into mourning. Tancred used sometimes to come into
his daughter's chamber, to pass a little time away with her; and going
thither one day after dinner, whilst the lady, whose name was Ghismond,
was with her maids in the garden; and being perceived by no one, nor yet
willing to take her from her diversion, finding also the windows shut,
and the curtains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in
a great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaning his head
upon the bed, and drawing the curtain before him, as if he concealed
himself on purpose, when he chanced to fall asleep. In the mean time,
Ghismond having made an appointment with her lover, left the maids in
the garden, and came into her chamber, which she secured, not thinking
of any person being there, and went to meet Guiscard, who was in the
cave waiting for her, and brought him into her chamber; when her father
awoke, and was a witness to all that passed between them. This was the
utmost affliction to him, and he was about to cry out; but, upon second
thoughts, he resolved to keep it private, if possible, that he might be
able to do more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved
upon. The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving
any thing of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of the
window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without being seen by
any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. The next night, according to his
orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as he was coming out of the cave,
and carried by them, in his leathern doublet, to Tancred, who, as soon
as he saw him, said, with tears in his eyes: "Guiscard, you have ill
requited my kindness towards you, by this outrage and shame which you
have brought upon me, and of which this very day I have been an
eye-witness. " When he made no other answer but this: "Sir, love hath
greater power than either you or I. " Tancred then ordered a guard to be
set over him. And the next day he went to his daughter's apartment as
usual, she knowing nothing of what had happened, and shutting the door,
that they might be private together, he said to her, weeping, "Daughter,
I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could never
have believed, had I not seen it with my own eyes, that you would have
violated either, even so much as in thought. My reflecting on this will
make the small pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you
were determined to act in that manner, would to heaven you had made
choice of a person more suitable to your own quality; but for this
Guiscard, he is one of the very meanest persons about my court. This
gives me such concern, that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he
was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. But,
with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different motives; on
one side, the tenderest regard that a father can have for a child; and
on the other, the justest vengeance for the great folly you have
committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and the other would
excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But before I come to a
resolution, I would hear what you have to say for yourself. " And when he
said this, he hung down his head, and wept like a child. She hearing
this from her father, and perceiving that their amour was not only
discovered, but her lover in prison, was under the greatest concern
imaginable, and was going to break out into loud and grievous
lamentations, as is the way of women in distress; but getting the better
of this weakness, and putting on a settled countenance, as supposing
Guiscard was dead, and being resolved firmly in her own mind not to
outlive him, she spoke therefore with all the composure in the world to
this purpose: "Sir, to deny what I have done, or to entreat any favour
of you, is no part of my design at present; for as the one can avail me
nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I will take
no advantage of your love and tenderness towards me; but shall first, by
an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and then do what the
greatness of my soul prompts me to. 'Tis most true that I have loved,
and do still love, Guiscard; and while I live, which will not be long,
shall continue to love him: and if such a thing as love be after death,
even that shall not dissolve it. To this I was induced by no frailty, so
much as his superior virtue, and the little care you took to marry me
again. I preferred him before all the world; and as to the meanness of
his station, to which you so much object, that is more the fault of
fortune, who often raises the most unworthy to an high estate,
neglecting those of greater merit. We are all formed of the same
materials, and by the same hand. The first difference amongst mankind
was made by virtue; they who were virtuous were deemed noble, and the
rest were all accounted otherwise. Though this law therefore may have
been obscured by contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature,
nor good manners. If you then alone regard the worth and virtue of your
courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the only
noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard to his
worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever commended man more for
every thing that was praise-worthy, than you have commended him? and
deservedly in my judgement; but if I was deceived, it was by following
your opinion. If you say then, that I have had an affair with a person
base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to
let such merit go unrewarded. Now concerning your last doubt, namely,
how you are to deal with me; use your pleasure. If you are disposed to
commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a
resolution. But this I must apprise you of, that unless you do the same
to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, my own
hands shall do it for you. Reserve your tears then for women; and if you
mean to act with severity, cut us off both together, if it appears to
you that we have deserved it. " The prince knew full well the greatness
of her soul; but yet he could by no means persuade himself, that she
would have resolution enough to do what her words seemed to threaten.
Leaving her then, with a design of being favourable to her, and
intending to wean her affection from her lover by taking him off, he
gave orders to the two men, who guarded him, to strangle him privately
in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it to
him. Accordingly they executed his commands, and the next day he called
for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he had it conveyed by a
trusty servant to his daughter, with this message: "Your father sends
this present to comfort you, with what was most dear to you; even as he
was comforted by you, in what was most dear to him. " She had departed
from her father, not at all moved as to her resolution, and therefore
had prepared the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed
with water to be at hand, if what she feared should come to pass. When
the servant had delivered the present, and reported the message
according to his order, she took the cup, without changing countenance,
and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the words that it must be
Guiscard's, she looked stedfastly at the servant, and said: "My father
has done very wisely; such a heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre
than that of gold. " And upon this she lifted it to her mouth and kissed
it, thus continuing; "All my life long, even to this last period of it,
have I found my father's love most abundant towards me; but now more
than ever: therefore return him, in my name, the last thanks that I
shall ever be able to give him for such a present. " Looking then towards
the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: "Alas! the dearest
end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be the cruelty of him, by whom
these eyes now see you; although my soul had long viewed and known you.
You have finished your course; such a one indeed as fortune has thought
fit to allot you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you
have left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such
a sepulchre from your very enemy, as your merit required. Nothing
remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears of her who was
so dear to you whilst you were living; and which, that you should not
now want, heaven put it into the mind of my relentless father to send
you to me. And you shall have them, though I had purposed to die
unmoved, and without shedding a tear; and when I have done, I will
instantly join my soul to yours: for in what other company can I go
better and safer to those unknown regions? as I make no doubt your soul
is hovering here, expecting mine. " When she had done speaking, she shed
a flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the
damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor what
those her words imported; but being moved with pity, they joined with
her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and endeavouring all they
could to comfort her. After she had lamented as much as she thought
proper, she raised up her head, and wiping her eyes, said, "Thou heart,
most dearly beloved! all my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing
more remains, but for my soul to accompany thine. " Upon this she bade
them reach the vessel of water, which she had prepared the day before,
and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she had sufficiently
washed with her tears, she drank it all off without the least dread or
apprehension; and then threw herself upon the bed with the cup in her
hand, composing her body as decently as she could, and pressing her
lover's heart to her's, she lay without uttering a word more, expecting
death. The maids, when they saw this, though they knew not what it was
she had drunk, sent to acquaint Tancred; who fearing what had really
happened, came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and
finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously. She then said
to him, "Sir, save those tears against worse fortune that may happen,
for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of your
own doing? But if any part of that love now remains in you, which you
once had for me, the last request I shall make is, that as you would not
suffer us to be happy together whilst living, that our two bodies
(wherever you have disposed of his) may be publicly interred together
when dead. " Extreme grief would suffer him to make no reply; when,
finding herself drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to
her breast, saying, "Receive us, heaven; I die! " Then closing her eyes,
all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. Such an end
had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you have now heard; whilst
the prince, repenting of his cruelty when it was too late, had them
buried in one grave, in the most public manner, to the general grief of
all the people of Salerno.




THEODORE AND HONORIA.


Boccacio, who, according to Benvenuto da Imola, was a curious
investigator of all delectable histories, is said to have taken this
goblin tale from the Chronicle of Helinandus, a French monk, who
flourished in the reign of Philip Augustus,[216] and composed a history
of the world from its creation, as was the fashion of monkish
historians. The Florentine novelist, however, altered the place of
action, and disguised the names of the persons, whom he calls Nastagio
and Traversari, the designations of two noble families in Ravenna. So
good a subject for a ballad did not escape our English makers, by one of
whom the novel of Boccacio was turned into the ballad stanza[217].
Dryden, however, converted that into a poem, which, in the hands of the
old rhymer, was only a tale, and has given us a proof how exquisitely
his powers were adapted for the management of the machinery, or
supernatural agency of an epic poem, had his situation suffered him to
undertake the task he so long meditated. Nothing can be more highly
painted than the circumstances preliminary of the apparition;--the
deepening gloom, the falling wind, the commencement of an earthquake;
above all, the indescribable sensation of horror with which Theodore is
affected, even ere he sees the actors in the supernatural tragedy. The
appearance of the female, of the gaunt mastiffs by which she is pursued,
and of the infernal huntsman, are all in the highest tone of poetry, and
could only be imitated by the pencil of Salvator. There is also a
masterly description of Theodore's struggles between his native courage,
prompted by chivalrous education, and that terror which the presence of
supernatural beings imposes upon the living. It is by the account of the
impression, which such a sight makes upon the supposed spectator, more
even than by a laboured description of the vision itself, that the
narrator of such a tale must hope to excite the sympathetic awe of his
audience. Thus, in the vision so sublimely described in the book of Job,
chap. iv. no external cause of terror is even sketched in outline, and
our feelings of dread are only excited by the fear which came upon the
spectator, and the trembling which made all his bones to shake. But the
fable of Dryden combines a most impressive description of the vision,
with a detailed account of its effect upon Theodore, and both united
make the most admirable poem of the kind that ever was written. It is
somewhat derogatory from the dignity of the apparition, that Theodore,
having once witnessed its terrors, should coolly lay a scheme for
converting them to his own advantage; but this is an original fault in
the story, for which Dryden is not answerable. The second apparition of
the infernal hunter to the assembled guests, is as striking as the
first; a circumstance well worthy of notice, when we consider the
difficulty and hazard of telling such a story twice. But in the second
narration, the poet artfully hurries over the particulars of the lady's
punishment, which were formerly given in detail, and turns the reader's
attention upon the novel effect produced by it, upon the assembled
guests, which is admirably described, as "a mute scene of sorrow mixed
with fear. " The interrupted banquet, the appalled gallants, and the
terrified women, grouped with the felon knight, his meagre mastiffs, and
mangled victim, displays the hand of the master poet. The conclusion of
the story is defective from the cause already hinted at. The machinery
is too powerful for the effect produced by it; a lady's hard heart might
have been melted without so terrible an example of the punishment of
obduracy.

It is scarcely worth while to mention, that Dryden has changed the
Italian names into others better adapted to English heroic verse.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 216: _Manni Della Illustrazione del Boccario_, p.