{577}
The dangerous division of men’s minds, the ruinous renting of all
estates, had now brought Arcadia to feel the pangs of uttermost peril,
such convulsions never coming, but that the life of that government
draws near his necessary period, when to the honest and wise Philanax,
equally distracted between desire of his master’s revenge and care of
the estate’s establishment, there came, unlooked for, a Macedonian
gentleman, who in short, but pithy manner, delivered unto him, that
the renowned Euarchus, King of Macedon, purposing to have visited his
old friend and confederate the King Basilius, was now come within half
a mile of the lodges, where having understood by certain shepherds the
sudden death of their prince, had sent unto him, of whose authority
and faith he had good knowledge, desiring him to advertise him in what
security he might rest there for that night, where willingly he would,
if safely he might, help to celebrate the funeral of his ancient
companion and ally; adding he need not doubt, since he had brought but
twenty in his company, he would be so unwise as to enter into any
forcible attempt with so small force. Philanax having entertained the
gentleman, as well as in the midst of so many tumults he could,
pausing a while with himself, considering how it should not only be
unjust and against the law of nations, not well to receive a prince
whom goodwill had brought among them, but, in respect of the greatness
of his might, very dangerous to give him any cause of due offence;
remembering withal the excellent trials of his equity, which made him
more famous than his victories, he thought he might be the fittest
instrument to redress the ruins they were in, since his goodness put
him without suspicion, and his greatness beyond envy. Yet weighing
with himself how hard many heads were to be bridled, and that in this
monstrous confusion such mischief might be attempted, of which {578}
late repentance should after be but a simple remedy, he judged best
first to know how the people’s minds would sway to this determination.
Therefore desiring the gentleman to return to the King his master, and
to beseech him, though with his pains, to stay for an hour or two,
where he was, till he had set things in better order to receive him,
he himself went first to the noblemen, then to Kalander, and the
principal Mantineans, who were most opposite unto him, desiring them,
that as the night had most blessedly staid them from entering into
civil blood, so they would be content in the night to assemble the
people together to hear some news which he was to deliver unto them.
There is nothing more desirous of novelties than a man that fears his
present fortune. Therefore they, whom mutual diffidence made doubtful
of their utter destruction, were quickly persuaded to hear of any new
matter, which might alter at least, if not help the nature of their
fear. Namely, the chiefest men, who as they had most to lose, so were
most jealous of their own case, and were already grown as weary to be
followers of Timautus’s ambition, as before they were enviers of
Philanax’s worthiness. As for Kalander and Sympathus as in the one a
virtuous friendship had made him seek to advance, in the other a
natural commiseration had made him willing to protect the excellent,
though unfortunate prisoners, so were they not against this
convocation. For having nothing but just desires in them, they did not
mistrust the justifying of them. Only Timautus laboured to have
withdrawn them from this assembly, saying it was time to stop their
ears from the ambitious charms of Philanax. Let them first deliver
Gynecia, and her daughters, which were fit persons to hear, and then
they might begin to speak. That this was but Philanax’s cunning, to
link broil upon broil, because he might avoid the answering of his
trespasses, which as he had long intended, so had he prepared coloured
speeches to disguise them. But as his words expressed rather a
violence of rancour than any just ground of accusation, so pierced
they no further than to some partial ear, the multitude yielding good
attention to what Philanax would propose unto them. Who, like a man
whose best building was a well-framed conscience, neither with
plausible words, nor fawning countenance, but even with the grave
behaviour of a wise father, whom nothing but love makes to chide, thus
said unto them.
“I have,” said he, “a great matter to deliver unto you, and thereout
am I to make a greater demand of you: but truly such hath this late
proceeding been of yours that I know not what is to be demanded of
you. Methinks I may have reason to require of you, as men are wont
among pirates, that the life of him that never hurt you, may be safe.
Methinks I am not without {579} appearance of cause, as if you were
Cyclopes or Cannibals, to desire that our prince’s body, which hath
thirty years maintained us in a flourishing peace, be not torn in
pieces, or devoured among you, but may be suffered to yield itself,
which never was defiled with any of your bloods, to the natural rest
of the earth. Methinks, not as to Arcadians renowned for your faith to
prince, and love of country, but as to sworn enemies of this sweet
soil. I am to desire you, that at least, if you will have strangers to
your princes, yet you will not deliver the seigniory of this goodly
kingdom to your noble king’s murderers. Lastly, I have reason, as if I
had to speak to madmen, to desire you to be good to yourselves: for
before God, what either barbarous violence or unnatural folly, hath
not this day had his seat in your minds, and left his footsteps in
your actions? but in troth I love you too well to stand long
displaying your faults: I would you yourselves did forget them, so you
did not fall again into them. For my part, I had much rather be an
orator of your praises. But now, if you will suffer attentive
judgment, and not forejudging passion, to be the weigher of my words,
I will deliver unto you what a blessed mean the gods have sent unto
you, if you list to embrace it. I think there is none among you so
young, either in years, or understanding, but hath heard the true fame
of that just prince Euarchus, King of Macedon. A prince with whom our
late master did ever hold most perfect alliance. He, even he, is this
day come, having but twenty horse with him, within two miles of this
place, hoping to have found the virtuous Basilius alive, but now
willing to do honour to his death. Surely, surely the heavenly powers
have in so full a time bestowed him on us to unite our divisions. For
my part therefore I wish, that since among ourselves we cannot agree
in so manifold partialities, we do put the ordering of all these
things into his hands, as well touching the obsequies of the king, the
punishment of his death, as the marriage and crowning of our
princesses, he is both by experience and wisdom taught how to direct:
his greatness such as no man can disdain to obey him: his equity such
as no man need to fear him. Lastly, as he hath all these qualities to
help, so hath he, though he would, no force to hurt. If therefore you
so think good, since our laws bear that our prince’s murder be
chastised before his murdered body be buried, we may invite him to sit
to-morrow in the judgment seat; which done, you may after proceed to
the burial.”
When Philanax first named Euarchus’ landing, there was a muttering
murmur among the people, as though, in that evil ordered weakness of
theirs he had come to conquer their country. But when they understood
he had so small a retinue, whispering one with another, and looking
who should begin to confirm {580} Philanax’s proposition, at length
Sympathus was the first that allowed it, then the rest of the
noblemen; neither did Kalander strive, hoping so excellent a prince
could not but deal graciously with two such young men, whose authority
joined to Philanax, all the popular sort followed. Timautus still
blinded with his own ambitious haste, not remembering factions are no
longer to be trusted, than the factious may be persuaded it is for
their own good, would needs strive against the stream, exclaiming
against Philanax, that now he showed who it was that would betray his
country to strangers. But well he found, that who is too busy in the
foundation of an house, may pull the building about his ears. For the
people already tired with their own divisions, of which his clampring
had been a principal nurse, and beginning now to espy a haven of rest,
hated anything that should hinder them from it: asking one another
whether this were not he whose evil tongue no man could escape?
whether it were not Timautus that made the first mutinous oration, to
strengthen the troubles? whether Timautus, without their consent, had
not gone about to deliver Gynecia? And thus inflaming one another
against him, they threw him out of the assembly, and after pursued him
with stones and staves, so that with loss of one of his eyes, sore
wounded and beaten, he was fain to fly to Philanax’s feet, for succour
of his life; giving a true lesson, that vice itself is forced to seek
the sanctuary of virtue. For Philanax, who hated his evil, but not his
person, and knew that a just punishment might by the manner be
unjustly done; remembering withal that although herein the people’s
rage might have hit rightly, yet if it were nourished in this, no man
knew to what extremities it might extend itself, with earnest dealing,
and employing the uttermost of his authority he did protect the
trembling Timautus. And then having taken a general oath, that they
should in the nonage of the princess, or till these things were
settled, yield full obedience to Euarchus, so far as were not
prejudicial to the laws, customs and liberties of Arcadia: and having
taken a particular bond of Sympathus, under whom he had a servant of
his own, that the prisoners should be kept close, without conference
with any man: he himself honourably accompanied with a great number of
torches, went to the King Euarchus, whose coming in this sort into
Arcadia had thus fallen out.
The woeful Prince Plangus receiving of Basilius no other succours, but
only certain to conduct him to Euarchus, made all possible speed
towards Byzantium, where he understood the king, having concluded all
his wars with the winning of that town, had now for some good space
made his abode. But being far gone on his way, he received certain
intelligence, that Euarchus was {581} not only some days before
returned into Macedon, but since was gone with some haste to visit
that coast of his country that lay towards Italy; the occasion given
by the Latines, who having already gotten into their hands, partly by
conquest and partly by confederacy, the greatest part of Italy, and
long gaped to devour Greece also, observing the present opportunity of
Euarchus’s absence, and Basilius’s solitariness, which two princes
they knew to be in effect the whole strength of Greece, were even
ready to lay an unjust gripe upon it, which after they might beautify
with the noble name of conquest. Which purpose though they made not
known by any solemn denouncing of war, but contrariwise gave many
tokens of continuing still their former amity: yet the staying of his
subjects’ ships, trafficking as merchants into those parts, together
with the daily preparation of shipping, and other warlike provisions
in ports, most convenient for the transporting of soldiers, occasioned
Euarchus, not unacquainted with such practices, first to suspect, then
to discern, lastly to seek to prevent the intended mischief. Yet
thinking war never to be accepted until it be offered by the hand of
necessity, he determined so long openly to hold them his friends, as
open hospitality betrayed them not his enemies, nor ceasing in the
meantime by letters and messages to move the states of Greece, by
uniting their strength, to make timely provision against this peril;
by many reasons making them see that, though in respect of place some
of them might seem further removed from the first violence of the
storm, yet being embarked in the same ship, the final wreck must needs
be common to them all. And knowing the mighty force of example, with
the weak effect of fair discourses, not waited on with agreeable
actions, what he persuaded them, himself performed, leaving in his own
realm nothing either undone or unprovided which might be thought
necessary for withstanding an invasion. His first care was to put his
people in a readiness for war, and by his experienced soldiers to
train the unskilful to martial exercises. For the better effecting
whereof, as also for meeting with other inconveniences in such
doubtful times incident to the most settled states, making of the
divers regions of his whole kingdom so many divisions as he thought
convenient, he appointed the charge of them to the greatest, and of
greatest trust he had about him: arming them with sufficient authority
to levy forces within their several governments, both for the
resisting the invading enemy, and punishing the disordered subject.
Having thus prepared the body, and assured the heart of his country
against any mischief that might attaint it, he then took into his
careful consideration the external parts, giving order both for the
repairing and increasing his navy, and for the fortifying of {582}
such places, especially on the sea coast, as either commodity of
landing, weakness of the country, or any other respect of advantage
was likeliest to draw the enemy unto. But being none of them who think
all things done, for which they have once given direction, he followed
everywhere his commandment with his presence, which witnessed of every
man’s slackness or diligence, chastising the one, and encouraging the
other, suffered not the fruit of any profitable counsel for want of
timely taking to be lost. And thus making one place succeed another in
the progress of wisdom and virtue, he was now come to Aulon a
principal port of his realm, when the poor Plangus extremely wearied
with his long journey, desire of succouring Erona no more relieving,
than fear of not succouring her in time, aggravating his travel, by a
lamentable narration of his children’s death, called home his cares
from encountering foreign enemies, to suppress the insurrection of
inward passions. The matter so heinous, the manner so villainous, the
loss of such persons, in so unripe years, in a time so dangerous to
the whole state of Greece, how vehemently it moved to grief and
compassion others, only not blind to the light of virtue, nor deaf to
the voice of their country, might perchance by a more cunning workman
in lively colours be delivered. But the face of Euarchus’s sorrow, to
the one in nature, to both in affection a father, and judging the
world so much the more unworthily deprived of those excellencies, as
himself was better judge of so excellent worthiness, can no otherwise
be shadowed out by the skilfullest pencil than by covering it over
with the veil of silence. And indeed that way himself took, with so
patient a quietness receiving this pitiful relation, that all words of
weakness suppressed, magnanimity seemed to triumph over misery. Only
receiving of Plangus perfect instruction of all things concerning
Plexirtus and Artaxia, with promise not only to aid him in delivering
Erona, but also with vehement protestation never to return into
Macedon, till he had pursued the murderers to death, he dispatched
with speed a ship for Byzantium, commanding the governor to provide
all necessaries for the war against his own coming, which he purposed
should be very shortly. In this ship Plangus would needs go, impatient
of stay, for that in many days before he had understood nothing of his
lady’s estate. Soon after whose departure, news was brought to
Euarchus, that all the ships detained in Italy were returned. For the
Latines finding by Euarchus’s proceedings their intent to be
frustrate, as before by his sudden return they doubted it was
discovered, deeming it no wisdom to show the will, not having the
ability to hurt, had not only in free and friendly manner dismissed
them, but for that time wholly omitted their enterprise attending the
opportunity of fitter occasion. By means whereof Euarchus, {583} rid
from the cumber of that war, likely otherwise to have stayed him
longer, with so great a fleet as haste would suffer him to assemble,
forthwith embarked for Byzantium. And now followed with fresh winds he
had in a short time run a long course, when on a night encountered
with an extreme tempest, his ships were so scattered that scarcely any
two were left together. As for the king’s own ship, deprived of all
company, sore bruised, and weather beaten, able no longer to brook the
sea’s churlish entertainment, a little before day it recovered the
shore. The first light made them see it was the unhappy coast of
Laconia: for no other country could have shown the like evidence of
unnatural war. Which having long endured between the nobility and the
Helots, and once compounded by Pyrocles, under the name of Daiphantus,
immediately upon his departure had broken out more violently than ever
before. For the king taking opportunity of their captain’s absence,
refused to perform the conditions of peace as extorted from him by
rebellious violence. Whereupon they were again deeply entered into
war, with so notable an hatred towards the very name of a king, that
Euarchus, though a stranger unto them, thought it not safe there to
leave his person, where neither his own force could be a defence, nor
the sacred name of majesty, a protection. Therefore calling to him an
Arcadian, one that coming with Plangus had remained with Euarchus,
desirous to see the wars, he demanded of him for the next place of
surety where he might make his stay until he might hear somewhat of
his fleet, or cause his ship to be repaired. The gentleman glad to
have this occasion of doing service to Euarchus, and honour to
Basilius, to whom he knew he should bring a most welcome guest, told
him, that if it pleased him to commit himself to Arcadia, a part
whereof lay open to their view, he would undertake ere the next night
were far spent to guide him safely to his master Basilius. The present
necessity much prevailed with Euarchus, yet more a certain virtuous
desire to try whether by his authority he might withdraw Basilius from
burying himself alive, and to employ the rest of his old years in
doing good, the only happy action of man’s life. For besides the
universal case of Greece, deprived by this means of a principal
pillar, he weighed and pitied the pitiful state of the Arcadian
people, who were in worse case than if death had taken away their
prince. For so yet their necessity would have placed someone to the
helm; now, a prince being, and not doing like a prince, keeping and
not exercising the place, they were in so much more evil case, as they
could not provide for their evil.
These rightly wise and virtuous considerations especially moved
Euarchus to take his journey towards the deserts, where arriving
within night, and understanding to his great grief the news of the
{584} prince’s death, he waited for his safe conduct from Philanax; in
the meantime taking his rest under a tree, with no more affected pomps
than as a man that knew, howsoever he was exalted, the beginning and
end of his body was earth. But Philanax as soon as he was in sight of
him, alighting from his horse, presented himself unto him in all those
humble behaviours, which not only the great reverence of the party,
but the conceit of one’s own misery, is wont to frame: Euarchus rose
up unto him, with so gracious a countenance, as the goodness of his
mind had long exercised him unto; careful so much more to descend in
all courtesies, as he saw him bear a low representation of his
afflicted state. But to Philanax, as soon as by near looking on him,
he might perfectly behold him, the gravity of his countenance and
years, not much unlike to his late deceased, but ever beloved master,
brought his form so lively into his memory, and revived so all the
thoughts of his wonted joys within him, that instead of speaking to
Euarchus, he stood a while like a man gone a far journey from himself,
calling as it were with his mind an account of his losses, imagining
that this pain needed not, if nature had not been violently stopped of
her own course; and casting more loving than wise conceits, what a
world would this have been if this sudden accident had not interrupted
it. And so far strayed he into his raving melancholy that his eyes,
nimbler than his tongue, let fall a flood of tears, his voice being
stopped with extremity of sobbing, so much had his friendship carried
him to Basilius that he thought no age was timely for his death. But
at length taking the occasion of his own weeping, he thus did speak to
Euarchus: “Let not my tears, most worthily renowned prince, make my
presence unpleasant, or my speech unmarked of you. For the justice of
the cause takes away the blame of any weakness in me; and the affinity
that the same beareth to your greatness, seems even lawfully to claim
pity in you: a prince of a prince’s fall, a lover of justice, of a
most unjust violence. And give me leave, excellent Euarchus, to say, I
am but the representer of all the late flourishing Arcadia, which now
with mine eyes doth weep, with my tongue doth complain, with my knees
doth lay itself at your feet, which never have been unready to carry
you to the virtuous protecting of innocents. Imagine, vouchsafe to
imagine, most wise and good king, that here is before your eyes the
pitiful spectacle of a most dolorously ending tragedy; wherein I do
but play the part of all the new miserable province, which being
spoiled of their guide, doth lie like a ship without a pilot, tumbling
up and down in the uncertain waves, till it either run itself upon the
rocks of self-division, or be overthrown by the stormy wind of foreign
force. Arcadia finding herself in these desolate terms, doth speak,
and I speak for her, to thee not vainly {585} puissant prince, that
since now she is not only robbed of the natural support of her lord,
but so suddenly robbed that she hath not breathing time to stand for
her safety: so unfortunately, that it doth appall their minds, though
they had leisure; and so mischievously, that it doth exceed both the
suddenness and unfortunateness of it; thou wilt lend thine arm unto
her, and, as a man, take compassion of mankind; as a virtuous man,
chastise most abominable vice; and as a prince protect a people, which
all have with one voice called for thy goodness, thinking that as thou
art only able, so thou art fully able, to redress their imminent
ruins. They do therefore with as much confidence as necessity, fly
unto you for succour, they lay themselves open unto you: to you, I
mean yourself such as you have ever been: that is to say, one that
hath always had his determinations bounded with equity. They only
reserve the right to Basilius’s blood; the manner to the ancient
prescribing of their laws. For the rest without exception they yield
over unto you, as to the elected protector of this kingdom, which name
and office they beseech you, till you have laid a sufficient
foundation of tranquility, to take upon you; the particularity both of
their statutes and demands you shall presently after understand. Now
only I am to say unto you, that this country falls to be a fair field,
to prove whether the goodly tree of your virtue will live in all
soils. Here I say will be seen, whether either fear can make you
short, or the lickerishness of dominion make you beyond justice. And I
can for conclusion say no more but this, you must think upon my words,
and on your answer depends not only the quiet, but the lives of so
many thousands, which for their ancient confederacy, in this their
extreme necessity, desire neither the expense of your treasure, nor
hazard of your subjects, but only the benefit of your wisdom, whose
both glory and increase stands in the exercising of it.”
The sum of this request was utterly unlooked for of Euarchus, which
made him the more diligent in marking his speech, and after his speech
take the greater pause for a perfect resolution. For as of the one
side, he thought nature required nothing more of him than that he
should be a help to them of like creation, and had his heart no wit
commanded with fear, thinking his life well passed, having satisfied
the tyranny of time, with the course of many years, the expectation of
the world with more than expected honour: lastly, the tribute due to
his own mind, with the daily offering of most virtuous actions: so of
the other he weighed the just reproach that followed those who easily
enter into other folk’s business, with the opinion might be conceived,
love of seigniory rather than of justice, had made him embark himself
thus into a matter nothing pertaining to him, especially in a time
when earnest {586} occasion of his own business so greatly required
his presence. But in the end, wisdom being an essential and not an
opinionate thing, made him rather to bend to what was in itself good
than what by evil minds might be judged not good. And therein did see
that though the people did not belong unto him, yet doing good, which
is not enclosed within any terms of people, did belong unto him, and
if necessity forced him for some time to abide in Arcadia, the
necessity of Arcadia might justly demand some fruit of abiding. To
this secret assurance of his own worthiness, which although it be
never so well clothed in modesty, yet always lives in the worthiest
minds, did much push him forward, saying unto himself, the treasure of
those inward gifts he had were bestowed by the heavens upon him to be
beneficial and not idle. On which determination resting, and yet
willing before he waded any further, to examine well the depth of the
other’s proffer; he thus with that well-poised gesture, unpassionate
nature bestoweth upon mankind, made answer to Philanax’s most urgent
petition.
“Although long experience hath made me know all men, and so princes
which be but men, to be subject to infinite casualties, the very
constitution of our lives remaining in continual change: yet the
affairs of this country, or at least my meeting so jumply with them,
makes me abashed with the strangeness of it. With much pain am I come
hither to see my long approved friend, and now I find if I will see
him, I must see him dead: after, for mine own security, I seek to be
warranted mine own life; and there suddenly am I appointed to be a
judge of other men’s lives: though a friend to him, yet am I a
stranger to the country, and now of a stranger you would suddenly make
a director. I might object, to your desire, my weakness, which age
perhaps hath wrought in mind and body: and justly I may pretend the
necessity of mine own affairs, to which as I am by all true rules most
nearly tied, so can they not long bear the delay of my absence. But
though I would and could dispense with these difficulties, what
assurance can I have of the people’s will? which having so many
circles of imaginations can hardly be enclosed in one point. Who knows
a people, that knows not sudden opinion makes them hope, which hope if
it be not answered, they fall into hate, choosing and refusing,
erecting, and overthrowing, according as the presentness of any fancy
carries them. Even this their hasty drawing to me, makes me think they
will be as hastily withdrawn from me; for it is but one ground of
inconstancy, soon to take or soon to leave. It may be they have heard
of Euarchus more than cause: their own eyes will be perhaps more
curious judges, out of hearsay they may have builded many conceits,
which I cannot, perchance will not, perform, then will undeserved
{587} repentance be a greater shame and injury unto me than their
undeserved proffer is honour. And to conclude, I must be fully
informed how the patient is minded, before I can promise to undertake
the cure.”
Philanax was not of the modern minds, who made suitors magistrates;
but did ever think the unwilling worthy man, was fitter than the
undeserving desirer. Therefore the more Euarchus drew back, the more
he found in him, that the cunningest pilot doth most dread the rocks,
the more earnestly he pursued his public request unto him. He desired
him not to make any weak excuses of his weakness, since so many
examples had well proved his mind was strong to overpass the greatest
troubles, and his body strong enough to obey his mind: and that so
long as they were joined together, he knew Euarchus would think it no
wearisome exercise, to make them vessels of virtuous actions. The duty
to his country he acknowledged, which as he had so settled as it was
not to fear any sudden alteration, so since it did want him, as well
it might endure a fruitful as an idle absence. As for the doubt he
conceived of the people’s constancy in this their election, he said it
was such a doubt as all human actions are subject unto; yet as much as
in politic matters, which receive not geometrical certainties, a man
may assure himself there was evident likelihood to be conceived of the
continuance, both in their unanimity, and his worthiness; whereof the
one was apt to be held, and the other to hold, joined to the present
necessity the firmest band of mortal minds. In some he alleged so many
reasons to Euarchus’s mind, already inclined to enter into any
virtuous action, that he yielded to take upon himself the judgment of
the present cause; so as he might find indeed, that such was the
people’s desire out of judgment, and not faction.
Therefore mounting on their horses, they hasted to the lodges, where
they found, though late in the night, the people wakefully watching
for the issue of Philanax’s embassage. No man thinking the matter
would be well done, without he had his voice in it, and each deeming
his own eyes the best guardians of his throat in that unaccustomed
tumult. But when they saw Philanax return, having on his right hand
the King Euarchus, on whom they had now placed the greatest burden of
their fears, with joyful shouts, and applauding acclamations, they
made him and the world quickly know, that one man’s sufficiency is
more available than ten thousand of the multitude. So evil balanced be
the extremities of popular minds: and so much natural imperiousness
there rests in a well-formed spirit. For, as if Euarchus had been born
of the princely blood of Arcadia, or that long and well-acquainted
proof had ingrafted him in their country, so flocked {588} they about
this stranger, most of them already from dejected fears, rising to
ambitious considerations, who should catch the first hold of his
favour. And then from those crying welcomes to babbling one with the
other, some praising Philanax for his exceeding pain, others liking
Euarchus’s aspect, and as they judged his age by his face, so judging
his wisdom by his age, Euarchus passed through them like a man that
did neither disdain a people, nor yet was anything tickled with their
flatteries. But always holding his own, a man might read a constant
determination in his eyes. And in that soft dismounting among them, he
forthwith demanded the convocation to be made, which accordingly was
done, with as much order and silence, as it might appear; Neptune had
not more force to appease the rebellious wind, than the admiration of
an extraordinary virtue hath, to temper a disordered multitude; he
being raised up upon a place more high than the rest, where he might
be best understood, in this sort speak unto them.
“I understand,” said he, “faithful Arcadians, by my Lord Philanax,
that you have with one consent chosen me to be the judge of the late
evils happened; orderer of the present disorders; and finally
protector of this country till therein it be seen what the customs of
Arcadia require.” He could say no further, being stopped with a
general cry, that so it was, giving him all the honourable titles and
happy wishes they could imagine. He beckoned unto them for silence,
and then thus again proceeded, “Well,” said he, “how good choice you
have made, the attending must be in you, the proof in me. But because
it many times falls out, we are much deceived in others, we being the
first to deceive ourselves, I am to require you, not to have an
over-shooting expectation of me, the most cruel adversary of all
honourable doings. Nor promise yourselves wonders out of a sudden
liking: but remember I am a man, that is to say, a creature whose
reason is often darkened with error. Secondly, that you will lay your
hearts void of foretaken opinions: else whatsoever I do or say, will
be measured by a wrong rule, like them that have the yellow jaundice,
every thing seeming yellow unto them. Thirdly, whatsoever debates have
risen among you, may be utterly extinguished; knowing that even among
the best men are diversities of opinions, which are no more in true
reason to breed hatred, than one that loves black, should be angry
with him that is clothed in white; for thoughts and conceits are the
very apparel of the mind: lastly, that you do not easily judge of your
judge, but since you will have me to command, think it is your part to
obey. And in reward of this, I will promise and protest unto you, that
to the uttermost of my skill, both in the general laws of nature,
especially of Greece, and particularly of Arcadia, wherein I must
{589} confess I am not unacquainted, I will not only see the past
evils duly punished, and your weal hereafter established, but for your
defence in it, if need shall require, I will employ the force and
treasures of mine own country. In the meantime, this shall be the
first order I will take, that no man, under pain of grievous
punishment, name me by any other name but protector of Arcadia. For I
will not leave any possible colour, to any of my natural successors,
to make claim to this which by free election you have bestowed upon
me. And so I vow unto you, to depose myself of it as soon as the
judgment is passed, the king buried, and his lawful successor
appointed. For the first whereof, I mean the trying which be guilty of
the king’s death, and these other heinous trespasses, because your
customs require such haste, I will no longer delay it, than till
to-morrow as soon as the sun shall give us fit opportunity. You may
therefore retire yourselves to your rest, that you may be readier to
be present, at these so great important matters.”
With many allowing tokens was Euarchus’s speech heard, who now by
Philanax, that took the principal care of doing all due services unto
him, was offered a lodging made ready for him, the rest of the people
as well as a small commodity of that place would suffer, yielding
their weary heads to sleep, when lo, the night thoroughly spent in
these mixed matters, was for that time banished the face of the earth,
and Euarchus, seeing the day begin to disclose his comfortable
beauties, desiring nothing more than to join speed with justice,
willed Philanax presently to make the judgment-place be put in order:
and as soon as the people, who yet were not fully dispersed, might be
brought together, to bring forth the prisoners and the king’s body.
Which the manner was, should in such cases be held in sight, though
covered with black velvet, until they that were accused to be the
murderers were acquitted or condemned; whether the reason of the law
were to show the more grateful love to their prince, or by that
spectacle, the more to remember the judge of his duty. Philanax, who
now thought in himself, he approached to the just revenge he so much
desired, went with all care and diligence to perform his charge.
But first it shall be well to know how the poor and princely prisoners
passed this tedious night. There was never tyrant exercised his rage
with more grievous torments upon any he most hated, than afflicted
Gynecia did crucify her own soul, after the guiltiness of her heart
was surcharged with the suddenness of her husband’s death: for
although that effect came not from her mind, yet her mind being evil,
and the effect evil, she thought the justice of God had for the
beginning of her pains coupled them together. This incessantly boiled
in her breast, but {590} most of all, when Philanax having closely
imprisoned her, she was left more freely to suffer the firebrands of
her own thoughts, especially when it grew dark, and had nothing left
her but a little lamp whose small light to a perplexed mind, might
rather yield fearful shadows than any assured sight. Then began the
heaps of her miseries, to weigh down the platform of her judgment,
then began despair to lay his ugly claws upon her, she began then to
fear the heavenly powers, she was wont to reverence, not like a child,
but like an enemy, neither kept she herself from blasphemously
repining against her creation, “O God,” would she cry out, “why did
You make me to destruction? if You love goodness, why did You not give
me a good mind? or if I cannot have it without Your gift, why do You
plague me? Is it in me to resist the mightiness of Your power?” Then
would she imagine she saw strange sights, and that she heard the cries
of hellish ghosts, then would she shriek out for succour, but no man
coming unto her, she would fain have killed herself, but knew not how.
At sometimes again, the very heaviness of her imaginations would close
up her senses to a little sleep: but then did her dreams become her
tormentors. One time it would seem unto her, Philanax was hauling her
by the hair of the head, and having put out her eyes was ready to
throw her in a burning furnace. Another time she would think she saw
her husband making the complaint of his death to Pluto, and the
magistrates of that infernal region, contending in great debate to
what eternal punishment they should allot her. But long her dreaming
would not hold, but that it would fall upon Zelmane, to whom she would
think she was crying for mercy, and that she did pass away by her in
silence, without any show of pitying her mischief. Then waking out of
a broken sleep, and yet wishing she might ever have slept; new forms,
but of the same miseries, would seize her mind: she feared death, and
yet desired death; she had passed the uttermost of shame, and yet
shame was one of her cruellest assaulters; she hated Pyrocles as the
original of her mortal overthrow; and yet the love she had conceived
to him, had still a high authority of her passions, “O Zelmane,” would
she say, not knowing how near he himself was to as great a danger,
“now shalt thou glut thy eyes, with the dishonoured death of thy
enemy. Enemy! alas! enemy, since so thou hast well showed thou wilt
have me account thee: couldst thou not as well have given me a
determinate denial, as to disguise thy first disguising, with a double
dissembling? perchance if I had been utterly hopeless, the virtue was
once in me might have called together his forces, and not have been
led captive to this monstrous thraldom of punished wickedness.” Then
would her own knowing of good inflame anew the rage of despair: which
becoming an {591} unresisted lord in her breast, she had no other
comfort but in death, which yet she had in horror, when she thought
of. But the wearisome detesting of herself made her long for the day’s
approach, at which time she determined to continue her former course,
in acknowledging anything that might hasten her end: wherein although
she did not hope for the end of her torments, feeling already the
beginning of hell-agonies; yet according to the nature of pain, the
present being most intolerable, she desired to change that, and put to
adventure the ensuing. And thus rested the restless Gynecia.
No less sorrowful, though less rageful, where the minds of the
Princess Pamela, and the Lady Philoclea, whose only advantages were
that they had not consented to so much evil, and so were at greater
peace with themselves: and that they were not left alone, but might
mutually bear part of each other’s woes. For when Philanax not
regarding Pamela’s princely protestations, had by force left her under
guard with her sister, and that the two sisters were matched, as well
in the disgraces of fortune, as they had been in the best beauties of
nature: those things that till then bashfulness and mistrust had made
them hold reserved one from the other, now fear, the underminer of all
determinations, and necessity the victorious rebel of all laws, forced
them interchangeably to lay open. Their passions then so swelling in
them as they would have made auditors of stones, rather than have
swallowed up in silence the choking adventures were fallen unto them;
truly the hardest hearts, which have at any time thought woman’s tears
to be a matter of slight compassion, imagining that fair weather will
quickly after follow, would now have been mollified; and been
compelled to confess that the fairer a diamond is, the more pity it is
it should receive a blemish. Although, no doubt, their faces did
rather beautify sorrow, than sorrow could darken that which even in
darkness did shine. But after they had so long, as their other
afflictions would suffer them, with doleful ceremonies bemoaned their
father’s death: they sat down together apparelled as their
misadventures had found them; Pamela in her journeying weeds now
converted to another use: Philoclea only in her night-gown, which she
thought should be the raiment of her funerals. But when the excellent
creatures had after much panting, with their inward travel, gotten so
much breathing power as to make a pitiful discourse one to the other,
what had befallen them, and that by the plain comparing the case they
were in, they thoroughly found that their griefs were not more like in
regard of themselves, than like in respect of the subject, the two
princes, as Pamela had learned of Musidorus, being so minded that they
would ever make both their fortunes one, it did more unite, and so
{592} strengthen their lamentation: seeing the one could not be
miserable, but that it must necessarily make the other miserable also.
That therefore was the first matter their sweet mouths delivered, the
declaring the passionate beginning, troublesome proceeding, and
dangerous ending, their never-ending loves had passed. And when at any
time they entered into praises of the young princes, too long it would
have exercised their tongues, but that their memory forthwith warned
them, the more praiseworthy they were, the more at that time they were
worthy of lamentation. Then again to crying and wringing of hands; and
then anew, as unquiet grief sought each corner, to new discourses,
from discourses to wishes, from wishes to prayers. Especially the
tender Philoclea, who as she was in years younger, and had never
lifted up her mind to any opinion of sovereignty, so was she the apter
to yield to her misfortune; having no stronger debates in her mind,
than a man may say a most witty childhood is wont to nourish, as to
imagine with herself, why Philanax and the other noblemen should deal
so cruelly by her that had never deserved evil of any of them. And how
they could find in their hearts, to imprison such a personage as she
did figure Pyrocles, whom she thought all the world was bound to love,
as well as she did. But Pamela, although endued with a virtuous
mildness, yet the knowledge of herself, and what was due unto her,
made her heart full of a stronger disdain against her adversity.
So that she joined the vexation of her friend with the spite to see
herself, as she thought, rebelliously detained, and mixed desirous
thoughts to help, with revengeful thoughts if she could not help. And
as in pangs of death, the stronger heart feels the greater torment,
because it doth the more resist his oppressor: so her mind, the nobler
it was set, and had already embraced the higher thoughts, so much more
it did repine; and the more it repined, the more helpless wounds it
gave unto itself. But when great part of the night was passed over the
doleful music of these sweet ladies’ complaints, and that leisure
though with some strife had brought Pamela to know that an eagle when
she is in a cage must not think to do like an eagle, remembering with
themselves that it was likely the next day the lords would proceed
against those they had imprisoned. They employed the rest of the night
in writing unto them, with such earnestness as the matter required,
but in such styles as the state of their thoughts was apt to fashion.
In the meantime, Pyrocles and Musidorus were recommended to so strong
a guard that they might well see it was meant they should pay no less
price than their lives for the getting out of that place, which they
like men indeed, fortifying courage with {593} the true rampire of
patience, did so endure that they did rather appear governors of
necessity, than servants to fortune. The whole sum of their thoughts
resting upon the safety of their ladies, and their care one for the
other: wherein, if at all, their hearts did seem to receive some
softness. For sometimes Musidorus would feel such a motion to his
friend, and his unworthy case, that he would fall into such kind of
speeches. “My Pyrocles,” would he say, “how unhappy may I think
Thessalia, that hath been as it were the middle way to this evil
estate of yours? For if you had not been there brought up, the sea
should not have had this power thus to sever you from your dear
father. I have therefore, if complaints do at any time become a man’s
heart, most cause to complain, since my country, which received the
honour of Pyrocles’s education, should be a step to his overthrow, if
human chances can be counted an overthrow to him that stands upon
virtue.” “Oh excellent Musidorus,” answered Pyrocles, “how do you
teach me rather to fall out with myself, and my fortune, since by you
I have received all good, you only by me this affliction? To you and
your virtuous mother, I in my tenderest years, and father’s greatest
troubles, was sent for succour. There did I learn the sweet mysteries
of philosophy; there had I your lively example to confirm that which I
learned; there, lastly, had I your friendship, which no unhappiness
can ever make you say, but that hath made me happy. Now see how my
destiny, the gods know, not my will, hath rewarded you: my father
sends for you out of your land, whence but for me you had not come:
what after followed, you know. It was my love, not yours, which first
stayed you here; and therefore if the heavens ever held a just
proportion, it were I, and not you, that should feel the smart.” “O
blame not the heavens, sweet Pyrocles,” said Musidorus, “as their
course never alters, so is there nothing done by the unreachable ruler
of them, but hath an everlasting reason for it. And to say the truth
of these things, we should deal ungratefully with nature, if we should
be forgetful receivers of her gift, and diligent auditors of the
chances we like not. We have lived, and have lived to be good to
ourselves and others: our souls, which are put into the stirring earth
of our bodies, have achieved the causes of their thither coming: they
have known and honoured with knowledge the cause of their creation,
and to many men, for in this time, place and fortune, it is lawful for
us to speak gloriously, it hath been behoveful that we should live.
Since then eternity is not to be had in this conjunction, what is to
be lost by the separation, but time? which since it hath his end, when
that is once come, all that is past is nothing: and by the protracting
nothing gotten, but labour and care. Do {594} not me, therefore, that
wrong, who something in years, but much in all other deserts, am
fitter to die than you, as to say you have brought me to any evil:
since the love of you doth over-balance all bodily mischiefs, and
those mischiefs be but mischiefs to the baser minds, too much
delighted with the kennel of this life. Neither will I any more yield
to my passion of lamenting you, which howsoever it might agree to my
exceeding friendship, surely it would nothing to your exceeding
virtue.” “Add this to your noble speech my dear cousin,” said
Pyrocles, “that if we complain of this our fortune, or seem to
ourselves faulty, in having one hurt the other, we show a repentance
of the love we bear to these matchless creatures, or at least a doubt,
it should be over dearly bought, which for my part, and so dear I
answer for you, I call all the gods to witness, I am so far from, that
no shame, no torment, no death, would make me forego the least part of
the inward honour, essential pleasure, and living life, I have enjoyed
in the presence of the faultless Philoclea.” “Take the pre-eminence in
all things but in true loving,” answered Musidorus, “for the
confession of that no death shall get of me.” “Of that,” answered
Pyrocles, soberly smiling, “I perceive we shall have a debate in the
other world, if at least there remain anything of remembrance in that
place.” “I do not think the contrary,” said Musidorus, “although you
know it is greatly held that with the death of body and senses, which
are not only the beginning, but dwelling and nourishing of passions,
thoughts and imaginations, they failing, memory likewise fails, which
riseth only out of them, and then is there left nothing but the
intellectual part or intelligence, which void of all moral virtues
which stand in the mean of perturbations, doth only live in the
contemplative virtue, and power of the omnipotent good, the soul of
souls, and universal life of this great work, and therefore is utterly
void from the possibility of drawing to itself these sensible
considerations.” “Certainly,” answered Pyrocles, “I easily yield that
we should not know one another, and much less these past things, with
a sensible or passionate knowledge. For the cause being taken away,
the effects follow. Neither do I think we shall have such a memory as
now we have, which is but a relic of the senses, or rather a print the
senses have left of things past in our thoughts, but it shall be a
vital power of that very intelligence: which as vile as it was here,
it held the chief seat of our life, and was as it were the last resort
to which of all our knowledges the highest appeal came, and so by that
means was never ignorant of our actions, though many times
rebelliously resisted, always with this prison darkened; so much more
being free of that prison, and returning to the life of all things,
where all infinite knowledge is, {595} it cannot but be a right
intelligence which is both his name and being, of things both present
and past, though void of imagining to itself anything; but even grown
like to his creator hath all things, with a spiritual knowledge before
it. The difference of which is as hard for us to conceive as it was
for us when we were in our mother’s wombs to comprehend, if anybody
would have told us, what kind of light we now in this life see, what
kind of knowledge we now have: yet now we do not only feel our present
being, but we conceive what we were before we were born, though
remembrance make us not do it, but knowledge, and though we are
utterly without any remorse of any misery we might then suffer. Even
such, and much more odds, shall there be at that second delivery of
ours, when void of sensible memory, or memorative passion, we shall
not see the colours, but lives of all things that have been or can be,
and shall, as I hope, know our friendship, though exempt from the
earthly cares of friendship, having both united it, and ourselves in
that high and heavenly love of the unquenchable light.” As he had
ended his speech, Musidorus looking with a heavenly joy upon him, sang
this song unto him he had made before love turned his muse to another
subject.
Since nature’s works be good, and death doth serve
As nature’s work: why should we fear to die?
Since fear is vain, but when it may preserve:
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly?
Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears,
Disarming human minds of native might:
While each conceit an ugly figure bears,
Which were not evil well view’d in reason’s light.
Our owly eyes, which dimm’d with passions be,
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day,
Let them be clear’d, and now begin to see,
Our life is but a step in dusty way.
Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind,
Since this we feel, great loss we cannot find.
Thus did they, like quiet swans, sing their own obsequies, and
virtuously enable their minds against all extremities which they did
think would fall upon them, especially resolving that the first care
they would have, should be by taking the fault upon themselves, to
clear the two ladies, of whose case, as of nothing else that happened,
they had not any knowledge. Although their friendly host, the honest
gentleman Kalander, seeking all means how to help them, had
endeavoured to speak with them, and to make {596} them know who should
be their judge. But the curious servant of Philanax forbade him the
entry upon pain of death. For so it was agreed upon, that no man
should have any conference with them, for fear of new tumults.
Insomuch that Kalander was constrained to retire himself, having yet
obtained thus much, that he would deliver unto the two princes their
apparel and jewels, which being left with him at Mantinea, wisely
considering that their disguised weeds, which were all as then they
had, would make them more odious in the sight of the judges, he had
that night sent for, and now brought unto them. They accepted their
own with great thankfulness, knowing from whence it came, and attired
themselves in it against the next day, which being indeed rich and
princely, they accordingly determined to maintain the names of
Palladius and Daiphantus, as before it is mentioned. Then gave they
themselves to consider, in what sort they might defend their causes;
for they thought it no less vain to wish death, than cowardly to fear
it, till something before morning, a small slumber taking them, they
were by and by after called up to come to the answer, of no less than
their lives imported. But in this sort was the judgment ordered. As
soon as the morning had took a full possession of the element,
Euarchus called unto him Philanax, and willed him to draw out into the
midst of the green, before the chief lodge, the throne of judgment
seat, in which Basilius was wont to sit, and according to their
customs, was ever carried with the prince. For Euarchus did wisely
consider the people to be naturally taken with exterior shows, far
more than with inward consideration of the material points. And
therefore in this new entry into so entangled a matter, he would leave
nothing which might be either an armour or an ornament unto him, and
in these pompous ceremonies he well knew a secret of government much
to consist. That was performed by the diligent Philanax, and therein
Euarchus did set himself all clothed in black, with the principal men
who could in that suddenness provide themselves of such mourning
raiments; the whole people commanded to keep an orderly silence of
each side, which was duly observed of them, partly for the desire they
had to see a good conclusion of these matters, and partly stricken
with admiration, as well at the grave and princely presence of
Euarchus, as at the greatness of the cause which was then to come in
question. As for Philanax, Euarchus would have done him the honour to
sit by him, but he excused himself, desiring to be the accuser of the
prisoners in his master’s behalf; and therefore since he made himself
a party, it was not convenient for him to sit in the judicial place.
Then was it a while deliberated, whether the two young ladies should
be brought forth in open presence: but that was stopped {597} by
Philanax, whose love and faith did descend from his master to his
children, and only desired the smart should light upon the others,
whom he thought guilty of his death and dishonour, alleging for this,
that neither wisdom would they should be brought in presence of the
people, which might hereupon grow to new uproars, nor justice required
they should be drawn to any shame till somebody accused them. And as
for Pamela, he protested the laws of Arcadia would not allow any
judgment of her, although she herself were to determine nothing till
age or marriage enabled her. Then the king’s body being laid upon a
table, just before Euarchus, and all covered over with black, the
prisoners, namely, the queen and two young princes, were sent for to
appear in the protector’s name: which name was the cause they came not
to knowledge, how near a kinsman was to judge of them, but thought him
to be some nobleman, chosen by the country in this extremity. So
extraordinary a course had the order of the heavens produced at this
time, that both nephew and son were not only prisoners, but unknown to
their uncle and father, who of many years had not seen them. And
Pyrocles was to plead for his life before that throne, in which throne
lately before he had saved the king’s life.
But first was Gynecia led forth in the same weeds that the day and
night before she had worn, saving that instead of Zelmane’s garment in
which she was found, she had cast on a long cloak which reached to the
ground, of russet coarse cloth, with a poor felt hat which almost
covered all her face, most part of her goodly hair, on which her hands
had laid many a spiteful hold, so lying upon her shoulders, as a man
might well see had no artificial carelessness. Her eyes down on the
ground, of purpose not to look on Pyrocles’s face, which she did not
so much shun, for the unkindness she conceived of her own overthrow as
for the fear those motions in this short time of her life should be
revived, which she had with the passage of infinite sorrows mortified.
Great was the compassion the people felt to see their princess’s state
and beauty so deformed by fortune and her own desert, whom they had
ever found a lady most worthy of all honour.
But by and by the sight of the other two prisoners drew most of the
eyes to that spectacle. Pyrocles came out led by Sympathus, clothed,
after the Greek manner, in a long coat of white velvet reaching to the
small of his leg, with great buttons of diamonds all along upon it;
his neck without any collar, not so much as hidden with a ruff, did
pass the whiteness of his garments, which was not much in fashion
unlike to the crimson raiment our Knights of the Order[b5-01] first
put on. On his feet he had nothing {598} but slippers, which, after
the ancient manner, were tied up with certain laces, which were
fastened under his knee, having wrapped about, with many pretty knots,
his naked legs. His fair auburn hair, which he wore in great length,
and gave at that time a delightful show, with being stirred up and
down with the breath of a gentle wind, had nothing upon it, but a
white ribbon, in those days used for a diadem. Which rolled once or
twice about the uppermost part of his forehead, fell down upon his
back, closed up at each end with the richest pearls were to be seen in
the world. After him followed another nobleman, guiding the noble
Musidorus, who had upon him a long cloak, after the fashion of that
which we call the apostle’s mantle, made of purple satin; not that
purple which we now have, and is but a counterfeit of the Getalian
purple, which yet was far the meaner in price and estimation, but of
the right Tyrian purple, which was nearest to a colour betwixt our
murrey and scarlet. On his head, which was black and curled, he wore a
Persian tiara, all set down with rows of so rich rubies, that they
were enough to speak for him that they had to judge of no mean
personage.
In this sort, with erected countenances, did these unfortunate princes
suffer themselves to be led, showing aright, by the comparison of them
and Gynecia, how to divers persons compassion is diversly to be
stirred. For as to Gynecia, a lady known of great estate, and greatly
esteemed, the more miserable representation was made of her sudden
ruin, the more men’s hearts were forced to bewail such an evident
witness of weak humanity: so to these men, not regarded because
unknown, but rather, besides the detestation of their fact, hated as
strangers, the more they should have fallen down in an abject
semblance, the more, instead of compassion, they should have got
contempt: but therefore were to use, as I may term it, the more
violence of magnanimity, and so to conquer the expectation of the
lookers with an extraordinary virtue. And such effect indeed it
wrought in the whole assembly, their eyes yet standing as it were in
balance to whether of them they should most direct their sight.
Musidorus was in stature so much higher than Pyrocles as commonly is
gotten by one year’s growth. His face, now beginning to have some
tokens of a beard, was composed to a kind of manlike beauty. His
colour was of a well-pleasing brownness, and the features of it such
as they carried both delight and majesty: his countenance severe, and
promising a mind much given to thinking. Pyrocles of a pure
complexion, and of such a cheerful favour as might seem either a
woman’s face in a boy, or an excellent boy’s face in a woman. His look
gentle and bashful, which bred the more admiration, having showed such
notable {599} proofs of courage. Lastly, though both had both, if
there were any odds, Musidorus was the more goodly, and Pyrocles the
more lovely. But as soon as Musidorus saw himself so far forth led
among the people, that he knew to a great number of them his voice
should be heard, misdoubting their intention to the Princess Pamela,
of whom he was more careful than of his own life, even as he went,
though his leader sought to interrupt him, he thus with a loud voice
spoke unto them.
“And is it possible, O Arcadians,” said he, “that you can forget the
natural duty you owe to your Princess Pamela? Hath this soil been so
little beholden to her noble ancestors? Hath so long a time rooted no
surer love in your hearts to that line? Where is that faith to your
prince’s blood which hath not only preserved you from all dangers
heretofore, but hath spread your fame to all the nations of the world?
Where is that justice the Arcadians were wont to flourish in, whose
nature is to render to everyone his own? Will you now keep the right
from your prince, who is the only giver of judgment, the key of
justice, and life of your laws? Do you hope in a few years to set up
another race, which nothing but length of time can establish? Will you
reward Basilius’s children with ungratefulness, the very poison of
manhood? Will you betray your long settled reputation with the foul
name of traitors? Is this your mourning for your king’s death, to
increase his loss with his daughter’s misery? Imagine your prince doth
look out of the heavens unto you, what do you think he could wish more
at your hands than that you do well by his children? and what more
honour I pray you can you do to his obsequies than to satisfy his soul
with a loving memory, as you do his body with an unfelt solemnity?
What have you done with the Princess Pamela? Pamela, the just
inheritrix of this country, Pamela, whom this earth may be happy that
it shall be hereafter said, she was born in Arcadia; Pamela, in
herself your ornament, in her education your foster child, and every
way your only princess, what account can you render to yourselves of
her? truly I do not think that you all know what is become of her: so
soon may a diamond be lost: so soon may the fairest light in the world
be put out. But look, look unto it, O Arcadians, be not so wilfully
robbed of your greatest treasure, make not yourselves ministers to
private ambitions, who do but use yourselves to put on your own yokes.
Whatsoever you determine of us, who I must confess are but strangers,
yet let not Basilius’s daughters be strangers unto you. Lastly,
howsoever you bar her from her public sovereignty, which if you do,
little may we hope of equity where rebellion reigns, yet deny not that
child’s right unto her, that she may come and do the last duties to
her father’s body. Deny not that happiness, if in such a case there be
{600} any happiness, to your late king, that his body may have his
last touch of his dearest child.”
With such like broken manner of questions and speeches, was Musidorus
desirous, as much as in passing by them he could, to move the people
to tender Pamela’s fortune. But at length, by that they came to the
judgment-place, both Sympathus and his guider had greatly satisfied
him, with the assurance they gave him, this assembly of people had
neither meaning nor power to do any hurt to the princess, whom they
all acknowledged as their sovereign lady. But that the custom of
Arcadia was such, till she had more years, the state of the country to
be guided by a protector, under whom, he and his fellow were to
receive their judgment. That eased Musidorus’s heart of his most
vehement care, when he found his beloved lady to be out of danger. But
Pyrocles as soon as the queen of the one side, he and Musidorus of the
other, were stayed before the face of their judge, having only for
their bar the table whereon the king’s body lay, being nothing less
vexed with the doubt of Philoclea, than Musidorus was for Pamela, in
this sort with a lowly behaviour, and only then like a suppliant, he
spoke to the protector:
“Pardon me, most honoured judge,” saith he, “that uncommanded I begin
my speech unto you, since both to you and me, those words of mine
shall be most necessary. To you having the sacred exercise of justice
in your hand, nothing appertains more properly than truth nakedly and
freely set down. To me, being environed round about with many
dangerous calamities, what can be more convenient, than, at least, to
be at peace with myself, in having discharged my conscience in a most
behoveful verity. Understand therefore, and truly understand, that the
lady Philoclea, to whose unstained virtue it hath been my unspeakable
misery, that my name should become a blot, if she be accused, is most
unjustly accused of any dishonourable fact, which by my means she may
be thought to have yielded unto. Whatsoever hath been done, hath been
my only attempt, which notwithstanding was never intended against her
chastity. But whatsoever hath been informed, was my fault. And I
attest the heavens, to blaspheme which I am not now in fit tune, that
so much as my coming into her chamber, was wholly unwitting unto her.
This your wisdom may withal consider, if I would lie, I would lie for
mine own behoof, I am not so old as to be weary of myself; but the
very sting of my inward knowledge, joined with the consideration I
must needs have what an infinite loss it should be to all those who
love goodness in good folks if so pure a child of virtue should
wrongfully be destroyed, compels me to use my tongue against myself,
and receive the burden of what evil was {601} upon mine own doing.
Look therefore with pitiful eyes upon so fair beams, and that
misfortune which by me hath fallen upon her, help to repair it with
your public judgment, since whosoever deals cruelly with such a
creature, shows himself a hater of mankind, and an envier of the
world’s bliss. And this petition I make, even in the name of justice,
that before you proceed further against us, I may know how you
conceive of her noble, though unfortunate action, and what judgment
you will make of it.”
He had not spoken his last word, when all the whole people, both of
great and low estate, confirmed with an united murmur Pyrocles’s
demand, longing, for the love generally was borne Philoclea, to know
what they might hope of her. Euarchus though neither regarding a
prisoner’s passionate prayer, nor bearing over-plausible ears to a
many-headed motion, yet well enough content, to win their liking with
things in themselves indifferent, he was content: first, to seek as
much as might be of Philoclea’s behaviour in this matter: which being
cleared by Pyrocles, and but weakly gainsaid by Philanax, who had
framed both his own and Dametas’s evidence most for her favour, and in
truth could have gone no further than conjecture, yet finding by his
wisdom that she was not altogether faultless, he pronounced she should
all her life long be kept prisoner among certain women of religion,
like the Vestal nuns, so to repay the touched honour of her house,
with well observing a strict profession of chastity. Although this
were a great prejudicating of Pyrocles’s case, yet was he exceedingly
joyous of it, being assured of his lady’s life; and in the depth of
his mind not sorry, that what end soever he had, none should obtain
the after enjoying that jewel whereon he had set his life’s happiness.
After it was by public sentence delivered, what should be done with
the sweet Philoclea, the laws of Arcadia bearing that what was
appointed by the magistrates in the nonage of the prince could not
afterwards be repealed. Euarchus still using to himself no other name
but protector of Arcadia, commanded those that had to say against the
Queen Gynecia to proceed, because both her estate required she should
be first heard, and also for that she was taken to be the principal in
the greater matter they were to judge of. Philanax incontinently
stepped forth, and showing in his greedy eyes that he did thirst for
her blood, began a well thought on discourse of her, in his judgment,
execrable wickedness. But Gynecia, standing up before the judge,
casting abroad her arms, with her eyes hidden under the breadth of her
unseemly hat, laying open in all her gestures the despairful
affliction, to which all the might of her reason was converted, with
such like words stopped Philanax, as he was entering into his
invective oration:
{602}