Curiosities of the Gesta—THE WICKED PRIEST—The Qualities of the
Dog—THE EMPEROR’S DAUGHTER—Curious Application—THE EMPEROR LEO AND
THE THREE IMAGES—An Enigma.
“The use Shakespeare has made of your monks’ tales would seem to
augur a certain popularity of the work in the days in which he
wrote,” said Herbert, when the friends met on their sixth evening.
“A greater popularity than will now be credited: in the reign of
Elizabeth and her successor, the Gesta Romanorum seems to have been
sufficiently well known to admit of a frequent reference to it on
the stage,” replied Lathom.
“Allusions to the work, not incidents from it?” asked Herbert.
“Yes, in the anonymous comedy of Sir Giles’ Goose Cap, published
early in James’ reign, one of the characters speaks of the ‘quips
and quick jests of his lordship as so good that Gesta Romanorum were
nothing to them’; whilst Chapman in his ‘May-Day,’ which dates in
1611, says, ‘one that has read Marcus Aurelius, Gesta Romanorum, and
the Mirror of Magistrates, to be led by the nose like a blind bear
that has read nothing!’”
“The slightest knowledge of the accomplishments of the Tudor and
early Stuart times compels us to admit the extensive acquaintance
with Latin writers possessed by classes to whom now they seem so
little fitted,” remarked Herbert.
“An acquaintance arising in all probability from the absence of a
native literature, as well as from the position held by the Latin
language in that age; the French of the present generation,”
rejoined Thompson.
“Whose conversions have we to-night?” asked Herbert.
“Not any: not that my catalogue is run out, but partly because I
have not been able to keep up with the speed of our reading; and
partly because I wished to illustrate the moralizations attached to
the tales, which we have lately rather lost sight of.”
“What peculiar doctrine are you intending to illustrate?” asked
Herbert.
“The 26th article of our Church, that the effect of the ordinance is
not taken away, nor the grace of God’s gifts diminished by the
ministration of evil men; it is the story of
“THE WICKED PRIEST.”
In the reign of Otho there was a certain wicked priest who created much
dissatisfaction among his parishioners; and many were extremely
scandalized. One of them, in particular, always absented himself from
the mass when it was the turn of this priest to celebrate it. Now it
happened on a festival day, during the time of mass, that as this person
was walking alone through a meadow, a sudden thirst came upon him,
insomuch that he was persuaded, unless present relief could be obtained,
he should die.
In this extremity continuing his walk, he discovered a rivulet of the
purest water, of which he copiously drank; but the more he drank the
more violent became his thirst. Surprised at so unusual a circumstance,
he said to himself:
“I will find out the source of this rivulet, and there will I satisfy my
thirst.”
With these thoughts he went up the stream. And as he went a venerable
old man met and asked him whither he was going.
“Father,” he replied, “I am oppressed with an unquenchable thirst, and
even now I drank of this rivulet; and lo, the more I drink, so much the
more I thirst; and I now seek its source, if, perchance, I may there
quench my thirst, and not die.”
The old man pointed with his finger: “There,” said he, “is the
spring-head of the rivulet. But tell me, my honest friend, why are you
not at church, and, with other good Christians, hearing mass?”
“Truly, master,” answered the man, “our priest leads such an execrable
life that I think it utterly impossible that he should celebrate it so
as to please God.”
“Suppose what you say is true,” replied the old man; “observe this
fountain, from which so much excellent water issues, and from which you
have so lately drunk.”
He looked in the direction pointed out, and beheld a putrid dog, with
its mouth wide open, and its teeth black and decayed, through which the
whole fountain gushed in a surprising manner. The man regarded the
stream with terror and confusion of mind, ardently desirous of quenching
his thirst, but apprehensive of poison from the fetid and loathsome
carcass, with which, to all appearance, the water was imbued.
“Be not afraid,” said the old man, observing his repugnance, “thou hast
already drank of the rivulet, drink again; it will not harm thee.”
Encouraged by these assurances, and impelled by the intensity of his
thirst, he partook of it once more, and instantly recovered from the
drought.
“Master, dear master,” exclaimed the man, “never man drank of such
delicious water.”
“See now,” the old man answered, “as this water, gushing through the
mouth of a putrid dog, is neither polluted, nor loses aught of its
natural taste or color, so is the celebration of the mass by a worthless
minister; and, therefore, though the vices of such men may displease and
disgust, yet should you not forsake the duties of which they are the
appointed organ.”
Saying these words, the old man disappeared; and what the other had seen
he communicated to his neighbors, and ever after punctually attended
mass. He brought this unstable and transitory life to a good end, and
passed from that which is corruptible to inherit incorruption.
“There is but one fiction,” said Herbert, “in this legend which
requires further explanation; why the stream of the fountain of life
is made to flow through the rank jaws of a putrid dog rather than
that of any other animal.”
“The incident is intentional,” rejoined Lathom; “an old couplet
ascribes to the dog four special qualities: a healing tongue, a
distinguishing sense of smell, a perfect love, and unremitting
watchfulness.”
“You allude to the lines—
“‘In cane bis bina sunt, et lingua medicina,
Naris odoratus, amor integer, atque latratus,’”
said Thompson.
“Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “these four qualities, say the old writers,
ought to be diligently cultivated by a priest. By his tongue he
should heal the sick at heart, and probe the wounds of sin, careful
not to heal with roughness the soul’s wounds, but to lick them as
the dog does those of the body. His keenness of perception should be
able to distinguish the true confession from the false one; to see
what is due to cunningness, what to internal struggles, what to
reckless contempt of consequences. He, too, should have as unshaken
a love for the Church and the faith as the dog for its master or its
charge; ready to lay down his life for his flock. As the watch-dog
of the great King, his warning voice must be raised against enemies
from without, preventing, by his diligence in his calling, the
machinations of the world and its master against the soul.”
“The mass is a slight anachronism in the reign of Otho,” said
Herbert.
“You must not mind such trifles. Otho has as little to do with the
wicked priest, as Pompey, whether the great or an unknown namesake
of his, with the incidents of the story of
“THE EMPEROR’S DAUGHTER.”
Many centuries ago there reigned a great and good emperor, whose name
was Pompey. He had an only daughter, of remarkable beauty, whom he loved
so dearly, that day and night he ordered five of his most valiant
knights to watch over her; and on pain of their lives to guard her from
harm. Day and night did these brave men keep watch and ward over the
lady’s chamber. A lamp burned above the door, that the approach of an
enemy might be more readily detected; and a faithful mastiff lay on the
threshold, whose watchfulness was as unremitting as his bark was loud
and shrill. But all these precautions were fruitless. The princess loved
the world and its pleasures; and sighed to mingle in its busy scenes,
and gaze upon its gorgeous pageants. One day as she looked from her
window a certain duke rode by, and he looked upon her beauty, and loved
her with a false love.
Day after day did the duke endeavor to withdraw the princess from her
guardians, and numerous were the devices by which he sought to
accomplish his designs upon her and her father’s throne. At length by
the promise of unbounded pleasure, the duke persuaded the princess to
overturn the lamp that burned at her chamber door, and to poison the dog
that lay at her threshold.
That same night, when the lamp was quenched, and the mastiff silenced,
the duke stole upon the guard and bore away with him the maiden.
On the morrow, great was the confusion at the emperor’s court. Men rode
hither and thither in pursuit of the fugitives, for no one knew which
way they had fled. One knight alone hit upon their track; a great and
terrible knight he was, the emperor’s champion; and he came upon them
and slew the duke, and brought the maiden back to her father.
Very wroth was the emperor with his daughter, and he left her to bewail
her sins in solitude. Time and reflection brought repentance, and the
princess bewailed her sins bitterly.
Now there was a good old man at Pompey’s court, who was ever ready to
intercede with the emperor on behalf of penitent offenders, and to whose
words Pompey listened willingly. This lord came to the emperor and told
him of his daughter’s repentance; and his words were pleasant to the
emperor, so that the father was reconciled to his child, and she was
betrothed by him to a nobleman of worth and power.
Many and precious were the bridal gifts the princess received.
The good old lord gave her a robe of the finest and richest wool, on
which was worked this moral: “I have raised thee up, beware how thou
fall again.” He gave her also a ring, of which the legend was: “What
have I done? How much? Why?”
From her father she received a golden coronet, on which was engraved:
“Thy dignity is from me.”
From the king’s champion, who rescued her from her seducer, she received
a ring, and the legend was: “I have loved thee, do thou return my love.”
The king’s son gave her a ring, and on it was written: “Thou art noble,
despise not thy nobility.” Whilst on that which her brother presented to
her was engraved: “Approach, fear not, I am thy brother.”
The last gift was from her husband, a golden signet that confirmed her
inheritance, and which bore this motto: “Now thou art espoused, be
faithful.”
The princess received these gifts with gratitude, and parted not with
them but with her life.
“The meanings of some of these presents are clearly too recondite to
be guessed at,” remarked Herbert on the conclusion of the tale.
“You will say so, when we read them. But first of the actors in the
tale,” rejoined Lathom, “the emperor is _our Heavenly Father_, and
his daughter, the _human soul_ which he delivers to the _five
senses_, armed by the powers of baptism, to guard from injury. The
burning lamp is the _will_, shining brilliantly in good works and
dispelling the gloom of sin. The watchful dog is _conscience_; as
often as the soul breaks any of the commands of God, it may be said
to look abroad on the world and its dangers. Then comes the devil,
the great seducer, whose triumph over the soul is easy, when the
lamp of the will is extinguished, and the barking of conscience is
silenced. Then God arises as our champion, and fights for us against
the world, the flesh, and the devil, and leads back the sinning soul
to the palace of the heavenly king. The sage Lord, the Mediator, is
our Saviour: ‘for he is our peace, who hath made both one.’”
“This is tolerably clear and probable,” said Thompson.
“The marriage presents will compensate for it. From him, continues
the moral, we received the aforesaid gifts: first a cloak descending
to the ankle, that is, his most precious skin; and said to be of
delicate texture, because it was woven with stripes, blood, bruises,
and other various instances of malice; of which texture nothing more
is meant than this: ‘I have raised thee up, because I have redeemed
thee; do not throw thyself into further evil.’ That same Christ, our
king, gave to us a glorious crown, that is, when he submitted to be
crowned for our sakes. And of a truth, ‘thy dignity is from me,’
even from that crown. Christ is our champion, who gave us a
sign—that is, the hole in his right hand; and we ourselves can see
how faithfully it is written: ‘I have loved thee, do thou also
love.’ He gave us another ring, which is the puncture in his left
hand, where we see written: ‘What have I done? How much? Why?’ ‘What
have I done?’ I have despoiled myself, receiving the form of a
servant. ‘How much?’ I have made God and man. ‘Why?’ To redeem the
lost. Concerning these three, Zechariah xiii., ‘What are the wounds
in the middle of thy hands?’ and he answered, saying: ‘I am wounded
by these men in their house, who loved me.’ Christ is our brother,
and son of the Eternal King. He gave us a third ring,—to wit, the
hole in his right foot; and what can be understood by it, but, ‘Thou
art noble, despise not thy nobility?’ In like manner, Christ is our
brother-german. And he gave us a fourth ring, the puncture in his
left foot, on which is written, ‘Approach, fear not, I am thy
brother.’ Christ is also our spouse; he gave us a signet, with which
he confirmed our inheritance: that is, the wound made in his side by
the spear, on account of the great love with which he loved us. And
what can this signify, but, ‘Thou art joined to me through mercy.
Sin no more.’”
“You have established the character of the Gesta for recondite
moralization,” said Thompson, “will you give us a tale rather more
intelligible?”
“Willingly,” rejoined Lathom, “you shall have the tale that Gower
has versified.”
THE EMPEROR LEO AND THE THREE IMAGES.
A certain Roman emperor, Leo, was so fond of looking upon a pretty face,
that he made three fair female images, and placed them in a temple, that
all his subjects might look on them and worship. One statue stood with
its hand extended towards the worshippers, and bore on its finger a
golden ring, on which was the legend, “My finger is generous.” The
second figure had a beard of beaten gold, and on its brow was written:
“I have a beard; if any one be beardless, let him come to me, and I will
give him one.” The third figure had a cloak of gold and a purple tunic,
and on its breast was written, “I fear no one.” With so many temptations
came a law, that whosoever stole either the ring, the beard, or the
cloak, should surely die. A thief was soon found. According to the poet:
“There was a clerk, one Lucius,
A comely, famous man;
Of every wit some what he can,
Out-take that him lacketh rule,
His own estate to guide and rule—”
So he took to riotous living, “and was not wise in his doing”; _ergo_—
“After the need of his desert,
So fell this clerke in poverte.”
The thief, whether poor man or ruined clerk, removed the treasures, was
seen by the people, and brought before the emperor, on the charge of
breaking the royal edict.
But the thief said: “Good my lord—suffer me to speak.”
And the emperor said, “Speak on.”
Then said the man: “Lo, as I entered the temple of the three images, the
first image extended to me its finger, as though it would say, ‘Take
this ring’; but yet I doubted of its wishes, until I read the
superscription, ‘My finger is generous’; then knew I that it was the
pleasure of the statue to give the ring, and I obeyed and took it. Then
came I to the image with the beard of gold. Methinks the maker of this
had no beard; shall the creature be better than the creator? that were a
plain and manifest wrong. But still I was modest, and hesitated, until
the words of the inscription, ‘Let him that is beardless come to me, and
I will give him one,’ forbade me to refuse to supply my own wants by the
statue’s gift. As for the golden cloak, it was in pure charity that I
took it away. Stone is cold, and metal is cold; the image is of the
former, the cloak of the latter. In winter it was adding cold to cold,
in summer it was too heavy and warm for the season. Still should I have
forborne to rob the statue of its cloak, had I not seen the words, ‘I
fear no one.’ Such intolerable arrogance, in a woman too, was to be
punished. I took the cloak to humble the statue’s pride.” But all these
excuses were useless.
“Fair sir,” replied Leo, “do you not know the law, that he who robs the
statues shall die?—let the law be obeyed”; and it was as the emperor
said.
“Your tale reminds me strongly of the witticisms by which the elder
Dionysius justified his theft of the golden cloak of Jupiter and the
beard of Æsculapius,” said Herbert.
“What, when he exchanged the cold gold garment for the warm woollen
robe, and took off the beard of the son of the beardless?” remarked
Thompson; “but let us hear the moral.”
“The moral of this tale,” said Lathom, “is the least strained, and
perhaps the best of all the applications attached to the legends.
The emperor is God. The three images the three sorts of mankind in
whom God takes delight. The first image, with its extended hand and
proffered gift, is no bad symbol of the poor and simple of this
world, who prevail little among the great and powerful unless their
gift is ready in the extended hand.”
“Why fleecest thou the poor?” asks conscience. “May I not receive
the proffered gift when freely offered?” replies the wicked man.
“Did I not take it, men would laugh at me—to curb their tongues I
take.”
“A bitter and too often true lesson in all times and all nations,”
remarked Herbert. “We seldom want for a good excuse.”
“The second image,” continued Lathom, “is the symbol of those who
are raised to wealth by God’s especial blessing, and from whom the
wicked seek to take away their property by every pretext. ‘We are
bald,’ cry they; ‘we are poor; let us divide this man’s riches among
us.’”
“There were chartists in those days as well as now; levelling comes
natural to some minds,” said Thompson. “But to the third figure.”
“The image with the golden cloak,” continued Lathom, “represents the
good man in power and authority, who fears not the evil man,
encourages virtue, and eradicates vice. ‘He is proud; he is a
tyrant,’ cry the people; ‘we will not have this man to reign over
us.’ But, says the old monk, ‘The end of these men is according to
the law of the Lord, for they perish miserably.’”
“The old priest’s moral has so well satisfied me, that I am sorry
that our evening is come to a close,” said Herbert.
“Well—it must be so; but come,” replied Lathom, “you shall have an
enigma to discover. An emperor found a sarcophagus on which were
three circles with these words: ‘_I have expended—I have given—I
have kept—I have possessed—I do possess—I have lost—I am punished._’
Whilst on the front of the chest was written: ‘_What I have expended
I have; what I gave away I have._’ Read me this inscription.”
“Read it, read it,” remarked Thompson, with a smile; “‘it is very
easy to say, Read it, read it,’ as Liston used to say; ‘but do it,
do it’—that is a different matter. Well! it is a good night-cap at
the worst.”
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