Southey’s Thalaba—THE SUGGESTIONS OF THE EVIL ONE—COTONOLAPES, THE
MAGICIAN—THE GARDEN OF ALOADDIN—The Old Man of the Mountain—The
Assassins—Their Rise and Fall—Gay’s Conjurer—SIR GUIDO, THE
CRUSADER—Guy, Earl of Warwick.
“Are you going to give us a specimen of the late Laureate’s
conversions,” said Thompson, “that you borrowed my Southey?”
“Even so—to claim for the magic garden of Aloaddin, the gem of the sixth
book of Thalaba, at least a Latin form, if it must not be regarded as a
striking instance of my Eastern theory.”
“Southey did not come to your book for this idea; he was content with
the apparently historical account of Purchas in his Pilgrims, or the
more elaborate description of the notorious Mandeville,” rejoined
Thompson.
“I am very much at a loss to appreciate your account,” said Herbert, “as
Southey, Purchas, and Mandeville are nearly all equally unknown to me.”
“The best means of showing the progress of the story and its conversion
by the poet,” said Lathom, “will be to commence with the old monk’s very
short version; let that be followed by Mandeville, and that veritable
author by Southey’s description. The monk’s tale is,
“THE SUGGESTIONS OF THE EVIL ONE.”
There was a celebrated magician who had a vast castle surrounded by a
very beautiful garden, in which grew flowers of the most fragrant smell,
and fruits not only fair to look upon but most delicious to the taste.
In short, it was a garden of Paradise; no one was allowed to see its
glories, or taste its pleasures, but fools or personal enemies of the
magician. When the gate was opened to any one, great was his wonder and
delight; and few who entered ever wished to return. Nay, the pleasures
they there enjoyed so affected their minds, that they yielded forthwith
to the will of the magician, and were ready to resign to him every thing
that they had.
To the fools this garden appeared to be Paradise itself: its flowers and
its fruits they looked upon as of immortal growth, and regarded
themselves as chosen from among the inhabitants of the world as the
happy possessors of the land. Beyond this they gave not one thought. Day
and night they revelled in pleasure, and surrendered their minds and
their bodies to lawless gratifications.
At last the day of reckoning came, and the magician prepared to reap the
fruits of his scheme. Their inheritances once placed in his power, he
waited but for some moment when his victim was steeped in sensual
intoxication, and then fell upon him and slew him. Thus, by his
fictitious Paradise, he acquired great wealth and power.
“I admire the moderation of your old monk,” said Thompson, “in not
assigning a particular locality to his magician’s paradise. Purchas
and Mandeville are not so moderate; the former puts Aloaddin’s abode
in the northeast parts of Persia, and Mandeville locates him in the
island of Milsterak, a portion of the kingdom of Prester John.”
“No bad illustration,” said Herbert, “of the difference between a
writer who tells a fiction as a fiction, and one who records it with
the intention of making his readers believe it to be true.”
“Great particularity as to time, place, and persons is the sure mark
of a mendacious traveller,” remarked Lathom; “both Purchas and
Mandeville have altered the object of the magician’s plot; making it
his means of destroying his enemies, by persuading his victims that
death in his service was only a step to a more beautiful paradise. I
will read Mandeville’s tale of
“COTONOLAPES, THE MAGICIAN.”
In the isle of Pentexoire, that is in the land of Prester John, is a
great isle, long and broad, and men call that isle Milsterak. There was
a man there that was called Cotonolapes; he was full rich, and had a
fair castle on a hill, and strong, and he made a wall all about the hill
right strong and fair; within he had a fair garden, wherein were many
trees bearing all manner of fruits that he might find, and he had
planted therein all manner of herbs of good smell, and that bare
flowers, and there were many fair wells, and by them were made many
halls and chambers well dight with gold and azure, and he had made there
divers stories of beasts and birds, that sung and turned by engine and
orbage as they had been quick; and he had in his garden all things that
might be to man solace and comfort; he had also in that garden maidens
within the age of fifteen years, the fairest that he might find, and men
children of the same age, and they were clothed with cloth of gold, and
he said that they were angels; and he caused to be made certain hills,
and inclosed them about with precious stones of jasper and crystal, and
set in gold and pearls, and other manner of stones; and he had made a
conduit under the earth, so that when he would, the walls ran sometimes
with milk, sometimes with wine, sometimes with honey, and this place is
called Paradise; and when any young bachelor of the country, knight or
esquire, cometh to him for solace and disport, he leadeth them into his
paradise and showeth them these things, as the songs of birds, and his
damsels and wells; and he did strike divers instruments of music in a
high tower that might be heard, and said they were angels of God, and
that place was Paradise that God had granted to those who believe, when
he said thus: _Dabo vobis terram fluentem lacte et melle_; that is to
say, I shall give you land flowing with milk and honey. And then this
rich man made these men drink a manner of drink of which they were
drunken; and he said to them, if they would die for his sake, when they
were dead they should come to his paradise, and they should be of the
age of those maidens, and should dwell always with them, and he should
put them in a fairer paradise, where they should see God in joy and in
his majesty: and then they granted to do that he would, and he bade them
go and slay such a lord, or a man of the country that he was wroth with,
and that they should have dread of no man. And if they were slain
themselves for his sake, he should put them in his paradise when they
were dead. And so went these bachelors to slay great lords of the
country, and were slain themselves in hope to have that paradise; and
thus he was avenged of his enemies through his desert; and when rich men
of the country perceived this cautel and malice, and the will of this
Cotonolapes, they gathered them together and assailed the castle, and
slew him, and destroyed all his goods and his fair places and riches
that were in his paradise; and the place of the walls there is yet, and
some other things, but the riches are not, and it is not long ago since
it was destroyed.
“The variation made by this worthy story-teller seems to me to be an
incorporation of the history of the Assassins,” said Herbert.
“Perhaps their ‘Old Man of the Mountain,’ as the chief of the
Assassins was called, may have given rise to the entire fable,”
rejoined Lathom. “Now, Thompson, read the poet’s conversion.”
THE GARDEN OF ALOADDIN.
—Thalaba stood mute,
And passively receiv’d
The mingled joy which flowed in every sense.
Where’er his eye could reach,
Fair structures, rainbow hued, arose;
And rich pavilions through the opening woods
Gleam’d from their waving curtains sunny gold;
And winding through the verdant vale
Went stream of liquid light,
And fluted cypresses rear’d up
Their living obelisks;
And broad-leaved plane-trees, in long colonnades,
O’erarched delightful walks,
Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill’d vine
Wound up, and hung the trees with greener wreaths,
And clusters not their own.
Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes
Return for rest? beside him teems the earth
With tulips like the ruddy evening streak’d.
And here the lily hangs her head of snow;
And here amid her sable cup
Shines the red eye spot, like one brightest star,
The solitary twinkle of the night;
And here the rose expands
Her paradise of leaves.
Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellow’d song
From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote:
The murmuring of the leafy groves,
The single nightingale.
* * * * *
And oh what odors the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness,
From cluster’d henna, and from orange groves.
* * * * *
Full of the bliss, yet still awake
To wonder, on went Thalaba:
On every side the song of mirth,
The music of festivity,
Invite the passing youth.
Wearied at length with hunger and with heat,
He enters in a banquet room;
Where round a fountain’s brink
On silken carpets sat the festive train.
Instant, through all his frame
Delightful coolness spread;
The playing fount refresh’d
The agitated air;
The very light came cool through silvering panes
Of pearly shell, like the pale moonbeam tinged.
“I think I must stop here,” said Thompson, “though the entire book
seems but the poet’s amplification of the tale of Mandeville.”
“The more I think on the subject, the more certain I feel that the
Assassins of the eleventh century are the origin, if not of your
tradition, at least of the tales of Purchas and Mandeville,” said
Herbert.
“I know too little of their history, to agree with you or not;
surely, theirs was a purely political association,” answered Lathom.
“Their original and avowed object was the placing a caliph of the
race of Ismael on the throne of Bagdad; but their sacred doctrines
are supposed to have embraced a wider sphere, and are known to have
been converted into the means of private revenge by the adept, who
afterwards became known as the ‘old man of the mountain.’”
“Where did the old man reign?” asked Thompson.
“On the mountain of Alamoot, in the north of Persia. The Vulture’s
Rest, as its name imported, was not unlike the hill of Cotonolapes,
or the Castle of the Magician of the Gesta. There Hassan ben Sabah
gathered round him an independent society of seven degrees, with
himself as their head, by the title of Sheikh of the Mountain.”
“What was the date of that event?”
“Within a few years of the close of the eleventh century,” replied
Herbert. “His seven degrees commenced with the three grand priors,
under him, the practical rulers of the society. Then came the
_dais_, or initiated ministers; and fourthly, the _refeeks_, or
companions. Below these were the _fedavees_, or devoted, who were
followed by the _laseeks_, the aspirants, the novices of European
orders. The profane, the common people, formed the last of the seven
orders of the Assassins.”
“The mysteries, I suppose, were not revealed to any below the third
class?” remarked Lathom.
“No, the _dais_ were alone acquainted with these; what they were,
besides implicit obedience to their chief, and the principle of
interpreting the Koran allegorically, it is impossible to discover.
By the rest of the society, the text of the Koran was to be observed
in its strict letter. The _fedavees_ were, however, the support of
the society. They were composed, too often, of youths stolen from
their parents, and educated in such a system as recognized the
sheikh as omnipotent, and impressed on them the moral and religious
duty of obeying his commands.”
“From this order, then, the common idea of the Assassins arose?”
said Lathom.
“Undoubtedly,” rejoined Herbert. “They were led to look to his
mandates as direct from heaven, and as impossible to be evaded. They
were clothed in white, with red bonnets and girdles, and armed with
sharp daggers; but when a secret and dangerous mission was imposed,
the disguises of the _fedavees_ were appropriated to the task
enjoined.”
“Is any thing known of their initiatory ceremonies?”
“But little; Marco Polo, indeed, gives us a curious account of the
garden of Alamoot bearing a very strong likeness to that of
Aloaddin, whither the _fedavee_ was borne under the influence of
opiates, before being sent on any important mission; and where, on
awakening, he found himself surrounded with every earthly pleasure.
This, he was persuaded, is but a foretaste of the joys of paradise,
which were to be the reward of his faithful performance of the
mission. And thus buoyed up, the _fedavees_ confronted danger in
every form, and executed the commands of their chief in despite of
countless difficulties.”
“Their name, I suppose, is but the corruption of that of their
leader, Hassan,” remarked Thompson.
“Here doctors disagree,” replied Herbert; “some are content with
this origin; whilst others, explaining the visions in the garden of
Alamoot as the effects of an intoxicating herb, derive the name of
the society from hashish, the opiate of hemp-leaves, supposed to
have been so freely used by the sheikh in deluding his victims.”
“How long did this strange society exist?” asked Lathom.
“After a time they divided into two branches; the eastern one
remaining at Alamoot, whilst the western spread into Syria. Both
branches became too powerful and dangerous to be endured. After
repeated attempts, the eastern branch was destroyed by the Monguls,
about a century and a half after its foundation; whilst the western
branch lasted only fourteen years longer, and fell about 1270, under
the power of the Mamluke sultans of Egypt.”
“It was far easier to root out their strongholds than their
principles,” remarked Lathom.
“It was so found by their conquerors: the mountains of Syria,
especially, gave shelter to many of the society, and the tenets of
the order are still believed to linger among a branch of the Koords.
But come, we are wandering from our tales, and if we do not leave
off our remarks Lathom will close the evening without another
specimen of the old story-teller.”
“We have not yet heard the moral of the magician’s garden,” said
Thompson.
“The application is plain,” replied Lathom: “the magician is the
world; the luxuries and beauties of his garden are the world’s
rewards and riches; worldly people think that they have grasped its
gifts; anon, they open their hands, and find them empty.”
“But a short application, though over true,” remarked Herbert.
“I have rather condensed the old monk, and perhaps wrongly, as the
latter part of his moral reminds me strongly of a passage in Gay’s
fables. ‘The conjurer,’ says the old monk, ‘puts down a dish, but
places nothing in it. Then he begins to prate and mock the
spectators with fair words and long speeches. Soon he inquires of
them: What is in the dish? they look, and it is full of pennies.
These he distributes among the bystanders; with thanks they receive
his gifts, and eagerly close their hands on them; anon, they open
their hands, and lo, there is nothing.’”
“You allude,” said Herbert, “to Gay’s lines, where he describes his
conjurer performing his tricks.
“‘Trick after trick deludes the train,
He shakes his bag, and shows all fair,
His fingers spread, and nothing there,
Then bids it rain with showers of gold;
And now his ivory eggs are told.’”
“Hardly so much,” replied Lathom, “as the four lines where he says
of FORTUNE:
“‘A purse she to the thief exposed;
At once his ready fingers closed.
He opes his fist, his treasure’s fled,
He sees a halter in its stead.’
And now,” continued Lathom, “now for the original of Guy, Earl of
Warwick.”
“The original of a romance, that was a celebrated piece in the time
of Chaucer, and usually sung to the harp at Christmas dinners and
bridals, is indeed a curiosity,” remarked Herbert.
“But how comes Sir Guy in the Latin stories?” said Thompson; “does
not Bishop Percy say it was of English growth?”
“I cannot resolve the difficulty,” answered Lathom; “we must admit
that it was in French before the end of the thirteenth century; when
it came into its Latin dress, must depend on that most difficult of
all points, the date and authorship of my volume of stories. But
come from where he will, you have here the story of the Champion of
Warwick.”
SIR GUIDO, THE CRUSADER.
Centuries have gone by since the court of the king of England was
adorned by two valorous knights named Guido and Tyrius. Many a hard
battle had they fought side by side against the enemies of their king,
for the sake of the smiles of the fair ladies to whom they had dedicated
themselves. After several years of brilliant deeds of daring and
numerous perils, Sir Guido married the lady of his devotions. Happy were
the early days of his marriage, for the knight and the lady loved each
other greatly. One night Sir Guido saw a vision, as it were an angel of
God talking with him, and he was afraid.
Then said the angel: “Why weepest thou, Sir Guido? arise, put on thy
arms, and fight for the holy cross.”
“Verily, Lord,” replied Sir Guido, “much and often have I fought.”
“Yes,” replied the angel, “much, often, and valiantly hast thou fought
for the love of woman; now fight for the love of God, the glory of the
holy cross. Contend against God’s enemies, as thou hast against those of
men.”
With these words the vision faded away, and Sir Guido knew that he was
called to battle in the Holy Land against the infidels. Then he turned
to his wife and said:
“Felicia, we must part, but for a time; I am called to the Holy Land to
fight under the banner of the cross.”
“Alas! alas! my lord,” replied Felicia, clasping her husband in her arms
and weeping hot tears upon his neck; “alas! and wilt thou leave me?
death were to be preferred; then welcome death.”
As she spoke she snatched up a dagger that lay beside her, and would
have killed herself had not Sir Guido wrenched it from her grasp.
“Felicia,” said the knight, “be comforted; I am vowed to go to the Holy
Land; bear with it, my love; it is but for a time; be comforted.”
“God’s will be done,” murmured the lady. “Take this ring, and as often
as you look upon it, in happiness or in misery, in joy or in woe, think
of Felicia.”
Sir Guido gathered together his vassals, and his friend, Sir Tyrius,
added his to those of Sir Guido, and thus combined they marched for the
Holy Land, and journeyed by land and not by sea until they came to the
borders of Dacia, a Christian country overrun by the infidels.
“Brother,” said Sir Guido, “go thou to the king of the country, and with
thy good sword rescue his kingdom from the power of the Saracen; I will
proceed to the Holy Land, and when the foes of God are vanquished will
rejoin you here, and so together we will return to England.”
“Even as you wish,” said Sir Tyrius; “I will await your return here.”
Thus did the friends separate. Sir Guido reached the Holy Land, and
fought valiantly against the Saracens. Many and dire were his conflicts
with the infidels, but in all of them he bore aloft the cross, and in
his hands it never bowed before the crescent. Every one spoke of his
deeds of arms, of his charity, and of his kindness; the minstrels made
songs of his exploits, and spread his fame over the whole Christian
world. Sir Tyrius, too, was successful in Dacia; by his aid the king
regained his throne, and the infidels were driven from the kingdom.
Rewards and thanks followed his successes; the king regarded him as the
preserver of his throne, and considered no rewards too great or too good
for the Christian warrior. The rewards of the good are ever sources of
envy to the wicked. So was it at the court of the Dacian king. The
prosperity of Sir Tyrius was gall and wormwood to a knight of Dacia, Sir
Plebeus, who, until the coming of this stranger, had been looked upon as
the greatest warrior of the Dacian people. To envy succeeded hatred, to
hatred falsehood. Treason, he insinuated was in the mind of Tyrius; he
aspired to the crown which he had recovered from the infidel.
Alas! how easily do we credit falsehood, how readily do we believe that
every one is as wicked as ourselves. The king believed the words of
Plebeus. He called his preserver before him, charged him with treason,
and upbraided him with ingratitude.
“Go,” said he, “leave my court. I have honored thee much, I would have
honored thee yet more. Now I give thee thy life in return for the
valiant blows you struck for me; go in peace, but in poverty.”
“Miserable creature that I am,” murmured Sir Tyrius; “whither shall I
flee in this my abject poverty?”
Sadly and slowly he wandered on, his eyes cast down, his hands crossed
upon his breast. At last he sat down by the way-side.
“Friend,” said a tall pilgrim, whose careworn look showed how long he
had been journeying, “friend, whence comest thou?”
“Father,” replied Tyrius, “I am of Rome; years have I lived in this
land, and now I seek another home. Years have passed since my companion
parted with me but a few miles from here; he sought the Holy Land, and
whether he be dead or alive I know not.”
“Friend,” replied the palmer, “I am wearied; suffer me, by the memory of
your friend, I pray you, suffer me to repose my head on your knees, that
I may sleep awhile.”
Tyrius pitied the poor pilgrim, and acceded to his request. The palmer’s
cloak was drawn over his face, so that he could distinguish but a
portion of his features.
As the palmer slept, of a sudden a weasel, small and white, leapt from
out of his mouth, and ran to a neighboring hill-side, where it entered a
small hole; after a time the creature returned, and appeared to enter
into the mouth of the sleeping man. At that moment the palmer awoke.
“Friend,” said he to Tyrius, “I have dreamed a strange dream. Methought
a weasel, small, and white as snow, ran from out my mouth to a hole in
yonder hill, and thence returning, re-entered my open mouth.”
“Father,” replied Tyrius, “it was no dream; so did it appear to me also,
as I sat and watched you. What the weasel did in yonder hill I cannot
conjecture.”
“Come, let us arise and look, peradventure we may find some good
treasure.”
“Even as I thought,” continued the palmer, when they entered the hole in
the hill-side, that led to a large cave; “see, a dragon dead, and filled
with gold; the treasure he was thus guarding is our own; ay, too, a
sword. What do we read on its bright blade? ‘_By me shall Guido overcome
the enemies of Tyrius._’”
“Alas, Guido,” said Tyrius, “where art thou, O my friend?”
“Come,” said the palmer, “we will divide the treasures; to you the piles
of gold and jewels; to me this sword.”
“To thee the sword of Guido!” exclaimed Tyrius; “nay.”
“To me the sword of Guido,” said the pilgrim, interrupting the knight in
his words, and gradually raising the cowl of his dress from off his
face. “Yes, to me, Tyrius.”
“Guido, my friend, my brother!” cried the knight, as he looked on the
pilgrim’s features. “And have we met, my brother? It is enough, O my
brother!” and the tears came in the eyes of both.
“Courage, courage, Tyrius; weep not, for I will do battle with your
enemy; with this sword will I beat down thy foes; do you go to your own
home, and leave me to deal with your traducers.”
The friends embraced and parted. Tyrius went to his home with his
treasure, and Guido repaired to the Dacian king’s palace.
“Who art thou, and from whence?” asked the porter, as Sir Guido knocked
at the king’s gate.
“A humble pilgrim from the holy sepulchre.”
“Enter, father, I crave thy blessing,” said the porter, as he knelt
before Sir Guido.
“Thou hast it, my son; peace be on thee and this house; I seek the
king.”
The king sat at meat, and all his nobles were round him.
“Is the Holy Land at peace?” inquired the king, as the pilgrim entered.
“At peace, my lord; the holy sepulchre is delivered from the infidel.”
“Ho, give place; sit, father; bring wine and bread. Father, hast thou
heard of a Christian knight named Guido?”
“Both heard and seen him, my lord: we have eaten of the same bread, and
shared the same couch.”
“What say they of the Christian kings?”
“They say the Dacian king has regained his kingdom and crown by the aid
of a brave knight of Rome, whom he promoted to great honor and riches.”
“They say true, sir pilgrim,” said the king, on whose brow an angry spot
began to show.
“They further say, that thou, O king, hast driven away this good and
brave knight, seduced by the malice of one Plebeus, who has poisoned
your royal ear with his falsehoods.”
“False pilgrim,” cried Plebeus, who stood by the king’s chair; “false
pilgrim, thou utterest lies that thou darest not to defend with thy
life. That Tyrius was a traitor; he would have dethroned our king.”
“Sir knight,” replied Guido, “I have both spoken the truth, and dare
prove it; if thou art Sir Plebeus, and sayest Tyrius was a traitor; go
to, thou art a liar, and by the king’s leave I will prove thy falsehood
on thy body.”
“It is well,” said the king; “let the wager of battle decide the truth,
and God defend the right.”
“Give me, my lord, such arms as be necessary for the field, and the
ordeal of battle shall prove the truth. Save this sword, I have no
armor.”
“Be it so as you desire; to-morrow, at noon, we will see this combat.
Daughter, to thy care I commit this pilgrim knight; see that he be
forthcoming by to-morrow’s noon.”
It was a bright day when the lists were prepared for the contest; before
the hour appointed drew nigh, all the population of the royal city
poured towards the scene of the approaching combat. Some trusted to the
known prowess of the Dacian knight; others sided with the pilgrim,
speculated upon who he was, and wished him success for the sake of
Tyrius.
“Haste thee, haste thee, sir pilgrim knight,” said the king’s daughter,
“thy adversary even now stands in the lists, and exclaims: ‘False
pilgrim! why tarriest thou?’”
Sir Guido hastened to put on his armor, and to gird his sword about him.
At noon the king entered the lists, the combatants took oath to the
justice of their quarrel, and prepared to engage. Long and arduous was
the battle; Guido pressed upon his adversary so fiercely that he
thirsted almost to death.
“Good pilgrim,” he said, “if thou wilt courteously permit me to quench
my thirst this once, I will do the like to thee, shouldst thou require
it of me.”
“I consent,” replied Guido.
His thirst thus quenched, Plebeus renewed the combat with redoubled
animation. At length Guido also thirsted, and claimed of his adversary
his promise.
“Go to, fool! you shall taste no water but by the strong hand,” replied
the Dacian.
“By the strong hand then,” rejoined Guido, “be it so.”
With these words he made towards the water, guarding himself with his
shield. As soon as he gained the edge of the pond he jumped in, drank
freely of the water, and rushed out refreshed and reinvigorated against
his treacherous foe. His prowess and his courage alike deserted the
Dacian, and he turned and fled.
At that moment the king threw down his sceptre, and the combat closed
for that day.
The king’s daughter led the knight to his chamber, bound up his wounds,
tended him softly, prepared his evening meal, and smoothed his bed with
her own hands: a deep sleep soon came over Sir Guido, for he was wearied
with the exertions of the combat.
“My sons,” said Plebeus to the seven stout warriors that called him
father, “my sons, if to-morrow’s sun sees yonder pilgrim in the lists, I
die; never yet did I meet so stout an opponent.”
“Fear not, sir,” replied they all, “we will take care of the pilgrim.”
Sir Guido slept heavily; at midnight his chamber door was carefully
opened, and the sons of Plebeus crept into his room.
“He sleeps soundly,” whispered the eldest, “how shall we dispose of him?
if we slay him here as he sleeps, what are we but dead men on the
morrow?”
“Does not the sea flow beneath the window?” asked one of the sons.
“Yes, but if we touch him he will wake.”
“Nay, let us take him bed and all and throw him into the sea.”
Sir Guido slept on, and knew not what was plotting against him.
It was midnight, and the moon shone brightly on the sea. A fisherman
beneath the wall of the Dacian king’s palace was casting his nets, when
a sudden splash in the water arrested his attention. “Halloa!” said he
to himself, “what villany is this? a bed floating on the sea, and a man
on it; ho, friend! ho, I say! awake, or be drowned!”
“Where am I?” exclaimed Sir Guido, as he awoke with the fisherman’s
clamor. “Help; friend,—I am sinking: I am the pilgrim that fought
yesterday in the lists—thanks—thanks,” he continued, as he reached the
fisherman’s boat; “but how got I here?”
“I hardly know: just now I heard a splash, looked round, and by the
moon’s light saw you and your bed floating on the water.”
“Ah! well, the treachery has failed, good friend; to-morrow will
confound the traitors.”
The morrow came in fair and bright; again the people hastened to the
lists, eager to see the issue of this wondrous combat. The king was
seated, the lists were ready, and the heralds sounded. Then stept forth
Sir Plebeus with his visor up, and a fair and smiling countenance.
“My lord the king,” said the Dacian champion, as he bowed before the
king’s throne, “I demand the combat with the pilgrim.”
“It is well, Sir Plebeus—ho, herald! go to my daughter, and demand of
her the pilgrim knight.”
“The princess is even now coming to the royal presence,” replied the
herald, as the crowd formed a lane, through which the king’s daughter
was seen approaching her father’s throne, with a meek and sorrowful
aspect.
“My child,” said the Dacian king, “where is the pilgrim knight, the
champion of Sir Tyrius? We await his coming forth.”
“Father, and dear lord,” replied the maiden, “I know not whither he is
gone; but last night I left him in deep sleep in his chamber, and now
neither he nor his bed whereon he slept are to be found.”
“Cowardly boaster!” exclaimed Sir Plebeus, “dares he not meet me in the
list? The coward has fled.”
“That is not so, my lord,” exclaimed a poor man in the crowd; “he has
not fled.”
“Ah! how sayest thou?”
“Even now he sleeps at my hut; last night I found him floating on his
bed beneath the palace wall; I took him into my boat, and he is safe.”
“Thou hast done well; summon him to the list. Sir Plebeus, you shall not
be disappointed of your combat. See, even now your adversary comes. Now,
marshals, arm the stranger.”
“Nay, my good lord,” said the Dacian knight, “press not on the pilgrim;
I pray you, my lord, give him time to recruit his strength.”
“Not for a minute, sir knight,” exclaimed the pilgrim as he entered the
lists and hastened to don his armor; “not for a minute—I have much to
reckon with you: remember last night.”
The combat was short: each knight struck twice without fatal effect; the
pilgrim’s third blow ended the battle, and the Dacian rolled on the
ground a headless corpse.
“Sir Pilgrim,” said the king, as he knelt before the throne, “God has
defended the right; even now have I been told of the treachery of that
senseless corpse, and of the villany of his sons towards thee; they now
are going to their reward—to death. Come, sir knight, for thy sake I
restore Sir Tyrius, renew his honors, and add to them those which you so
steadfastly refuse. One boon I ask before you leave our court and our
kingdom: disclose thy name; let me and my people know to whom they owe
the punishment of a traitor and the defence of their best friend, their
former preserver.”
“My lord,” replied the pilgrim, “my name is not unknown to you; I am the
knight of the Holy Land—the Guido of whom men speak.”
Loud were the exclamations with which that famous name was hailed by the
assembled Dacians, as their king fell on the pilgrim’s neck and embraced
him as a brother.
Seven years had passed since Guido left his castle and sailed for the
Holy Land. Day by day did Felicia minister to the poor and bestow alms
on every applicant, with this one request, that they would pray for the
safety of her husband, Sir Guido, and that once more before her death
she might rejoice in his presence. Felicia stood at her castle gate, and
the inner court-yard was filled with her poor pensioners. One by one she
accosted them and bade her almoner give to each his accustomed alms. Her
young son ran by his mother’s side.
“Mother, dear mother,” said the child, as he heard Felicia commend Sir
Guido to the prayers of the poor men, “is it not my father for whom you
ask these poor people to pray?”
“Yes, my child; seven years have passed since he left me; but a few
months had we been married before God summoned him to the Holy Land, and
he took the cross and went against the infidel.”
As she thus spoke to her son, Felicia drew nigh to a tall pilgrim who
stood apart from the rest of the poor people. She gave him the alms, and
asked of him his prayers for her husband’s return. Low bowed the pilgrim
his head, but not a word did he speak as the lady passed onwards. Her
son followed after Felicia; as he passed the pilgrim, he bowed himself
forward and embraced the youth.
“God give thee grace,” said he with a trembling voice, “God give thee
grace to do his will.”
“Thanks, father, for thy blessing,” said Felicia; “can I do aught to
reward thy good wishes?”
“Lady,” said the pilgrim in a low, stifled voice, “I crave the small
hermitage below the eagle’s rock; there let me live and die.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Felicia, “the eagle’s rock; art thou of this place, good
father, that thou knowest the name so well?”
“I was of thy people once, fair lady; now I am God’s poor servant.”
“Be it as thou desirest; go, father, and pray for this house and its
long-lost master.”
Those who could see the pilgrim’s face saw the tears start in his eyes
as he accepted Felicia’s gift and turned towards his lonely hermitage.
Many years did he live there, many a time did he come to the castle
yard, and his daily companion was Felicia’s child, Sir Guido’s son. Day
after day did he talk to him of adventures of knights in the Holy Land,
of those that had fallen fighting for the sepulchre, and those who had
passed through the fiery ordeal of that expedition. At last death came
upon him.
“Dear boy,” said he to Sir Guido’s son, “take this ring to thy mother,
and bid her, if she would see me ere I die, come hither quickly.”
“Mother, dear mother,” said the youth when he entered Felicia’s chamber,
“the good pilgrim is sorely ill; he sends you this ring, and bids you
see him ere he die.”
Felicia cast one look upon the ring. “Haste, haste, my child!” she
exclaimed, “it is my lord’s, your father’s ring; come, come to the
forest!”
Quickly as she rushed to the hermitage, she found but the dead body of
her husband.
“Woe, woe is me!” she exclaimed, casting herself on the cold corpse,
“woe, woe is me! where are now my alms? My husband asked charity of me
and I knew him not; thy father talked with thee, my child, he embraced
thee, and thou knewest him not. O Guido! thou didst look upon thy wife,
and didst not tremble; thou didst look upon thy child, and kissed him,
and blessed him; alas, alas! my husband.”
“I should be loth to agree with Percy, that so beautiful a tale
should have been resigned to children,” said Herbert, as soon as
Lathom had concluded his version of the old tale.
“No wonder that the pilgrimage of the warrior was such a favorite
with all nations, as to be claimed by nearly all as peculiarly their
own,” said Thompson.
“It was very early translated into French, and is alluded to in a
Spanish romance, written somewhere about 1430. But now, that, as the
old ballad says,
“‘The story is brought to an end,
Of Guy, the bold baron of price,
And of the fair maid Felice,’
we will conclude our evening with some account of its applications,
as intended by the monk. Sir Guido was symbolical of our Saviour,
Felicia of the soul, and Tyrius of man in general. By the weasel was
meant the prophets, and especially the Baptist, as prophesying the
coming of the Saviour. The mountain is the world, the dead dragon
the old law of Moses, and the gold within it the Ten Commandments.
The sword represented authority, the seven deadly sins were
symbolized in the sons of Plebeus, and the good fisherman was the
representative of the Holy Spirit.”
“There remains one character yet unexplained—the king’s daughter,”
remarked Herbert.
“The explanation of her duties is peculiar to the religion of the
age in which the tale was written; the Roman Catholic easily
recognized in the king’s daughter the Virgin Mary.”
“Come, Herbert, we are over our time; to work; goodnight.”
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