Wishing he’d come the Gospel to explain,
Begin, or rather end, his dull tho’ noisy strain.
At last he comes, deep-crimson’d o’er his face,
A certain token of unlettered grace;
He mounts, the pulpit crackles with his weight,
His awful eyebrows the most distant threat;
Against his brethren he exclaims aloud
That they are too luxurious in their food,
In taverns more than churches take delight,
Feast on fat capons; quaff the livelong night;
While, could you rummage his own private cell,
No noble’s larder e’er was stuffed so well.
Let me have books those moments to beguile,
When the rich prelate, in his haughty style,
Roars to his porter, “Here, let who will come,
Be sure you tell them I am not at home.”
So monks, carousing at their favourite meals,
Silence the interrupting sound of bells.
“Sir,” should I say (for _Sir’s_ the proper word
Even at a cobbler’s stall, or tailor’s board),
“Good sir,” though to a tattered Swiss, “I pray,
May I not see His Eminence to-day?”
“_No sproka to my Maister bater goud,
You go your lodgèe, come as when you coud._”[4]
“Sir, be so kind at least to let him know
That Lewis Ariosto is below.”
He answers that his Rev’rence would not see
St Paul himself, though on an embassy....
_Lodovico Ariosto_ (1474–1533).
_THE VALLEY OF LOST LUMBER._
[Astolfo journeys to the Moon, on the winged steed Hippogrif, to
recover the wits which Orlando has lost for love of the Princess
Angelica.]
[Illustration]
... Now Astolfo was conducted by his guide into a narrow valley between
two steep mountains. And in this place there was miraculously collected
together everything which gets lost on earth, either through some
failing of our own, or by the fault of time or fortune. I mean not only
riches and power, but also those things which fortune alone can neither
give nor take away. Many a reputation lies up there, which time, like a
moth, has long been gnawing at here below, and also numberless vows and
good resolutions made by sinners. There we should find the tears and
sighs of lovers, the time lost in gaming, all the wasted leisure of
ignorant men, and all vain intentions which have never been put into
action. Of fruitless desires there are so many that they lumber up the
greater part of that place. In short, whatever you have lost here below
you will find again if you ascend thither.
Our Paladin, as he passed along, now and again asking questions of his
guide, saw a mountain of blown bladders, which seemed to be full of
noise inside. And he knew that these were the ancient crowns of the
Assyrians, and of Lydia, and of the Persians and Greeks, which once were
famous, while now their very names are almost forgotten. Close by he saw
great masses of gold and silver piled up in heaps, which were those
gifts that people made, in hopes of getting a reward, to kings and
princes. He saw wreaths of flowers with traps hidden among them, and
heard, in asking, that they were flatteries. Verses that men made in
praise of their patrons are seen there, under the form of grasshoppers,
who have hurt themselves with chirping.... He saw many broken bottles of
different kinds, and found that they stand for the service men pay to
courts, and the thanks they get for it. Then he came to a great pool of
spilt broth, and asking what it was, his guide told him that it
represented the alms people direct to be given after their deaths. Then
he passed by a great heap of various flowers, which once were
sweet-scented, but now have a foul odour; this was the gift (if we may
be permitted to say so) that Constantine bestowed on the good Pope
Sylvester.
He saw a great quantity of twigs covered with bird-lime, there, O fair
ladies, are your beauty! He saw ... but it would be an endless task to
count up the things which were shown him there. The only thing he did
not find was folly: that remains here on earth, for no one ever parts
with it.
At last he came to that which we are all so firmly persuaded we possess,
that no one ever prayed to have it given him—I mean common sense. There
was a huge heap of it, as big as all the other things put together. It
was like a clear, soft liquid, which easily evaporates if it is not kept
tightly corked, and was contained in bottles of various shapes and
sizes, each one being labelled with the name of its owner. Astolfo
noticed one which was much larger than the rest, and read on the label,
“_Orlando’s Wits_.” He saw also a great part of his own; but what made
him marvel more than anything was the fact that many people whom he had
believed to have plenty of sense were now shown to have little or none,
the bottles marked with their names being nearly full. Some lose it
through love, others in striving after honours; yet others, in seeking
for riches by land and sea, or by putting their trust in great lords and
princes, or in pursuing after follies of magic and sorcery, or gems or
pictures, or anything else which a man values above others. There was a
great quantity of the wits of philosophers and astrologers stored there,
and also of those of poets. Astolfo took up his own, having received
permission to do so, and put the flask to his nose; and it appears that
his wits returned to their place right enough, for Turpin confesses that
from thenceforth Astolfo lived very wisely indeed for a long time. But
afterwards, it is true, he made one mistake which once more deprived him
of his brains. Then he took up the large flask which contained
Orlando’s, and which was no light weight, and turned to depart....
_Lodovico Ariosto._
_THE POET TO HIS PATRON._
O, Master Anthony, I am in love
With that fine doublet you’ve _not_ given me!
I love, and wish it well as heartily
As ’twere the lady I call “Flower” and “Dove.”
I look on’t front and back—a perfect fit!
The more I look, the more I long for it.
It pleases me, inside and out,
And up and down. Oh! heaven,
That you have only lent me it, not given!
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!
When in the morn I see it on my back,
I always think that it must be my own;
That cunning stitchery of herring-bone,
How great a marvel! I am on the rack!
I shall do something desperate,—good lack!
And will not—cannot understand
I must restore it to your hand—
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!
Oh! Master Anthony, if you knew how
To set about it, you a faction-chief
Might be. Look at me in this doublet now,—
Am I not gallant?—half a Mars, in brief?
Make up your mind you want it not again,
And I will be your brave,
Your foot-page and your slave,
And walk, with sword on thigh, among your train!
O canzonet!
If thou dost fail this doublet for to get,
Thou well may’st say, I have
Been such a fool, I should be called a knave!
_Francesco Berni_ (1490?–1536).
_BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE._
When I made this speech, there was present that gentleman of Cardinal
Santa Fiore’s with whom I had had words, and confirmed to the Pope all
that had been told him! The Pope remained swelling with rage, and said
nothing. Now I do _not_ wish to fail in stating my reasons in a just and
righteous manner. That gentleman of Santa Fiore’s came to me one day,
and brought me a little ring all tarnished with quicksilver, saying,
“Burnish this ring for me, and make haste about it.” I had a great many
pieces of goldsmith’s work in hand, with most valuable jewels waiting to
be set, and hearing myself, moreover, ordered about with so much
assurance by a man whom I had never seen or spoken to before, answered
that I had not a burnisher by me just then, and that he had better go to
another. He, without any reason in the world, told me that I was an ass.
To these words of his I replied that he did not speak the truth, and
that I was a man, on every account worth more than he; but that, if he
bothered me, I would certainly kick harder than any ass. He went
straight to the cardinal, and made out that I had all but murdered him.
Two days after this I was shooting behind the palace at a wild pigeon,
which had its nest in a hole, very high up; and that same pigeon I had
seen shot at by a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, a
Milanese, who had never hit it. On the day when I was shooting, it had
become shy, and scarcely showed its head; and because this Giovan
Francesco and I were rival marksmen, certain gentlemen and friends of
mine who were in my workshop pointed it out to me, and said, “That is
Tacca’s pigeon which he has so often shot at. See, the poor bird has
grown suspicious, and scarcely shows its head.” I looked up, and said,
“It shows quite enough for me to hit it, if I only had time to take aim
first.” Those gentlemen said that the man himself who invented the
firelock could never hit it. I replied I was willing to wager a pitcher
of the best Greek wine that I would do so; and, taking aim, and shooting
from the arm, without any support for my piece, I did what I had
promised, without thinking of the cardinal or anybody else; nay, I had
the less reason to do so, as I believed the cardinal to be very much my
patron. Thus may the world see what divers ways Fortune takes, when she
wishes to be the ruin of a man. To return to the Pope: he remained, all
swollen and sulky, brooding over what he had heard....
_Benvenuto Cellini_ (1500–1570).
_HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING._
When we had passed the Mount Simplon aforesaid, we found a river near a
place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and rather deep, and
crossed by a little narrow bridge without a parapet. There was a hard
frost that morning, and when I reached the bridge—for I was in front of
the rest, and saw that it was very dangerous—I ordered my young men and
the servants to dismount, and lead their horses by the bridle. Thus I
passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking with one of those
two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. The other was a notary, who had
remained somewhat behind, and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying
that for fear of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going
on foot; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the bridge,
prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dangerous place. This
man, who could not help showing his French nature, said to me in French
that I was a man of little courage, and that there was no danger at all.
While he was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur,
through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the bridge, and
fell close beside a large stone, turning over with its legs in the air;
and as God very often shows compassion to fools, this beast, along with
the other beast, his horse, fell into a great and deep hole, wherein
both he and his horse went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to
run, and with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and,
holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the edge of a gown
which that man was wearing, and by that gown I pulled him up, while he
was still under water; and because he had drunk a great quantity of
water, and within a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of
danger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat he
answered me that I had done nothing—that the most important thing were
his parchments, which were worth much money. It seemed that he spoke
thus in anger, all soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly.
At this I turned to the guides we had with us, and promised to pay them
if they would help this beast. One of the guides valorously, and with
great difficulty, set himself to do what he could, and fished up all the
parchments, so that he lost nothing; the other would not put himself to
any trouble to help him....
_Benvenuto Cellini._
_OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET.”_
[Illustration]
Fain would I sing that direful wrath which swayed
Men’s bosoms for a Bucket, spoil renowned!
Stolen from Bologna, and in pomp displayed,
By hostile Modenese with conquest crowned.
Phœbus! the conflicts and adventures dread
Of horrid war assist me to resound.
Inspiring God! till I am grown acuter,
Lend me thy helping hand, and be my tutor.
And thou, the nephew of the Pope of Rome!
And of the generous Carlo, son the second;
Thou who hast wisdom in thy youthful bloom,
In tender years of high endowments reckoned;
From studies deep, in which thou’rt quite at home,
If thou canst turn, by recreation beckoned,
List to my song; see here the Grecian Helen
Transformed into a Bucket, war compelling!
_Alessandro Tassoni_ (1565–1635).
_THE CALL TO ARMS._
Then like the Spartans lived the Modenese
Unfortified, without a parapet;
So shallow were the fosses that with ease
Men might run in and out early or late;
The Great Bell’s toll now echoed on the breeze,
And up from bed jumped all the people straight;
Summoned to arm, some bolted quick downstairs,
Some to the windows rushed—and some to prayers.
Some snatched a shoe and slipper, some in haste
Had only one leg stockinged, others again
In petticoats turned inside out were dressed,
Lovers exchanged their shirts; some with disdain
Took frying-pans for shields, and forward pressed
With buckets on for helms, others were fain
To brandish hedge-bills, and in breast-plates bright
Ran swaggering to the Square, prepared for fight.
There had the Potta, ready at his post,
The City Standard valorously spread;
Himself on horseback armed, and he could boast
Bright scarlet breeches, shoes too, lively red:
The Modenese, abridging, to their cost,
Potestà, wrote but Potta in its stead;
And hence the Bolognese in joke had got a
Cognomen, and they called his Mayorship Potta!
Messer Lorenzo Scotti, sage and strong,
Was Potta then, and suits at law decided;
Now foot and horsemen, a promiscuous throng,
All hurry to the Square, and these divided
Are posted at the gateways; from among
The rest a chosen squadron is confided
To Rangon’s son Gherardo,—to his hand
The Standard too is given and chief command.
_Alessandro Tassoni._
_THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS._
[Illustration]
O’er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,
The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,
Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,
More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,
Followed their masters to the Council Hall.
First came the Prince of Delos, Phœbus hight,
In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,
Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light
Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,
Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.
Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,
Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen
Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o’er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,
Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,
And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.
The Paphian Queen for her accommodation
Had two stage-coaches; richly decorated
Was that wherein she sat in conversation
With Cupid and the Graces; on them waited
Pages in habits suited to their station;
The other coach with courtiers gay was freighted,
The chamberlain and tutor debonnair,
And the chief cook, Dan Bacon, too was there.
But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared
At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin’s back his form upreared,
Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;
For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother,[5] when she meets him,
Because so like a fisherman he treats him.
Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;
She had risen early, and o’er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair
Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern star
Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses, quite provoking,
Knitting, at the same time, a worsted stocking.
Juno-Lucina did not go—and why?
She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove’s chief taster, standing by,
For the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,
And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,
To water the domestics’ wine that day.
· · · · ·
On starry benches sit the famous warriors
Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,
Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers
Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard,
Alcides, captain of the city guard.
And as the madness which his brain affected
Was not quite cured, officiously he strode,
And swung aloft his club, and blows directed
Along the crowd to clear the royal road.
Like drunken Swiss he looked, and seemed connected
With ruffians low who hire themselves abroad
On festal days, before the Pope to bluster,
Breaking of arms and skull-caps in a fluster.
With Jove’s broad hat and spectacles arrived
The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived,
He damned poor mortals’ prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,
Which graced his father’s cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay,
He regularly signed them twice a day.
Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,
With starry diadem upon his head,
And o’er his shoulders an imperial vest,
Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest;
In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,
And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
_Alessandro Tassoni._
[Illustration]
_PRAISES OF THE WINE OF MONTEPULCIANO._
[Illustration]
Oh! how widely wandereth he
Who, in the search of verity,
Keeps aloof from glorious wine!
Lo! the knowledge it bringeth to me.
For Barbarossa, this wine so bright,
With its rich red look and its strawberry light,
So invites me
And so delights me,
I should infallibly quench my inside with it,
Had not Hippocrates
And old Andromachus
Strictly forbidden it
And loudly chidden it,
So many stomachs have sickened and died with it.
Yet discordant as it is,
Two good biggins will not come amiss;
Because I know, while I’m drinking them down,
What is the finish and what is the crown.
A cup of good Corsican
Does it at once;
Or a cup of old Spanish
Is next for the nonce:
Quackish resources are things for a dunce.
Cups of chocolate,
Ay, or tea,
Are not medicines
Made for me.
I would sooner take to poison,
Than a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee.
Let the Arabs and the Turks
Count it ’mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus,
Down in Erebus,
’Twas the detestable Fifty invented it;
The Furies then took it,
To grind and to cook it,
And to Proserpine all these presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia
Doats on a beverage so unseemly,
I differ with the man extremely.
· · · · ·
There’s a squalid thing called beer:—
The man whose lips that thing comes near
Swiftly dies, or falling foolish,
Grows, at forty, old and owlish.
She that in the ground would hide her,
Let her take to English cider:
He who’d have his death come quicker,
Any other Northern liquor.
Those Norwegians and those Laps
Have extraordinary taps:
Those Laps especially have strange fancies:
To see them drink,
I verily think
Would make me lose my senses.
But a truce to such vile subjects
With their impious, shocking objects,
Let me purify my mouth
In an holy cup o’ the south:
In a golden pitcher let me
Head and ears for comfort get me,
And drink of the vine of the wine benign
That sparkles warm in Sansovine;
Or of that vermillion charmer
And heart-warmer,
Which brought up in Tregonzano
And on stony Giggiano,[6]
Blooms so bright and lifts the head so
Of the toasters of Arezzo.
_Francesco Redi_ (1626–1696).
[Illustration]
_FROM A LETTER TO PIER MARIA BALDI._
Buffalmacco was a famous painter in his day; and in my judgment—and I am
not altogether a fool in these matters—he still deserves to be preferred
to Titian and the divine Michael Angelo—and one can go no further than
that. If you wish, Signor Baldi, to know the reasons and motives of this
judgment of mine, do not expect me to say that Buffalmacco was so
skilled and perfect a master as to be able to teach the art of painting
in its greatest refinements to an ape which the Bishop of Arezzo kept
for his pastime; but I shall certainly tell you that Buffalmacco was he
who discovered that noble and ever-to-be-remembered and
ever-to-be-praised invention of tempering colours, not with water from
the well, but with the most brilliant white wine that could ever be
produced by the best shoots of the most renowned vines on the Florentine
hills. Before Buffalmacco had made this discovery, he used to execute
paintings which—you may rely upon it—were exactly like your own face;
that is to say, pale, washed-out, and mouldy-looking; and in many of
them I fancy I recognise my own portrait, with a face like a mummy,
thin, dry, hollow-cheeked, worn to a shadow, and coloured with a certain
hue like that of bread-crust or a quince baked in the oven, and so
melancholy as to make people weep who were quite ready to laugh. But
when this great master of all masters began to use wine with his
colours—
[Illustration:
“PULCINELLA.”
]
“His painted saints on the wall he discloses
With fresh, blooming faces, all milk and roses!”
and they were all the right sort of folk—jovial, cheerful, wholesome,
and good-tempered, so that people talked about them even as far as the
gates of Paris, and the ladies of Faenza—certain knowing nuns, whose
convent stood where the lower fort is now—had more faith in Buffalmacco
than in all the Apelleses and Protogeneses who were in credit with the
ancient Greeks. Now, what do I mean by all this screed of nonsense? I
mean to draw the conclusion, that since you are so kind as to draw the
illustrations to that book of mine, you will most assuredly come to
grief unless you mix your colours with _Vernaccia_ or some other good
wine, and you will do no work that is worth looking at. And since it is
not right that you should be at any expense in consequence of this work
of mine, I send you a sample of white wine of Syracuse, with other
samples of wine given me by his Serene Highness the Grand Duke; with
which, if you mix your colours, you will not only give a good appearance
to your pictures, but also get back your former healthy looks, in spite
of those disgusting messes which you are made to swallow, every morning,
by those two physicians, your friends. Try this new prescription, and
you will soon be well.
_Francesco Redi._
_PULCINELLA’S DUEL._
COLBRAND AND PULCINELLA (_both armed_).
_Col._ I am beside myself with joy; the master evidently thinks
something of me; he has given me a nag! Now we shall see whether or no
it is possible for an idiot of a rustic to take Nanon from me. I’ll
ornament his face for him! If he is a man of his word, and keeps his
appointment, woe to him!
_Pul._ Perdition! Who is here?
_Col._ If he comes——! (_Threatens him._)
_Pul._ After all, I am a man—I remember the saying; for necessity
teaches one many things.
_Col._ Oh! bravo! You have kept your word, and come in time.
_Pul._ Listen, Colbrand. If you want to fight, I am quite ready; but you
must tell me, first, how long you have learnt fencing.
_Col._ What does that matter?
_Pul._ It matters to me.
_Col._ Five years.
_Pul._ I have been learning for ten. I don’t want to take a mean
advantage of you; go and take lessons five years more, and then come,
and I’ll give you satisfaction.
_Col._ Ah! you coward!
_Pul._ Ah! get out of the way!
_Col._ You shall not go away—you are caught—one of us has to remain
here.
_Pul._ Very well, you remain, and I will go away.
_Col._ You pretend not to understand me. I mean that one of us has to
remain here dead.
_Pul._ Oh! dead?
_Col._ Certainly.
_Pul._ Well, do you remain dead, and then we shall be all right.
_Col._ Who is to kill me?
_Pul._ I, if you wish.
_Col._ No, I do not wish. I shall defend myself to the utmost.
_Pul._ Come, let’s say no more about it. Is it worth while to kill a man
for the sake of a woman?