_A memorable Saying of the_ Duke de ORLEANS, _at the Surrender of_
_Gravelling, with a generous Action of that Prince_.
WHEN Gravelling was surrendered to the Duke of Orleans, just as he
entered into town he was heard to say these words: "Let us
endeavour, by generous actions, to win the hearts of all men; so we
may hope for a daily victory. Let the French learn from me this new
way of conquest, to subdue men by mercy and clemency."
With what a matchless virtue did this Prince dismiss a gentleman
that was hired to murder him! This assassin was suffered to pass
into the Duke's bedchamber one morning early, pretending business of
grave moment from the Queen. As soon as the Duke cast his eyes on
him, he spoke thus: "I know thy business, friend: thou art sent to
take away my life. What hurt have I done thee? It is now in my
power, with a word, to have thee cut in pieces before my face. But
I pardon thee; go thy way, and see my face no more."
The gentleman, stung with his own guilt, and astonished at the
excellent nature of this Prince, fell on his knees, confessed his
design, and who employed him; and having promised eternal gratitude
for his Royal favour, departed without any other notice taken of
him; and fearing to tarry in France, entered himself into the
service of the Spanish King. It was his fortune afterwards to
encounter the Duke of Orleans in a battle in Flanders. The Duke, at
that instant, was oppressed with a crowd of Germans, who surrounded
him; and, in the conflict, he lost his sword; which this gentleman
perceiving, nimbly stept to him, and delivered one into the Duke's
hand, saying withal, "Now reap the fruit of thy former clemency.
Thou gavest me my life, now I put thee in a capacity to defend thy
own." The Duke by this means at length escaped the danger he was
in; and that day the fortune of war was on his side. The French had
a considerable victory.
You see by this, that heroic actions have something divine in them,
and attract the favours of Heaven. No man was a loser by good
works; for though he be not presently rewarded, yet, in length of
time, some happy emergency arises to convince him, "That virtuous
men are the darlings of Providence."
_The remarkable Story of_ GIOTTO, _an Italian Painter, and his_
_Crucifix_.
IT was a cruel and inhuman caprice of an Italian Painter (I think
his name was Giotto), who designing to draw a crucifix to the life,
wheedled a poor man to suffer himself to be bound to the cross an
hour, at the end of which he should be released again, and receive a
considerable gratuity for his pains. But instead of this, as soon
as he had him fast on the cross, he stabbed him dead, and then fell
to drawing. He was esteemed the greatest master in all Italy at
that time; and having this advantage of a dead man hanging on a
cross before him, there is no question but he made a matchless piece
of work on't.
As soon as he had finished his picture he carried it to the Pope,
who was astonished, as at a progidy [sic] of art, highly extolling
the exquisiteness of the features and limbs, the languishing pale
deadness of the face, the unaffected sinking of the head: In a
word, he had drawn to the life not only that privation of sense and
motion which we call death, but also the very want of the least
vital symptom.
This is better understood than expressed. Every body knows that it
is a master-piece to represent a passion or a thought well and
natural. Much greater is it to describe the total absence of these
interior facilities, so as to dis tinguish the figure of a dead man
from one that is only asleep.
Yet all this, and much more, could the Pope discern in the admirable
draught which Giotto presented him. And he liked it so well, that
he resolved to place it over the altar of his own chapel. Giotto
told him, since he liked the copy so well he would shew him the
original, if he pleased.
What dost thou mean by the original, said the Pope? Wilt thou shew
me Jesus Christ on the cross in his own person? No, replied Giotto,
but I'll shew your Holiness the original from whence I drew this, if
you will absolve me from all punishment. The good old father
suspecting something extraordinary from the painter's thus
capitulating with him, promised, on his word, to pardon him, which
Giotto believing, immediately told him where it was; and attending
him to the place, as soon as they were entered, he drew a curtain
back which hung before the dead man on the cross, and told the Pope
what he had done.
The Holy Father, extremely troubled at so inhuman and barbarous an
action, repealed his promise, and told the painter he should surely
be put to an exemplary death.
Giotto seemed resigned to the sentence pronounced upon him, and only
begged leave to finish the picture before he died, which was granted
him. In the mean while a guard was set upon him to prevent his
escape. As soon as the Pope had caused the picture to be delivered
into his hands, he takes a brush, and dipping it into a sort of
stuff he had ready for that purpose, daubs the picture all over with
it, so that nothing now could be seen of the crucifix, for it was
quite effaced in all outward appearance.
This made the Pope stark mad; he stamped, foamed, and raved like one
in a phrenzy: he swore the painter should suffer the most cruel
death that could be invented, unless he drew another full as good as
the former, for if but the least grace was missing, he would not
pardon him; but if he would produce an exact parallel he should not
only give him life, but an ample reward in money.
The painter, as he had reason, desired this under the Pope's signet,
that he might not be in danger of a second repeal; which was granted
him; and then he took a wet sponge, and wiped off the varnish he had
daubed on the picture, and the crucifix appeared the same in all
respects as it was before.
The Pope, who looked upon this as a great secret, being ignorant of
the arts which the painters use, was ravished at the strange
metamorphosis. And to reward the painter's triple ingenuity, he
absolved him from all his sins, and the punishment due them;
ordering moreover his steward to cover the picture with gold, as a
farther gratuity for the painter. And, they say, this crucifix is
the original, by which the most famous crucifixes in Europe are
drawn.
FABLE _of the_ HARE _and many_ FRIENDS.
By Mr. GAY.
[Illustration: woodcut of Hare and friends]
FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame,
The child whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care;
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.
A hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied with ev'ry thing, like _Gay_,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain;
Her care was, never to offend,
And ev'ry creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies;
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
'Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transports in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appear'd in view!
Let me, says she, your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend;
You know my feet betray my flight,
To friendship every burden's light.
The horse replied, poor honest puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear.
She next the stately bull implor'd,
And thus replied the mighty lord;
Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend;
Love calls me hence; a fav'rite cow
Expects me near yon barley mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind,
But see, the goat is just behind.
The goat remark'd her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
My back, says he, may do you harm;
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.
The sheep was feeble, and complain'd
His sides a load of wool sustain'd,
Said he was slow, confest his fears;
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting calf addrest,
To save from death a friend distrest.
Shall I, says he, of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler past you by;
How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence:
Excuse me then. You know my heart,
But dearest friends, alas, must part!
How shall we all lament: Adieu!
For see the hounds are just in view.
_The dying Words and Behaviour of three great
Men, when just quitting the Stage of Life_.
SIR Francis Walsingham, towards the end of his life, grew very
melancholy, and writ to the Lord Burleigh to this purpose: "We have
lived long enough to our country, to our fortunes, and to our
Sovereign; it is high time we begin to live to ourselves, and to
our God."
Sir Henry Wotton, who had gone on several embassies, and was
intimate with the greatest Princes, chose to retire from all,
saying, The utmost happiness a man could attain to, was to be at
leisure to _be_, and to _do_ good; never reflecting on his former
years, but with tears, he would say, "How much time have I to repent
of! and how little to do it in!"
Philip III. King of Spain, seriously reflecting upon the life he had
led in the world, cried out upon his death-bed, How happy were I,
had I spent those twenty-three years that I have held my kingdom,
_in a retirement!_ saying to his confessor, "My concern is for my
soul, not my body."
_FINIS_.
SALISBURY: Printed by B.C. COLLINS.