Next to the Saga of King Olaf, without doubt the most beautiful and successful of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, is that of King Robert of Sicily. The legend is of a remote antiquity, has passed through various modifications and recastings, and, after having lain by in forgotten tomes, has been vivified once more by the poetic breath of Longfellow, and popularised again. It is singular to trace the history of certain favourite tales; they seem to be endowed with an inherent vitality, which cannot be stamped out. Born far back in the early history of man, they have asserted at once a sway over the imagination and feelings; have been translated from their original birth-soil to foreign climes, and have undergone changes and adaptations to suit the habits and requirements of the new people amongst whom they have taken root. Political disturbances cannot obliterate them; war sweeps over the land they have adopted, famine devastates it, pestilence decimates its inhabitants, and for a while the ancient tales hide their heads, only to crop up again green and fresh when the springtide of prosperity returns.

Sometimes a venerable myth disappears for an exceptionally long period, and its vitality is, we suppose, extinguished. But though ages roll by, if it have in it the real essential power of development and assimilation, it is only waiting for its time to start a fresh career, full of concentrated vigour. Like the ear of wheat in the hand of the mummy, it has lain by, wrapped in cere-cloths, without giving token of germ, till the moment of its liberation has arrived, when, falling on good ground, it brings forth a hundredfold.

Such was the history of Fouque’s exquisite romance, Undine. It was a very ancient tale, but it had been forgotten. The German poet found it in the dead hand of the whimsical pedant, Theophrastus Paracelsus, swathed in barbarous Latin. He writes:—“I ceased not to study an old edition of my speechmonger, which fell to me at an auction, and that carefully. Even his receipts I read through in order, just as they had been showered into the text, still continuing in the firm expectation that from every line something wonderfully magical might float up to me, and strike the understanding. Single sparks, here and there darting up, confirmed my hopes, and drew me deeper into the mines beneath ... then, at last, as a pearl of soft radiance, there sparkled towards me, from out its rough-edged shell—Undine.” And he tells us how that his story has been translated into French, Italian, English, Russian, and Polish. The mummy wheat was soon multiplied.

The legend of King Robert of Sicily, which the American poet has rescued from oblivion, is one of those few which can be traced with rare precision through its various changes, and tracked to the country where it originated. It is instructive to note how in one form, it did service in the cause of one religion, and how, in another form, it pointed a striking moral in behalf of an entirely different creed.

Two methods of procedure lie open to us in the examination of this story, analysis and synthesis. We might trace the legend back from the form in which it is known to the modern public, by sure stages, to the ultimate atoms out of which it is developed, or we might take the original germ, and follow it in its expanding and varying forms, till it has assumed its present shape in the pages of the Tales of a Wayside Inn.

We shall adopt the latter method, as the most suitable in this peculiar instance.

In the Pantschatantra, a Sanscrit collection of popular tales, the date of the compilation of which is uncertain, but that of the tales is unquestionably earlier than the Christian era, is the following story:

“In the town of Liavati, lived a king, called Mukunda. One day he saw a hunchback performing such comical actions that he invited him to become an inmate of his palace, and, as his court fool, to divert him in his hours of idleness and depression. The king was so taken up with this droll rascal, that his prime minister was seriously displeased, and he said, in reproof, to his master—

‘Far flies rumour with three pairs of ears.’

To which the king laughingly replied—

‘The man is an idiot, so have no fears.’

“Grumbling still, the old and prudent minister said—

‘The beggar may rise to royal degree,
The monarch descend to beggary.’

“One day a Brahmin came to the palace, and offered to teach the king various magical arts. The monarch agreed with delight, and for a small sum of money acquired power to send his soul from his own body into any disengaged carcass that he wished to vivify. The hunchback was in the room when the king learned his lesson.

“A few days after, Mukunda and his fool were riding in the forest, when they lit on the corpse of a Brahmin who had died of thirst. Here was an opportunity for the king to practise what he had learned. But first he asked the hunchback if he had given attention to the instruction of the Brahmin. The fool replied that he never bothered his head with the pedantry of professors. The king, satisfied with the answer, pronounced the magical words. Down fell his body, senseless, and his soul animating the corpse, the dead Brahmin sat up and opened his eyes. Instantly the crafty hunchback repeated the incantation, and took possession of the carcass of his majesty, mounted the king’s horse, and rode off to Liavati, where he was received by the courtiers, the servants, the ministers, and the queen as if he were the true Mukunda, whilst the real monarch, in the shape of a begging Brahmin, roved the forests and the villages, cursing his folly, half starved on the scanty charity of the faithful.

“Suspicions that all was not right forced their way into the queen’s mind, and she mentioned her doubts to the minister.

‘Far flies rumour with three pairs of ears,’

said he, addressing the false king, who shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. Again the minister tried him with—

‘The beggar may rise to royal degree,’

and received a peremptory order to be silent as he valued his head.

“‘He is not the king,’ said the minister to the queen. ‘We must find the true Mukunda, wherever he may be.’

“In order to effect this, to every one whom the vizier addressed he uttered the two half-verses—

‘Far flies rumour with three pairs of ears,’

and

‘The beggar may rise to royal degree,’but with no results. One evening, however, as he was walking home, deep in thought, a poor Brahmin clamoured for alms. The minister made no answer; but when the pauper continued his importunities, he said, sharply,—

‘Far flies rumour with three pairs of ears’;

to which the Brahmin promptly answered—

‘The man is an idiot, so have no fears.’

“Hearing this, the old man was arrested by his interest. He hastily continued—

‘The beggar may rise to royal degree’;

and the Brahmin responded without hesitation—

‘The monarch descend to beggary.’

“The minister caught him at once by the hand, and insisted on hearing his story. No sooner was he made aware of what had been done by the hunchback, than he hastened to the palace, where he found the queen bathed in tears over a favourite parrot, which lay dead on her lap. The old man concerted with her a plan for the destruction of the hunchback and the restoration of the true king; then he secretly introduced the transformed Mukunda into the chamber, and summoned the false king.

“‘O sire,’ said the queen, ‘if you love me restore my pretty parrot to life.’

“‘That is easily effected,’ answered the fool.

“In an instant his body fell rigid, and his soul entered the bird, which sat up, plumed its feathers, and began to chatter. At the same moment the true Mukunda pronounced the magic words, dropped his adopted body, and darted into that which had originally been his. At the sight of the reviving monarch, the queen wrung the parrot’s neck, and thus destroyed the impostor.”

This story is based on the great Buddhist doctrine of the transmigration of souls, and was evidently a very popular illustration of that fundamental dogma, for variations of it are common in most ancient Sanscrit collections. Thus in the Katha Sarit Sagara, a work of Soma Deva, written between A.D. 1113-1125, the story reappears considerably altered, but still told with the design of insisting on the doctrine of transmigration of souls. Soma Deva’s tale is this in brief:—

Vararutschi, VyÂdi, and Indradatta desired to learn the new lessons of Varscha, but could not pay the stipulated fee—a million pieces of gold. They determined to ask King Nanda—a contemporary of Alexander the Great, by the way—to pay it for them, and they visited his capital. They are too late: Nanda is just dead. However, determined to obtain the requisite sum, Indradatta leaves his body in a wood, guarded by his companions, and sends his soul into the dead king. Then Vararutschi goes to him, asks, and receives the gold, whilst VyÂdi sits beside the deserted body.

But the prime minister suspected that the revived master was not quite identical with the deceased master. Indeed, King Nanda now exhibited an intelligence and vigour which had been sadly deficient before. The minister knew that the heir to the throne was but a child, and that he had powerful enemies. He therefore formed the resolution of keeping the false king on the throne till the heir was of age to govern. To effect his purpose, he issued orders that every corpse in the kingdom should be burnt. Amongst the rest was consumed that of Indradatta, and the Brahmin found himself, with horror, obliged to remain in the body of a Sudra, though that Sudra was a king.

There is another story, similar to that in the Pantschatantra, told of Tschandragupta, the founder of the Maurya dynasty, and one of the most renowned of the ancient Indian kings. But, indeed, the variations occurring in the ancient Sanscrit Buddhist tales are very numerous.

From India the story travelled into Persia—when, is not known; but it was probably there long before A.D. 540 when the Persian translation of the Pantschatantra was made. In Persian it occurs in the Bahar Danush, and in the version of the Çukasaptati. It is in the Turkish TÛtÎnÂmeh. It is in the famous Arabian Nights, as the story of the Prince Fadl-Allah. It is also in the Mongolian Vikramacarita. But, though it was translated with small variations from the Sanscrit in these works, popularly the story had gone through great adaptations and alterations to suit creeds which did not believe in the transmigration of souls.

When it was made known to the Jews is not certain; probably at the captivity. Yet there are passages in the Psalms, and especially in the song of Hannah, which bear a striking resemblance to the verses of the prime minister, and seem almost like an allusion to the fable. Thus, “The Lord maketh poor, and maketh rich: he bringeth low, and lifteth up. He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory.” This may be a reference or it may not. The sentiment is not unlikely to have been uttered without knowledge of the Indian fable; but if Hannah had been acquainted with it, no doubt to it allusion was made.

It is certain, however, that the story did popularise itself among the Jews, and when it did so, it was in a form adapted to their belief, which had nothing in common with metempsychosis. And it is exceedingly probable that they derived it from Persia, for one of the actors in the tale, Asmodeus, is the Zoroastrian AÊshma. The story is found in the Talmud and is as follows:—

“King Solomon, having completed the temple and his house, was lifted up with pride of heart, and regarded himself as the greatest of kings. Every day he was wont to bathe, and before entering the water, he entrusted his ring, wherein lay his power, to one of his wives. One day the evil spirit, Asmodeus, stole the ring, and, assuming Solomon’s form, drove the naked king from the bath into the streets of Jerusalem. The wretched man wandered about his city scorned by all; then he fled into distant lands, none recognising in him the great and wise monarch. In the meanwhile the evil spirit reigned in his stead, but unable to bear on his finger the ring graven with the Incommunicable Name, he cast it into the sea. Solomon, returning from his wanderings, became scullion in the palace. One day a fisher brought him a fish for the king. On opening it, he found in its belly the ring he had lost. At once regaining his power, he drove Asmodeus into banishment, and, a humbled and better man, reigned gloriously on the throne of his father David” (Talmud, Gittim, fol. 68).

The Arabs have a similar legend, taken from the Jews:—

“One day Solomon asked an indiscreet question of an evil Jinn subject to him. The spirit replied that he could not obtain the information required without the aid of Solomon’s seal. The king thoughtlessly lent it, and immediately found himself supplanted by the Jinn. Reduced to beggary, he wandered through the world repeating, ‘I, the preacher, was king over Israel in Jerusalem.’ The constant repetition of this sentence attracted attention; the disguised demon took alarm and fled, and Solomon regained his throne.”Finally the Jews or Arabs introduced the story to Western Europe, where it soon became popular. In the Gesta Romanorum, a collection of moral tales made by the monks in the fourteenth century, the Emperor Jovinian takes the place of Solomon, and the story is thus told:—

“When Jovinian was emperor, he possessed very great powers; and as he lay in bed reflecting upon the extent of his dominions, his heart was elated to an extraordinary degree. ‘Is there,’ he impiously asked, ‘any other god than me?’ Amid such thoughts he fell asleep.

“In the morning he reviewed his troops, and said, ‘My friends, after breakfast we will hunt.’ Preparations being made accordingly, he set out with a large retinue. During the chase the emperor felt such extreme oppression from the heat, that he believed his very existence depended upon a cold bath. As he anxiously looked round, he discovered a sheet of water at no great distance. ‘Remain here,’ said he to his guard, ‘until I have refreshed myself in yonder stream.’ Then, spurring his steed, he rode hastily to the edge of the water. Alighting, he divested himself of his apparel, and experienced the greatest pleasure from its invigorating freshness and coolness. But whilst he was thus employed a person similar to him in every respect arrayed himself unperceived in the emperor’s dress, and then mounting his horse, rode to the attendants. The resemblance to the sovereign was such, that no doubt was entertained of the reality; and straightway command was issued for their return to the palace.

“Jovinian, however, having quitted the water sought in every possible direction for his clothes, but could find neither them nor the horse. Vexed beyond measure at the circumstance, for he was completely naked, he began to reflect upon what course he should pursue. ‘There is, I remember, a knight residing close by; I will go to him and command his attendance and service. I will then ride to the palace, and strictly investigate the cause of this extraordinary conduct. Some shall smart for it.’

“Jovinian proceeded naked and ashamed to the castle of the aforesaid knight, and beat loudly at the gate. ‘Open the gate,’ shouted the enraged emperor, as the porter inquired leisurely the cause of the knocking, ‘you will soon see who I am.’ The gate was opened, and the porter, struck with the strange appearance of the man before him, exclaimed, ‘In the name of all that is marvellous, what are you?’ ‘I am,’ replied he, ‘Jovinian, your emperor. Go to your lord and command him to supply the wants of his sovereign. I have lost both horse and clothes.’

“‘Infamous ribald!’ shouted the porter, ‘just before thy approach, the emperor, accompanied by his suite, entered the palace. My lord both went and returned with him. But he shall hear of thy presumption.’ And he hurried off to communicate with his master. The knight came and inspected the naked man. ‘What is your name?’ he asked roughly.

“‘I am Jovinian, who promoted thee to a military command.’

“‘Audacious scoundrel!’ said the knight, ‘dost thou dare to call thyself the emperor? I have but just returned from the palace, whither I have accompanied him. Flog the rascal,’ he ordered, turning to his servants: ‘flog him soundly, and drive him away.’

“The sentence was immediately executed, and Jovinian, bruised and furious, rushed away to the castle of a duke whom he had loaded with favours. ‘He will remember me,’ was his hope. Arrived at the castle, he made the same assertion.

“‘Poor mad wretch!’ said the duke, ‘a short time since, I returned from the palace, where I left the very emperor thou assumest to be. But, ignorant whether thou art more fool or knave, we will administer such a remedy as will suit both. Carry him to prison, and feed him with bread and water.’ The command was no sooner delivered than obeyed; and the following day Jovinian’s naked body was submitted to the lash, and again cast into the dungeon. In the agony of his heart, the poor king said, ‘What shall I do? I am exposed to the coarsest contumely, and the mockery of the people. I will hasten to the palace and discover myself to my wife,—she will surely know me.’

“Escaping therefore from his confinement, he approached the imperial residence. ‘Who art thou?’ asked the porter.

“‘It is strange,’ replied the aggrieved emperor, ‘that thou shouldest forget one thou hast served so long.’

“‘Served thee!’ returned the porter indignantly; ‘I have served none but the emperor.’

“‘Why!’ said the other, ‘though thou recognisest me not, yet I am he. Go to the empress; communicate what I shall tell thee, and by these signs, bid her send the imperial robes, of which some rogue has deprived me.’ After some demur, the porter obeyed; and orders were issued for the admission of the mad fellow without.

“The false emperor and the empress were seated in the midst of their nobles. As the true Jovinian entered, a large dog, which crouched on the hearth, and had been much cherished by him, flew at his throat, and but for timely intervention would have killed him. A falcon also, seated on her perch, no sooner saw him than she broke her jesses, and flew out of the hall. Then the pretended emperor, addressing those who stood about him, said: ‘My friends, hear what I will ask of yon ribald. Who are you? And what do you want?’

“‘These questions,’ said the suffering man, ‘are very strange. You know I am the emperor, and master of this place.’

“The other, turning to the nobles who stood by, continued, ‘Tell me, on your allegiance, which of us two is your lord?’“They drew their swords in reply, and asked leave to punish the impostor with death.

“Then, turning to the empress, he asked, ‘Tell me, my lady, on the faith you have sworn, do you know this man who calls himself thy lord and emperor?’

“She answered, ‘How can you ask such a question? Have I not known thee more than thirty years, and borne thee many children?’

“Hearing this the unfortunate monarch rushed, full of despair, from the court. ‘Why was I born?’ he exclaimed. ‘My friends shun me; my wife and children will not acknowledge me. I will seek my confessor. He may remember me.’ To him he went accordingly, and knocked at the window of his cell.

“‘Who is there?’ asked the priest.

“‘The Emperor Jovinian,’ was the reply; ‘open the window that I may speak with thee.’ The window was opened; but no sooner had the confessor looked out than he closed it again in great haste.

“‘Depart,’ said he, ‘accursed creature! Thou art not the emperor, but the devil incarnate.’

“This completed the miseries of the persecuted man. ‘Woe is me,’ he cried, ‘for what strange doom am I reserved?’

“At this crisis, the impious words which in the arrogance of his heart he had uttered, crossed his recollection. Immediately he beat again at the window of the confessor.“‘Who is there?’ asked the priest.

“‘A penitent,’ answered the emperor.

“The window was opened. ‘What is your majesty pleased to require?’ asked the confessor, recognising him at once. Then he made his confession, and received of the old father a few clothes to cover his nakedness, and by the priest’s advice returned to the palace. The soldiers presented arms to him, the porter opened immediately, the dog fawned on him, the falcon flew to him, and his wife rushed to embrace him. Then the feigned emperor spoke:—‘My friends, hearken! That man is your king. He exalted himself, to the disparagement of his Maker, and God has punished him. But repentance has removed the rod.’ So saying, he disappeared. The emperor gave thanks to God, and lived happily, and finished his days in peace.”

The same story, with some alterations, is told of Robert of Sicily. An old poem or metrical romance on the subject is given by Warton; and on it Longfellow has founded his poem.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
And, as he listened, o’er and o’er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words: ‘Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exaltavit humiles.’He inquired of a clerk the meaning of these words; and, having heard the explanation, was mightily offended:—

‘’Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests, and in the Latin tongue;
For, unto priests and people be it known,
There is no power can push me from my throne.’
And, leaning back, he yawned, and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke he was alone in the church. An angel had assumed his likeness, and had swept out of the minster with the court. The story then runs in the same line as that of Jovinian. Robert is unrecognised, and is at last received into the palace as court fool. At the end of three years there arrived an embassy from Valmond, the emperor, requesting Robert to join him on Maundy Thursday, at Rome, whither he proposed to go on a visit to his brother Urban. The angel welcomed the ambassadors, and departed in their company to the Holy City. We place side by side the Old English metrical description of Robert’s appearance, as he accompanied the false emperor, with the modern poet’s rendering:

Old English
The fool Robert also went,
Clothed in loathly garnement,
With fox-tails riven all about:
Men might him knowen in the rout.
An ape rode of his clothing;
So foul rode never king.

Longfellow
And lo! among the menials, in mock state,
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait;
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through which they went.

Robert witnessed in sullen silence the demonstrations of affectionate regard with which the pope and emperor welcomed their supposed brother; but, at length, rushing forward, he bitterly reproached them for thus joining in an unnatural conspiracy with an usurper. This violent sally, however, was received by his brothers, and by the whole papal court, as an undoubted proof of his madness; and he now learnt for the first time the real extent of his misfortune. His stubbornness and pride gave way, and were succeeded by remorse and penitence.

After five weeks in Rome, the emperor, and the supposed king of Sicily, returned to their respective dominions, Robert being still accoutred in his fox-tails, and accompanied by his ape, whom he now ceased to consider as his inferior. When the angel was again at the capital of Sicily, he felt that his mission was accomplished.

And when once more within Palermo’s wall,
And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from the convent towers,
As if a better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And, with a gesture, bade the rest retire;
And when they were alone, the Angel said,
‘Art thou the king?’ Then, bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him: ‘Thou knowest best!
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister’s school of penitence,
Across those stones that pave the way to heaven
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven!’
The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,
And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street:
‘He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!’
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string,
‘I am an angel, and thou art the king!’
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all apparelled as in days of old,
With ermined mantle, and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came they found him there,
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

We think it would be scarcely possible to find a more pointed illustration of the purifying, humanising, and refining nature of Christianity, than to observe the course pursued by this story. Among Buddhists the false king is vivified by a crafty rogue’s infused soul; among Jews he is a transformed devil; but among Christians he is an angel of light.