  The Gesta Romanorum—Its Origin—Tale of the Ungrateful Man—Sources of Didactic Fiction—Jovinian the Proud Emperor—Morals of the Tales. It was a dull, cold Christmas evening; the snow fell fast and small, and the cutting northeast wind blew its white shower into heaps and ridges in every corner of St. John’s quadrangle, and piled its clear flakes against every projecting part of the old building. No one was moving in college, at least out-of-doors; but the rude laugh from the buttery, and the dull-red gleam through the closely drawn curtains of one of the upper rooms in the outer quadrangle, proved that in two portions of the college Christmas was being kept with plenty and with gayety. The change from the white cold of the quadrangle to the ruddy blaze of that upper room was inspiriting. The fire burnt bright; the small table, drawn immediately in front of its merry blaze, glittered with after-dinner good cheer; and three young and happy faces sat by that little table, and compared their former Christmases at home, with this one, during which they were determined to remain up in Oxford and read for the ensuing examination. “Morrison is always in good luck,” said Henry Herbert, the youngest of the party. “Whatever it is, “Fortunate fellow!” said Lathom. “We are shut up now—fifteen feet of snow at Dorchester, and Stokenchurch bottom quite impassable.” “Ay, and Oxford streets equally so,” said Frederick Thompson, the last of the triumvirate, “and we shut up here with the pleasant prospect of taking our constitutional, for some days to come, under the old Archbishop’s cloisters.” “By the by,” said Herbert, “what were you after in the old library last week, Lathom?” “Looking for a copy of the Gesta Romanorum, with the idea of reading some of its amusing stories during our after-dinner sittings.” “Any thing but those Romans: it is bad enough to have read and believed all that Livy wrote, from his Sucking Wolf to his Capitol Goose, and then to have a shrewd German prove that kings were not kings, and consuls not consuls, just when you are beginning to think that you really do know something about your Roman history.” “You will have but little of Roman history, Thompson; the title of the book but ill agrees with its contents: fables of all climes contribute their share in the formation of this singular composition. The majority of the tales are entirely unconnected with the history of Rome, though the writer, in order to, in some manner, cover this deviation from his title, has taken care to preface almost every story with the name of some emperor, who in most cases never existed, and sometimes has little to do with the incidents of the narrative.” “To whom, most learned antiquary, are we indebted for this very stout volume?” “Few things are more certain,” said Herbert, “than that an argument, however clear,—a deduction, however logical,—operates but faintly except on trained intellects; but an apposite story at once arouses the attention, and makes a more durable impression on illiterate auditors. Knowledge in the garb of verse is soonest appreciated by an uneducated mind, and remains there far longer than in any other form. A ballad will descend from generation to generation without a fault or an interpolation.” “Yes,” rejoined Lathom, “and next to poetry comes poetic prose, at the head of which class stands didactic fiction. Many a clever man has confessed that he was more indebted to Shakspeare and Scott for his English and Scottish history, than to the standard historians of either land.” “And as far as the general belief goes,” said Thompson, “the popular dramatist or poet will always outweigh the learned historian. Let Walpole or Turner write what they will about Richard the Third; to the majority—ay, to more than four fifths of the people—he is still Shakspeare’s Richard, the Humpbacked Murderer.” “One of the best of the old monks’ stories,” said Lathom, “was translated in Blackwood’s Magazine some The following was the tale of Vitalis, a noble Venetian, one day, at a hunting party, fell into a pit, which had been dug to catch wild animals. He passed a whole night and day there, and I will leave you to imagine his dread and his agony. The pit was dark. Vitalis ran from the one side of it to the other, in the hope of finding some branch or root by which he might climb its sides and get out of his dungeon; but he heard such confused and extraordinary noises, growlings, hissings, and plaintive cries, that he became half-dead with terror, and crouched in a corner motionless, awaiting death with the most horrid dismay. On the morning of the second day he heard some one passing near the pit, and then raising his voice he cried out with the most dolorous accent: “Help, help! draw me out of this; I am perishing!” A peasant crossing the forest heard his cry. At first he was frightened; but after a moment “A poor huntsman,” answered Vitalis, “who has passed a long night and day here. Help me out, for the love of God. Help me out, and I will recompense you handsomely.” “I will do what I can,” replied the peasant. Then Massaccio (such was the name of the peasant) took a hedge-bill which hung at his girdle, and cutting a branch of a tree strong enough to bear a man,—“Listen, huntsman,” said he, “to what I am going to say to you. I will let down this branch into the pit. I will fasten it against the sides, and hold it with my hands; and by pulling yourself out by it, you may get free from your prison.” “Good,” answered Vitalis; “ask me anything you will, and it shall be granted.” “I ask for nothing,” said the peasant, “but I am going to get married, and you may give what you like to my bride.” So saying, Massaccio let down the branch—he soon felt it heavy, and the moment after a monkey leapt out of the pit. He had fallen like Vitalis, and had seized quickly on the branch of Massaccio. “It was the devil surely which spoke to me from the pit,” said Massaccio, running away in affright. “Do you abandon me, then?” cried Vitalis, Massaccio was touched by these prayers. He returned to the pit—let down another branch, and a lion jumped out, making the woods echo with a roar of delight. “Oh certainly, certainly, it was the devil I heard,” said Massaccio, and fled away again; but stopping short, after a few paces, he heard again the piercing cries of Vitalis. “O God, O God,” cried he, “to die of hunger in a pit! Will no one then come to my help? Whoever you may be, I implore you return; let me not die, when you can save me. I will give you a house and field, and cows and gold, all that you can ask for; save me, save me only.” Massaccio, thus implored, could not help returning. He let down the branch, and a serpent, hissing joyously, sprang out of the pit. Massaccio fell on his knees, half-dead with fear, and repeated all the prayers he could think of to drive away the demon. He was only brought to himself by hearing the cries of despair which Vitalis uttered. “It is certainly the voice of a man for all that,” said Massaccio. “Oh, if you are still there,” said Vitalis, “in the name of all that is dear to you, save me, that I may die at least at home, and not in this horrible pit. I can say no more; my voice is exhausted. Shall I give you my palace at Venice, my possessions, my honors? I give them all; and may I die if I forfeit my word. Life, life only; save only my life.” Massaccio could not resist such prayers, and mingled with such promises. He let down the branch again. “Ah, here you are at last,” said he, seeing Vitalis come up. “Yes,” said he, and uttering a cry of joy he fainted in the arms of Massaccio. Massaccio sustained, assisted him, and brought him to himself; then, giving him his arm,—“Let us,” said he, “quit this forest”; but Vitalis could hardly walk,—he was exhausted with hunger. “Eat this piece of bread,” said Massaccio, and he gave him some which he took out of his wallet. “My benefactor, my savior, my good angel,” “You have promised me a marriage portion for my bride, and your palace at Venice for myself,” said Massaccio. But Vitalis now began to regain his strength. “Yes, certainly, I will give a portion to your wife, my dear Massaccio, and I will make you the richest peasant of your village. Where do you live?” “At Capalatta in the forest; but I would willingly quit my village to establish myself at Venice in the palace you have promised me.” “Here we are out of the forest,” said Vitalis; “I know my road now; thank you, Massaccio.” “But when shall I come for my palace and the portion for my intended?” returned the peasant. “When you will,” said the other, and they separated. Vitalis went to Venice, and Massaccio to Capalatta, where he related his adventure to his mistress, telling her what a rich portion she was to have, and what a fine palace she was to live in. The next day early he set out for Venice, and asked for the palace of the Signor Vitalis,—went straight to it, and told the domestics that he should come shortly with his mistress, in a “Let him be turned out immediately,” said Vitalis, “I know him not.” The valets accordingly drove him away with insults, and Massaccio returned to his cottage in despair, without daring to see his mistress. At one corner of his fireplace was seated the monkey, at the other corner the lion, and the serpent had twisted itself in spiral circles upon the hearth. Massaccio was seized with fear. “The man has driven me from his door,” thought he; “the lion will certainly devour me, the serpent sting me, and the monkey laugh at me; and this will be my reward for saving them from the pit.” But the monkey turned to him with a most amicable grimace; the lion, vibrating gently his tail, came and licked his hand, like a dog caressing his master; and the serpent, unrolling its ringy body, moved about the room with a contented and grateful air, which gave courage to Massaccio. “Poor animals!” said he, “they are better than the Signor Vitalis; he drove me like a beggar from the door. Ah! with what pleasure Thus did Massaccio complain. Meanwhile the monkey began to make significant faces, the lion to agitate his tail with great uneasiness, and the serpent to roll and unroll its circles with great rapidity. Then the monkey, approaching his benefactor, made him a sign to follow, and led him into the wood-house, where was regularly piled up a quantity of wood sufficient for the whole year. It was the monkey who had collected this wood in the forest, and brought it to the cottage of Massaccio. Massaccio embraced the grateful ape. The lion then uttering a delicate roar, led him to a corner of the cottage, where he saw an enormous provision of game, two sheep, three kids, hares and rabbits in abundance, and a fine wild boar, all covered with the branches of trees to keep them fresh. It was the lion who had hunted for his benefactor. Massaccio patted kindly his mane. “And you, then,” said he to the serpent, “have you brought me nothing? Art thou a Vitalis, or a good and honest animal like the monkey and the lion?” The serpent glided rapidly Massaccio then set out immediately for Venice to turn his diamond into money. He addressed himself to a jeweller. The jeweller examined the diamond; it was of the finest water. “How much do you ask for it?” said he. “Two hundred crowns,” said Massaccio, thinking his demand to be great; it was hardly the tenth part of the value of the stone. The jeweller looked at Massaccio, and said: “To sell it at that price you must be a robber, and I arrest you!” “If it is not worth so much, give me less,” said Massaccio; “I am not a robber, I am an honest man; it was the serpent who gave me the diamond.” But the police now arrived and conducted him before the magistrate. There he recounted his adventure, which appeared to be a mere fairy vision. Yet as the Signor Vitalis was implicated in the story, the magistrate referred the affair to the state inquisition, and Massaccio appeared before it. Massaccio related his adventure. “So,” said the inquisitor, “you saved the Signor Vitalis?” “Yes, noble signors.” “And he promised you a marriage portion for your bride, and his palace at Venice for yourself?” “Yes, noble signors.” “And he drove you like a beggar from his door?” “Yes, noble signors.” “Let the Signor Vitalis appear,” said the same inquisitor. Vitalis appeared. “Do you know this man, Signor Vitalis?” said the inquisitor. “No, I know him not,” replied Vitalis. The inquisitors consulted together. “This man,” said they, speaking of Massaccio, “is evidently a knave and a cheat; he must be thrown into prison. Signor Vitalis, you are acquitted.” Then, making a sign to an officer of police, “Take that man,” said he, “to prison.” Massaccio fell on his knees in the middle of the hall. “Noble signors, noble signors,” said he, “it is possible that the diamond may have “Noble signors,” said Vitalis, bowing to the tribunal, “I can only repeat what I have already said: I know not this man. Has he a single witness to produce?” At this moment the whole court was thrown into fear and astonishment, for the lion, the monkey, and the serpent, entered the hall together. The monkey was mounted on the back of the lion, and the serpent was twined round the arm of the monkey. On entering, the lion roared, the monkey spluttered, and the serpent hissed. “Ah! these are the animals of the pit,” cried Vitalis, in alarm. “Signor Vitalis,” resumed the chief of the inquisitors, when the dismay which this apparition had caused had somewhat diminished, “you have asked where were the witnesses of Massaccio. You see that God has sent them at Massaccio and his wife lived happily for many years afterwards in the palace of Vitalis with the monkey, the lion, and the serpent; and Massaccio had them represented in a picture, on the wall of his palace, as they entered the hall of the tribunal, the lion carrying the monkey, and the monkey carrying the serpent. “To what source can this tale be traced?” “To the Arabian fable book called Callah-u-Dumnah,” replied Lathom. “Mathew Paris recites it as a fable commonly used by our crusading Richard to reprove his “Few subjects,” said Herbert, “seem more involved than the history of didactic fiction. The more mysterious an investigation bids fair to be, the less we have to depend on fact, and the more we are at the mercy of conjecture, so much the more does the mind love to grasp at the mystery, and delight in the dim perspective and intricacies of the way. Each successive adventurer finds it more easy to pull down the various bridges, and break in the various cuttings by which his predecessor has endeavored to make the way straight, than to throw his own bridge over the river or the morass of time that intervenes between the traveller and the goal.” “Four distinct sources,” said Lathom, “have been contended for: the Scandinavian bards, the Arabians of the Spanish peninsula, the Armoricans or Bretons, and the classical authors of Greece and Rome. Mallet and Bishop Percy came forward as the advocates of Scandinavia; Dr. Wharton writes himself the champion of the Spanish Arabians; Wilson is rather inclined to the Breton theory; and Dr. Southey and Mr. Dunlop come forward as the advocates of the classical and mythological authors; whilst Sir Henry Ellis would reconcile all differences by a quiet jumble of Breton scenes colored by Scandinavia and worked by Arabian machinery. Let us, however, adjourn this subject until to-morrow, as I wish to read you another of these tales, in order to give you some idea of the moral applications and explanations appended to them by the monkish writers. We will take Jovinian the Proud Emperor, and in this case you must be content with my own translation.” JOVINIAN THE PROUD EMPEROR.In the days of old, when the empire of the world was in the hands of the lord of Rome, Jovinian was emperor. Oft as he lay on his couch, and mused upon his power and his wealth, his heart was elated beyond measure, and he said within himself: “Verily, there is no other god than me.” It happened one morning after he had thus said unto himself, that the emperor arose, and summoning his huntsmen and his friends, hastened to chase the wild deer of the forest. The chase was long and swift, and the sun was high in the heavens, when Jovinian reined up his horse on the bank of a clear bright stream that ran through the fertile country on which his palace stood. Allured by the refreshing appearance of the stream, he bade his attendants abide still, whilst he sought a secluded pool beneath some willows, where he might bathe unseen. The emperor hastened to the pool, cast off his garments, and revelled in the refreshing coolness of the waters. But whilst he thus bathed, a person like to him in form, in feature, and in voice, approached the river’s bank, arrayed himself unperceived in the imperial garments, and then sprang on Jovinian’s horse, and rode Jovinian at length quitted the water, and sought in every direction for his apparel and his horse, but could not find them. He called aloud upon his attendants, but they heard him not, being already in attendance on the false emperor. And Jovinian regarded his nakedness and said: “Miserable man that I am! to what a state am I reduced! Whither shall I go? Who will receive me in this plight? I bethink me there is a knight hereabout whom I have advanced to great honor; I will seek him, and with his assistance regain my palace, and punish the person who has done me this wrong.” Naked and ashamed, Jovinian sought the gate of the knight’s castle, and knocked loudly at the wicket. “Who art thou, and what dost thou seek?” asked the porter, without unclosing the gate. “Open, open, sirrah!” replied the emperor, with redoubled knocks on the wicket. “In the name of wonder, friend, who art thou?” said the old porter as he opened the gate, and saw the strange figure of the emperor before the threshold. “Who am I, askest thou, sirrah? I am thy “Rascal,” rejoined the porter—“thou the emperor! Why, the emperor but just now rode up to the castle, with all his attendants, and honored my master by sitting with him at meat in the great hall. Thou the emperor! a very pretty emperor indeed; faugh, I’ll tell my master what you say, and he will soon find out whether you are mad, drunk, or a thief.” The porter, greatly enraged, went and told his lord how that a naked fellow stood at the gate, calling himself the emperor, and demanding clothes and a good steed. “Bring the fellow in,” said the knight. So they brought in Jovinian, and he stood before the lord of the castle, and again declared himself to be the emperor Jovinian. Loud laughed the knight to the emperor. “What, thou my lord the emperor! art mad, good fellow? Come, give him my old cloak; it will keep him from the flies.” “Yes, sir knight,” replied Jovinian, “I am thy emperor, who advanced thee to great honor and wealth, and will shortly punish thee for thy present conduct.” “Scoundrel!” said the knight, now enraged And the people did as the knight commanded them. So when they ceased from flogging the emperor, he sat him down on the grass, and covered him with the tattered robe, and communed on his own wretchedness. “Oh, my God!” said Jovinian,—for he now thought of other gods but himself,—“is it possible that I have come to such a state of misery, and that, through the ingratitude of one whom I have raised so high!” And as he thus spake, he thought not of his own ingratitude to his God, through whom alone all princes reign and live. And now he brooded over vengeance—“Ay,” said he, as he felt the sore weals on his back from the scourging; “ay, I will be avenged. When he next sees me, he shall know that he who gives can also take away. Come, I will seek the good duke, my ablest counsellor; he will know his sovereign, and gladly aid him in his calamity.” And with these thoughts he Jovinian knocked at the gate of the duke’s palace, and the porter opened the wicket, and seeing a half-naked man, asked him why he knocked, and who he was. “Friend,” replied the emperor, “I am Jovinian. I have been robbed of my clothes whilst bathing, and am now with no apparel, save this ragged cloak, and no horse; so tell the duke the emperor is here.” The porter, more and more astonished at the emperor’s words, sought his master, and delivered Jovinian’s message to him. “Bring in the poor man,” said the duke; “peradventure he is mad.” So they brought Jovinian unto the duke’s great hall, and the duke looked on him, but knew him not. And when Jovinian reiterated his story, and spoke angrily unto the duke, he pitied him. “Poor mad fellow,” said the good duke, “I have but just now returned from the palace, where I left the very emperor thou assumest to be. Take him to the guard-house. Perhaps a few days’ close confinement on bread and water may cool his heated brain. Go, poor fellow; I pity thee!” So the servants did as their lord commanded, and they fed Jovinian on bread and water, and Sorely and bitterly did the emperor weep and bewail his miserable fate when the servants drove him from the castle gate. “Alas, alas!” he exclaimed in his misery, “what shall I do, and whither shall I resort? Even the good duke knew me not, but regarded me as a poor madman. Come, I will seek my own palace, and discover myself to my wife. Surely she will know me at least.” “Who art thou, poor man?” asked the king’s porter of him when he stood before the palace gate and would have entered in. “Thou oughtest to know me,” replied Jovinian, “seeing thou hast served me these fifteen years.” “Served you, you dirty fellow,” rejoined the porter. “I serve the emperor. Serve you, indeed!” “I am the emperor. Dost thou not know me? Come, my good fellow, seek the empress, and bid her, by the sign of the three moles on the emperor’s breast, send me hither the imperial robes, which some fellow stole whilst I was bathing.” “Ha! ha! fellow; well, you are royally mad. Why, the emperor is at dinner with his wife. Well, well, I’ll do thy bidding, if it be but to When the porter told the empress what the poor madman at the gate had said, she held down her head, and said, with a sorrowful voice, unto her lord: “My good lord and king, here is a fellow at the palace gate that hath sent unto me, and bids me, by those secret signs known only to thee and me, to send him the imperial robes, and welcome him as my husband and my sovereign.” When the fictitious emperor heard this, he bade the attendants bring in Jovinian. And lo, as he entered the hall, the great wolf-hound, that had slept at his feet for years, sprang from his lair, and would have pulled him down, had not the attendants prevented him; whilst the falcon, that had sat on his wrist in many a fair day’s hawking, broke her jesses, and flew out of the hall: so changed was Jovinian the emperor. “Nobles and friends,” said the new emperor, “hear ye what I will ask of this man.” And the nobles bowed assent, whilst the emperor asked Jovinian his name, and his business with the empress. “Askest thou me who I am, and wherefore I “These our nobles shall decide,” replied the new king. “Tell me now, which of us twain is your emperor?” And the nobles answered with one accord: “Thou dost trifle with us, sire. Can we doubt that thou art our emperor, whom we have known from his childhood? As for this base fellow, we know not who he is.” And with one accord the people cried out against Jovinian that he should be punished. On this the usurper turned to the empress of Jovinian—“Tell me,” said he, “on thy true faith, knowest thou this man who calls himself emperor of this realm?” And the empress answered: “Good my lord, have not thirty years passed since I first knew thee, and became the mother of our children? Why askest thou me of this fellow? and yet it doth surprise me how he should know what none save you and I can know?” Then the usurper turned to Jovinian, and with a harsh countenance rebuked his presumption, and ordered the executioners to drag him by the feet by horses until he died. This said he before all his court; but he sent his servant to the tailor, and commanded him to The deposed emperor desired death. “Why,” said he to himself, “should I now live? my friends, my dependents, yea, even the partner of my bed shuns me, and I am desolate among those whom my bounties have raised. Come, I will seek the good priest, to whom I so often have laid open my most secret faults: of a surety, he will remember me.” Now the good priest lived in a small cell, nigh to a chapel about a stone’s-cast from the palace gate; and when Jovinian knocked, the priest, being engaged in reading, answered from within: “Who is there? why troublest thou me?” “I am the emperor Jovinian; open the window, I would speak to thee,” replied the fugitive. Immediately the narrow window of the cell was opened, and the priest, looking out, saw no one save the poor half-clothed Jovinian. “Depart from me, thou accursed thing!” cried the priest; “thou art not our good lord the emperor, but the foul fiend himself, the great tempter.” “Alas, alas!” cried Jovinian, “to what fate am I reserved, that even my own good priest despises me! Ah me, I bethink me—in the arrogance of my heart, I called myself a god: Gladly did the priest listen to Jovinian; and when he had told him all his sins, the good priest comforted the penitent, and assured him of God’s mercy, if his repentance was sincere. And so it happened that on this a cloud seemed to fall from before the eyes of the priest; and when he again looked on Jovinian he knew him to be the emperor, and he pitied him, clothing him with such poor garments as he had, and went with him to the palace gate. The porter stood in the gateway, and as Jovinian and the priest drew near he made a lowly obeisance, and opened the gate for the emperor. “Dost thou know me?” asked the emperor. “Very well, my lord,” replied the servant; “but I wish that you had not left the palace.” So Jovinian passed on to the hall of his palace; and as he went, all the nobles rose and bowed to the emperor; for the usurper was in another apartment, and the nobles knew again the face of Jovinian. But a certain knight passed into the presence of the false emperor. “My lord,” said he, “there is one in the great hall to whom all men Then said the usurper to the empress: “Go and see if you know this man.” “Oh, my good lord,” said the empress, when she returned from the hall, “whom can I believe? are there, then, two Jovinians?” “I will myself go and determine,” rejoined the usurper, as he took the empress by her hand, and, leading her into the great hall, placed her on the throne beside himself. “Kinsfolk and nobles,” said the usurper, “by the oaths ye have sworn, determine between me and this man.” And the empress answered: “Let me, as in duty bound, speak first. Heaven be my witness, I know not which is my lord and husband.” And all the nobles said the same. Thereupon the feigned Jovinian rose and spake: “Nobles and friends, hearken! that man is your emperor and your master; hear ye him; know that he did exalt himself above that which was right, and make himself equal unto God. Verily he hath been rewarded; he hath suffered much indignity and wrong, and, of God’s will, ye knew him not; he hath repented him of his grievous sin, and the scourge is now removed; he has made such satisfaction as man can make. Hear ye him, know him, obey him.” Jovinian returned to his throne, and for three years reigned with so much mercy and justice, that his subjects had no cause to regret the change of their emperor. And it came to pass, after the space of three years, the same angel appeared to him in a dream, and warned him of his death. So Jovinian dictated his troublous life to his secretaries, that it might remain as a warning unto all men against worldly pride, and an incitement to the performance of our religious duties. And when he had so done, he meekly resigned himself, and fell asleep in death. “So much for the story, as a story; now for the moral, with all that eccentric spirit of refinement and abstraction with which the age was characterized,” said Herbert. “The moral in this case is less eccentric than in many to which I hope we shall come before Christmas is over.” “Jovinian was but the picture of the proud, worldly-minded man, entirely given up to vanity and folly. The first knight whose castle he visited was True Wisdom, ever disdainful of the pomps and vanities of the world. “It must be admitted,” remarked Herbert, “that from very early times a secondary meaning was commonly attached to every important work; it progressed from the sacred writings through the poetic fictions of the classics, to compositions professedly allegorical. The want of discrimination, which in our eyes assumes much of the appearance of profane levity, with which the fictions of the classics were interpreted to signify the great truths and mysteries of religion, was, perhaps, hardly reprehensible in the simple state of knowledge which prevailed at the time when these attempts at secondary interpretation were made.” “And hence it was,” said Lathom, “that in the early ages it might seem to partake of little levity to prefigure our Saviour’s birth in that of Bacchus; his sufferings and death in that of ActÆon, or his resurrection in the legend of Hercules, as related by Lycophron; as late as the thirteenth century the Franciscan Walleys wrote a moral and theological exposition of the Metamorphoses of Ovid.” “But surely the writers of that age did not stop there,” said Thompson; “was it not the case, that to these expositions succeeded compositions professedly allegorical, and which the spirit of refinement of that age resolved into further allegories, for which they were never intended?” “Undoubtedly so!” replied Lathom; “it was not enough that the writer of the ‘Romaunt of the Rose’ “Not unlike the present system of commentating,” remarked Henry Herbert. “As soon as a poet has attained to any great reputation, and death has sealed up his writings, then comes the host of annotators and critics, each one more intent than his predecessor to develop the mind of the writer, to discover with what hidden intentions, with what feelings, this or that passage was written, and to build on some stray expression a mighty theory, for some more clever writer to overthrow, and raise a new fabric on its ruins. And in these attempts it is not the old author whose glory is sought to be heightened, but the new man who would ascend the ladder of reputation on the labors of the ‘man of old.’” “Far different,” rejoined Lathom, “was the spirit which prompted the fashion of resolving every thing into allegories in the middle ages; nor, indeed, is it to be solely charged to an unmeaning and wanton spirit of refinement. ‘The same apology,’ says Wharton, ‘may be offered for cabalistic interpreters, both of the classics and of the old romances. The former, not willing that those books should be quite exploded which contained the ancient mythology, labored to reconcile the apparent absurdities of the pagan system with the Christian mysteries, |
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