Discussion on the Source of Fiction Renewed—The King and the Glutton—Guido, the Perfect Servant—The Middle-Age Allegories—Pliny and Mandeville’s Wonders Allegorized.

“Surely,” said Henry Herbert, when the friends were again assembled, “surely the poems of the northern Scalds, the legends of the Arabians of Spain, the songs of the Armoricans, and the classics of the ancient world, have been the sources of the most prevalent fictions.”

“The sources from which the monks themselves compiled these stories, but by no means the original sources,” replied Lathom. “The immediate source must be sought in even earlier times and more eastern climes. In some instances perverted notions of Scripture characters furnished the supernatural agency of the legend; in the majority the machinery came direct from the East, already dilated and improved. In many parts of the old Scriptures we learn how familiar the nations of the East were with spells; and the elevation of Solomon Daoud to the throne of the Genii and to the lordship of the Talisman, proves the traditional intercourse between God’s own people and the nations of the far East.”

“The theory is probable,” said Thompson. “We can easily conceive how the contest of David and Goliath may have formed the foundation of many a fierce encounter between knight and giant, and the feats of Samson been dilated into the miracles of the heroes of chivalry.”

“There is one very pertinent instance of such a conversion in this very book. In the Book of Tobit, which is indeed referred to in the application of the tale of ‘The Emperor Vespasian and the Two Rings,’ we find an angel in the place of a saint, enchantments, antidotes, distressed damsels, demons, and nearly all the recognized machinery of fiction. The vagaries of the Talmud, clearly derived from Eastern sources, were no small treasure on which to draw for wonders and miracles. And when we find all the machinery of the East in the poems of the Scalds, we cannot but perceive how much more reasonable it is to suppose the cold conceptions of the Northern bards to have been fed from the East, than the warm imaginations of the East to have drawn their inspiration from the North.”

“Very plausible, Lathom,” replied Herbert; “but still this objection must not be neglected—the ignorance and misrepresentation of the religions of the East, shown through every page of the popular legends of the chivalric age.”

“An objection of apparent weight, I will admit; and yet may it not have been the aim of the Christian writers to represent the infidels in the worst possible light, to pervert their creed, to exaggerate their vices? The charge of idolatry, and the adoration of the golden image of Mahomet, may have been mere pious frauds.”

“Admitting even this apology,” rejoined Herbert, “the difference of religion in the East and North seems another objection. The Romans adopted the legends of Greece, and naturalized them. With the mythology came the religious rites appendant to it. How did it happen that the Scalds adopted the one without falling into the other error?”

“Are the cases similar?” replied Lathom; “were the nations alike? Was there no difference of predisposition in the Romans and the Scalds as to the adoption of the mythologies of the East and Greece? Had not long intercourse in the one case prepared the Romans to receive? did it not agree with their preconceived notions? Such was not the case with the Northern nations. Children, and rude children of nature, they were in no way prepared for a similar effect; but, seizing on the prominent features of the legends presented to them, they engrafted them on their own wild and terrible stories, adding to the original matter in some cases, and rejecting portions of it in others.”

“Well, I will not carry this discussion further,” said Herbert, “for fear of losing a story to-night; but I by no means give up my sources of didactic fictions.”

“Well, then, a truce for this evening. I will read the tale of The King and the Glutton, by which the old monk wished to illustrate the moral, that men are blinded by their own avarice.”

There once lived a king of Rome, who, out of charity to the blind, decreed that every subject of his that was so afflicted, should be entitled to receive a hundred shillings from the royal treasury. Now there was in Rome a club of men who lived for the world alone, and spent all they had in rioting and eating. Seven days had they continued revelling in one tavern, when the host demanded to be paid his bill. Every one searched his pockets, but still there was not enough to pay the reckoning.

“There still wants one hundred shillings,” said the innkeeper; “and until that is paid, ye go not hence.”

These young men knew not what to do, as they were penniless. “What shall we do?” said they one to another. “How can we pay so large a sum?” At length one bethought him of the king’s edict.

“Listen,” said he, “listen to me; does not the king give one hundred shillings to every blind man that applies for it?”

“Even so,” said the rest; “but what then? we are not blind.”

“What then?” rejoined the young man. “Come, let us cast lots who shall be made blind, that when he is deprived of sight we may take him to the king’s palace, and obtain the hundred shillings.”

So the young men cast lots, and the lot fell upon the man who had proposed this plan. And the rest took him, and putting out his eyes, led him to the king’s palace. When they knocked at the gate, the porter opened the wicket, and demanded their business.

“Business,” said they; “see ye not our companion is blind? he seeks to receive the king’s benevolent gift.”

“The blindness is rather sudden,” muttered the porter, who knew the young man by sight. “Well, well, I will fetch the almoner.”

So the almoner, who distributed the king’s charity, came to the gate, and looking on the young man, asked him what he wanted.

“A hundred shillings, which my lord the king gives to those that are blind,” replied the youth.

“Thy blindness is very sudden,” rejoined the almoner; “when did it happen, and where? for I saw thee yesterday with both eyes perfect in the tavern by the city wall.”

“Last night, noble sir,” replied the blind man, “last night at that tavern I became blind.”

“Go fetch the host,” said the almoner sternly, “we will look into this matter more fully.”

So when the innkeeper came, he inquired of him how the matter was; and when he had heard all their deeds, he turned to the young man, and said—

“Of a surety thou knowest but half the law, and dost interpret it wrong; to such as are blind by God’s act, does our gracious king give his charity; such the law protects and relieves. But thou—why art thou blind? Thinkest thou that thou dost deserve to be rewarded for voluntarily surrendering thine eyes, in order to discharge the debt thou and thy companions had contracted by gluttony and rioting? Begone, foolish man: thy avarice hath made thee blind.”

So they drove away the young men from the king’s gate, lamenting their folly and wickedness.

“There can be little doubt,” said Herbert, “what moral the author of this tale intended to teach. The king’s gift clearly illustrates God’s reward for forgiveness, to those that by natural infirmity and temptation fall into sin; as the withholding it from the glutton, is meant to teach us how difficult it will be to obtain the forgiveness of voluntary sin, done out of pure wickedness.”

“You have found out the monk’s moral rightly in this tale, Henry; but I think you will not be so successful in that which I now propose reading to you—the story of

There was once a great emperor of Rome named Valerius, who would that every man, according to his wishes, should serve him; so he commanded that whosoever should strike three times on the gate of his palace should be admitted to do him service. In the emperor’s kingdom was also a poor man named Guido, who, when he heard of his lord’s commands, thus spake with himself: “Now, I am a poor man, and lowly born; is it not better to live and serve than to starve and be free?” So he went to the king’s gate, and knocked three knocks; and lo, it was opened to him, according as it had been said; and he was brought before the emperor.

“What seek you, friend?” asked Valerius, as Guido bowed before him.

“To serve my king,” was Guido’s reply.

“What service can you perform for me?” rejoined the emperor.

“Six services can I perform, O king: as your body-guard, I can prepare your bed and your food, and attend your chamber. I can sleep when others watch, and watch while others sleep. As your cup-bearer, I can drink good wine, and tell whether it be so or not. I can summon the guests to my master’s banquet, to his great honor and benefit. I can kindle a fire which shall warm all that seek it, and yet not smoke. And I can show the way to the Holy Land, to the health of such as shall go thither.”

“By my truth,” rejoined the emperor, “these are great things that thou dost promise. See that thou do them. Each for one year. Serve me first as my body-guard.”

Guido was content to obey the emperor; and he prepared to perform his duties as his body-guard. Every night he made ready the emperor’s bed, and prepared his apparel. Every night he lay before the emperor’s chamber-door, armed at all points; whilst by his side watched a faithful dog to warn him of the approach of danger. In every thing did he minister so faithfully to his lord, that the emperor was well pleased with him, and after his first year, made him seneschal of his castle and steward of his household. Then did Guido commence his labors in his second office. During the entire summer he gathered large stores of every thing needful into the castle, and collected much provision at little cost, by carefully watching his opportunities. Anon came on the winter, and when those who had slept during the times of plenty began to labor and lay up in their store-houses, Guido remained at ease, and completed his second year’s service with credit to himself.

And now the third year of Guido’s service came on; and the emperor called for his chief butler, and said: “Mix in a cup good wine, must, and vinegar, and give it to Guido to drink; that we may know how he doth taste good drink, and what he knoweth of its qualities.”

So the butler did as he was ordered, and gave the cup to Guido, who, when he had tasted of it, said: “Of a truth it was good, it is good, and it will be good.” And when the emperor asked him how these things could be, he said: “The vinegar was good, the old wine is good, and the must will be good when it is older.” So the emperor saw that he had answered rightly and discreetly of the mixture, which he knew not of before. “Go, therefore,” said Valerius, “through my country, and invite my friends to a banquet at the festival of Christmas now at hand”; and Guido bowed assent, and departed on his way.

But Guido did not execute his lord’s commands—going not unto his friends, but unto his enemies. So that when the emperor descended into his banquet-hall his heart was troubled; for his enemies sat round his table, and there was not a friend among them. So he called Guido, and spake angrily to him.

“How, sir! didst thou not tell me that thou knewest whom to invite to my banquet?”

And Guido said: “Of a surety, my lord.”

“Did not I bid thee invite my friends? and how, then, hast thou summoned all mine enemies?”

And Guido said: “May thy servant speak?”

So the emperor said: “Speak on.”

And the servant said: “My lord, there is no season or time that thy friends may not visit thee, and be received with pleasure and honor; but it is not so with thine enemies. Then I said to myself: ‘Conciliation and kindness would go far to convert enemies into friends.’”

Now it turned out as Guido hoped; for ere the feast was ended, the king and his enemies were reconciled to each other, and became friends even unto the end of their days. So the emperor called Guido, and said: “With God’s blessing, thy design has prospered. Come, now, make for my reconciled enemies and me a fire that shall burn without smoke.”

And Guido answered: “It shall be done as thou hast required, O king.”

So he sent and gathered much green wood, and dried it in the sun until it was quite dry, and therewith made a fire that did cast out much heat, and yet did not smoke. So that the emperor and his friends rejoiced greatly therein. And so it was when the emperor saw how well Guido had performed his five ministries, he bade him execute his sixth service—that he might attain to great honor in his kingdom.

“My lord,” said Guido, “he that would know the way to the Holy Land must follow me to the sea-shore.”

So a proclamation went forth from the king to that effect; and great multitudes of men and women flocked to the sea-shore after Guido. When the people were come, Guido said: “My friends, do ye see in the ocean the things that I see?”

And the people answered: “We know not.”

“See ye in the midst of the waves a huge rock?”

And the people answered: “It is even so. Why ask you this of us?”

“Know ye all,” replied Guido, “that on that rock liveth a bird, that sitteth continually on her nest, in which are seven eggs. While she so sitteth, behold the sea is calm, and men may pass to and fro over the wide waters in safety. But when she doth quit her nest, the winds blow, and the waves rise, and many perish on the waters.”

Then said the people: “How shall we know when this bird quitteth her nest?”

And Guido answered: “She sitteth always, unless a sudden emergency happen; and then when she is away there cometh another bird, great and strong, that defileth her nest and breaketh her seven eggs, which, when the first bird seeth, she flieth away, and the winds and storms arise; then must the shipman remain in port.”

Then said the people: “Master, how may we prevent these things, and defend the bird and her nest from her enemy?”

And Guido said: “The enemy hateth the blood of the lamb, and cannot come where that is. Sprinkle, therefore, the inside and outside of the nest with this blood; and so long as one drop remaineth the friendly bird will sit in peace, and the waves will not rage and swell, and there shall be safety on the waves of the sea.”

And the people did as Guido said. They took the blood of a lamb, and sprinkled the nest and the rock therewith. Then passed the emperor and all his people to the Holy Land, and returned in peace and safety. And the emperor did as he had promised unto Guido, and rewarded the perfect servant with great riches, promoting him to high honor among the people.

“I confess myself conquered,” said Henry Herbert, as soon as the story was concluded. “Some points in the allegory are clear, as the way to the Holy Land, and the sprinkling of the blood of the Lamb, but the rest are beyond my discovering.”

“The explanation,” said Herbert, “is undoubtedly more recondite than any we have read as yet. The great emperor is our Father in heaven; the three blows on his gate are prayer, self-denial, charity; by these three any one may become his faithful servant. Guido is a poor Christian, by baptism made his servant. His first service is to serve his God, and to prepare the heart for virtue. His second duty is to watch; ‘for he knoweth not the day nor the hour when the Son of Man cometh.’ His third task is to taste of repentance, which was good to the saints who are departed, is good to such of us as it brings to salvation, and will be good to all in the last day. The fourth duty is to invite Christ’s enemies to be his friends, and to come to the banquet of his love for he ‘came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ The fire that burneth without smoke, is the fire of charity, which burneth free of all ill-will and bad feeling. The way to the Holy Land is our course heavenward. We are to sail over our sea, the world; in the midst of which standeth our rock, even our heart, on which the holy bird of God’s Spirit resteth. The seven eggs are the gifts of the Spirit. When the Spirit leaves us, the Devil hasteth to defile our hearts; but the blood of the Lamb which was slain for us, even our Saviour, will ward off the attack of our enemy, so long as we are sprinkled therewith.”

“The explanation is characteristic of the age,” said Herbert. “What then,” rejoined Lathom, “will you say to the moral drawn by these writers from the wonders that Pliny believed in, without seeing, and Sir John de Mandeville tried to persuade the world he believed in, from seeing?”

“What,” said Thompson, “the Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders?”

“No creature is so monstrous, no fable so incredible, but that the monkish writers could give it a moral form, and extract from its crudities and quiddities some moral or religious lesson.”

“They believed in the words of the song,” said Thompson—

“Pliny’s dog-headed race,” said Lathom, “whom Sir John places in the island of Macumeran, and at the same time gives to them a quasi pope for a king, who says three hundred prayers per diem before he either eats or drinks, were naturally regarded by the middle-age writers as symbolical and priestly preachers of faithful hearts and frugal habits; whilst of those other islanders, who ‘have but one eye, and that in the middest of their front, and eat their flesh and fish raw,’ the monk says, ‘These be they that have the eye of prayer.’ The Astomes who have no mouths, ‘are all hairie over the whole bodie, yet clothed with soft cotton and downe, that cometh from the leaves of trees, and live only on aire, and by the smelling of sweet odors, which they draw through their nose-thrills,’ are the abstemious of this world, who die of the sin of gluttony, even as an Astome by the accidental inhalation of bad odor. Humility is signified by the absence of the head, and the placing of the face in the breast; and a tendency to sin is foreshadowed by a desire and habit of walking on all fours, or pride by short noses and goat’s feet. The Mandevillean islanders, who had flat faces without noses, and two round holes for their eyes, and thought whatsoever they saw to be good, were earth’s foolish ones; as those foul men, who have their lips so great, that when they sleep in the sun they cover all their face therewith, are the just men, the salt of the earth.”

“One would as soon dream of allegorizing the Sciapodes of Aristophanes, or Homer’s Cranes and Pigmies,” said Thompson.

“And so the monk has,” said Lathom.

“What, the old Greek’s parasol-footed people, of whom Mandeville says with such gravity, ‘There be in Ethiope such men as have but one foot, and they go so fast that it is a great marvel; and that is a large foot, for the shadow thereof covereth the body from sun or rain, when they lie upon their back’?”

“Both Aristophanes and his follower would doubtless be as surprised in learning that their sciapodes were allegorical of the charitable of this world, as Homer would in discovering in his crane-fighting pigmies those mortals who begin well but cease to do well before they attain perfection; or in their neighbors who boast of six hands, and despise clothes in favor of long hair, and live in rivers, the hardworking and laborious among men.”

“The last is decidedly the most intelligible,” remarked Herbert.

“The reason of the explanation is not always clear,” replied Lathom; “it is not very easy to decide why those who have six fingers and six toes are the unpolluted, and why virtuous men are represented by a race of women with bald heads and beards flowing to their breast; nor is it very clear that virtue is well represented by a double allowance of eyes. But one curiosity remains—the beautiful men of Europe who boast a crane’s head, neck, and beak. These, says the author of the Gesta, represent judges, who should have long necks and beaks, that what the heart thinks, may be long before it reach the mouth.”

“That reminds me of long Jack Bannister,” said Thompson, “who was always five minutes after every one else in laughing at a joke, as it took that extra time for it to travel from his ears to his midriff, and then back again to his mouth.”

And so the evening ended with a laugh.