Progress of Fiction from the East to the West—The Early Christians—The Monks—The Spanish Arabians—The Crusades—The Knight and the King of Hungary—The English Gesta.

“Admitting the East as the immediate source of fiction,” said Henry Herbert, when they were met once more, “you must still regard the Spanish Arabians as the great disseminators of those extravagant inventions which were so peculiar to their romantic and creative genius.”

“Less, perhaps, than many other sources. The absence of Moorish subjects from the earliest tales of chivalry, if it proves no more, at least shows how prevalent the tales of Charlemagne and his peers were in the eighth century, that a nation of conquerors could do little to infect them with legends of their own.”

“How and when, then, Lathom, would you introduce Eastern invention?” asked Thompson.

“I would refer it to much earlier ages, to the earliest of the Christian centuries, and contend that it was gradual, and therefore more natural; was the production of times and of ages, not the sudden birth and growth of one age; gradually augmenting until it attained to full and perfect stature.”

“Still,” rejoined Herbert, “we want the means by which this knowledge of Eastern fable was introduced.”

“Some share may be due to the return of those primitive Christians who sought refuge in the East from the persecutions of the pagan rulers of the West. Their minds were well prepared to adopt the fervent expressions of the East, and their condition prevented them from investigating the tales they heard. Hence, in the lives of these saints they were as ready to interweave the prodigies of another land, hoping, perhaps, to conciliate the minds of the Eastern Oriental to the tenets of their faith, by introducing fictitious incidents of Oriental structure, as, to conciliate the heathen, they placed their gods and goddesses in the Christian temple, dignifying them with a new name, and serving them with novel ceremonies.”

“Admitting the probability, still your machinery seems deficient.”

“It is but a portion of my machinery. Much more was due to the clouds of monks, who, during the third and fourth centuries, wandered over the face of the habitable world.”

“When Gibbon admits that the progress of monachism was co-extensive with that of Christianity,” suggested Frederick Thompson.

“The disciples of Antony,” said Herbert, “we are assured, spread themselves beyond the tropic, over the Christian empire of Ethiopia.”

“Their distribution was universal,” said Lathom; “every province, almost every city of the empire, had its ascetics; they feared no dangers, and deemed no seas, mountains, or deserts a barrier to their progress.”

“The roving character of the monks, therefore,” says the last translator of the Gesta, “is another link of the chain by which I introduce Oriental fiction into the West; and it is utterly impossible (maturely weighing the habits and propensities of this class of people) that they should not have picked up and retained the floating traditions of the countries through which they passed. Some of the early romances, as well as the legends of the saints, were undoubtedly fabricated in the deep silence of the cloister. Both frequently sprung from the warmth of fancy which religious seclusion is so well tended to nourish; but the former were adorned with foreign embellishments.”

“Did it ever occur to you,” said Thompson, “that the story of Ulysses and Circe bears a wondrous likeness to that of Beder the prince of Persia and Giahame princess of Samandal, and that the voyages of Sindbad afford the counterpart of the Cyclops of the Odysee?”

“It would be but consistent with the reported travels of Homer, to allow an Eastern origin to a portion of his fable,” said Lathom.

“After your banished Christians and roving monks,” said Herbert, “you would admit the Spanish Arabians.”

“As one means, certainly,” replied Lathom; “and after them the Crusaders.”

“It were almost superfluous,” rejoined Herbert, “to allude to the Crusades as further sources of romantic and didactic fiction. No one will dispute their right to a place in the system. About the period of the third crusade this kind of writing was at its height.”

“Undoubtedly,” rejoined Lathom, “that age was the full tide of chivalry. Twenty years elapsed between that and the fourth and fifth expeditions into the east; and nearly a generation passed before, for the sixth and the last time, the wealth and blood of Europe was poured upon the plains of the East. Enough of money and life had been now spent to satisfy the most enthusiastic of the crusading body, and to check, if not to stem, the tide of popular feeling which had formerly run so strong in favor of the restoration of the sepulchre and the holy city to the guardianship of the faithful. Time was now at last beginning to allay the Anti-Saracenic passion. With the decline of these remarkable expeditions romantic fiction began to be regarded. For though originally extraneous and independent, romantic fictions had of late years become incorporated with chivalry and its institutions, and, with them, they naturally fell into decay.”

“Come, come, we must break off this discussion,” said Thompson, “or else we shall have no time to judge of Lathom’s performance this evening.”

“The story I selected to begin with is one replete with eccentricity, and peculiarly characteristic of this age; it is entitled

There was a merry feast in the palace of Philonimus, the emperor of Rome, and his fair child, the maiden Aglae, sat by his side, whilst a brave knight, that loved the maiden dearly, sat on the other hand of the emperor. For the knight was bound for Palestine, to aid in rescuing the holy city from the power of the infidels and the emperor held a high festival in honor of that knight.

The feast was over in the hall, and the knight led the maiden from beside her father’s throne to the floor of the hall, and danced with her, whilst the king’s minstrels played a measure.

And as he danced, the knight talked with the lady, and the lady talked with the knight, and often sighed she when he spoke of his voyage to the Holy Land, and the great deeds he would perform for the glory of God, and the love of the fair lady. Then said the knight: “Lady, fair lady! to-morrow’s dawn sees me on my way to Palestine, and for seven years I bind myself to fight for the holy city. Plight me, dearest, thy troth, that this seven years you take no other husband, and I will plight thee my troth that for that time I will take no wife; and if this day seven years I come not again, then art thou free from thy promise.”

The lady was pleased with the words of the knight, and they vowed their vow, the one to the other.

Then sailed the knight for Palestine, and for years they wist not where he was. At length, the king of Hungary came to the emperor’s court, and he looked on the beauty of Aglae, and sought her of her father for his queen. And the emperor was glad; for the king was a great and good king. Then said he: “So be it, if my daughter consent.”

And Aglae bowed her head, when the king of Hungary spoke to her, and said: “Oh lord, the king, I am not free to be thy wife; for lo, these six years past I vowed to marry no man, and lo, one year more remains of my vow; until the end of which, I cannot accept the honor of my lord the king.”

Then said the father: “Since thou hast so vowed, I will not break thy vow. Wait then, my lord, yet one year, and then my daughter shall be thy bride.”

So the king of Hungary returned to his kingdom.

Aglae sat at her chamber window, and looked out upon the road that led towards her father’s palace. “Alas, alas!” she said, “it wants but one day to complete the seven years of my vow. To-morrow, my love promised to be with me again from the Holy Land. To-morrow, the king of Hungary comes to claim me. Ah me, what shall I do, if my love comes not, I must be the king’s bride”; and she bent her face on her hand, and wept sorely.

As the day drew near, the king of Hungary prepared to seek his bride. A great company was gathered together, and many wagons of presents were prepared to accompany the king. But when he saw them, and how slowly they journeyed, he left all his company, and went his way alone, eager to claim Aglae as his bride, so soon as the seven years were ended. The king was royally arrayed in purple, and his steed was clothed in gorgeous trappings. Now, as he drew nigh to Rome, a knight rode after him, who was covered from head to foot in a long black cloak, and bore on his shoulder a white embroidered cross. “Hail, Sir Knight,” said the king, “whither travellest thou; what news from the Holy Land?”

“To Rome, my lord,” rejoined the knight, halting his steed alongside of the king’s, “the Cross has gained the victory.”

“Thither, too, do I travel, Sir Knight; I am the king of Hungary, I go to seek my bride, the emperor’s fair daughter; I pray thee bear me company on the road.”

The knight acceded to the king’s proposal, and as they journeyed, they talked of the holy war in Palestine, and rejoiced that the city of the holy sepulchre was free from the power of the Saracens. As they thus talked together, the sky became cloudy, the wind howled through the woods, and the rain fell so fast, that the king’s apparel was wet through.

“My lord,” said the knight, “ye have done foolishly in that ye have not brought your house with you.”

“My house, Sir Knight! how meanest thou? my house is large and broad, made of stones and mortar; how should I bring with me my house; thou art beside thyself, Sir Knight!”

But the knight said nothing until they came to the bank of a broad stream, into which the king, being out of humor, plunged his horse, at the same time striking his spurs deeply into him, so he missed the ford, and would have been drowned but for the knight’s help.

“My lord,” said the knight, when they were safe on the river’s bank, “thou shouldest have brought thy bridge with thee.”

“My bridge,” said the king, “how strangely thou speakest, Sir Knight; my bridge is made of stones and mortar, and is half a mile long, and yet thou sayest, why have I not my bridge? Thou art foolish, Sir Knight!”

“Perhaps,” replied the knight, “my folly may turn thee to wisdom.”

And as they rode on, the king asked of the knight what hour of the day it was.

“For those that are hungry,” replied the knight, “it is time to eat; dismount therefore, my lord, and honor me by partaking of the food I have with me.”

So they both sat down under a tree, and ate of the food that was in the knight’s wallet, and drank of the clear stream that ran beside them. When their meal was finished, and they were once more mounted, the knight said:

“O king, why didst not thou bring with thee thy father and thy mother?”

“My father, Sir Knight, is dead, and my mother is old and cannot travel; how then could I bring them? Verily, thou art the most foolish man that I did ever meet with.”

“That is as it may be,” said the knight with a smile, “every thing is judged by its end. Now, O king, farewell! I may not ride with thee to the emperor’s palace, thither lies thy road, farewell.”

“But stay, Sir Knight,” said the king, “whither ridest thou then?”

“Seven years ago, I left a net in a place, and now I go to see. If I find it not broken, then will I take it home, and keep it, as a precious jewel; if it be broken, I will leave it to thee. O king, once more, farewell.”

So speaking, the knight turned away from the high road, and went by a shorter way toward Rome, to the emperor’s palace. The king rode upon the highway. Now, as the king drew near to Rome, one of the emperor’s servants met him, and went and told the emperor, how that the King of Hungary was riding all alone towards the city, and was wet and weary with his journey. Then the emperor set out to meet the king, and received him royally, and took his wet clothes off him, and clothed him with his own imperial robes. Then the trumpets sounded for dinner, and the emperor and the king descended to the hall; but Aglae was not there, for she kept her chamber, and her father refused her not, as it was the last day of her seven years’ vow.

“Brother,” said the emperor, as soon as the meats were removed from the table, “I pray thee tell me of thy journey.”

Then the king told him how he left his own company to come after, and fell in with the Crusader on his journey, and how he was dressed, and what he said as they rode together.

“Surely,” said the emperor, “that knight was a wise man: for the house of which he spoke was thy cloak; the bridge was thy squire, that should have ridden before thee to try the depth of the stream; and what was thy father and mother save bread and wine, which thou shouldest have brought with thee? But why did he leave thee?”

“When we came where two roads met,” rejoined the king, “he left me, saying, that seven years since he left a net in a private place, and he went to see whether it were broken or not, that he might treasure it as a jewel if it were unbroken, and if broken, resign it to me.”

Then the emperor cried with a loud voice, “Ho! my knights and servants, go ye to my daughter’s chamber.”

So the knights and servants went, and found not the lady, for her lover had stolen her away while the kings dined.

“Even so, as I expected,” said the emperor; “brother, the knight’s folly has taught thee wisdom.”

“Yea, brother,” rejoined the king, sorrowfully, “truly said the knight, every deed is judged by its end.”

So the king returned to Hungary ashamed; and when the knight and the maiden returned to her father, his heart yearned toward her, and he wept over her, and received them with joy.

“This last tale,” said Lathom, as soon as he had concluded his manuscripts, “comes not from the old Latin books, but from what is called the English Gesta.”

“An imitation of the original, I suppose,” said Thompson.

“So thought that antiquarian, Mr. Douce,” replied Lathom.

“Is it not natural, that a work so remarkable as this old Latin Gesta seems to have been, should have stimulated some person to compose a similar work for this country?” suggested Herbert.

“If the English version was not intended for the same work as the original, it is difficult to account for the striking identity between the stories in each of the Gesta; whilst the difference between the two works is in no respect greater than is consistent with that great latitude which the old transcribers and translators gave themselves.”

“It is, therefore, Lathom, in your opinion as much an original work as Donne’s Satires modernized by Pope, or Horace’s Art of Poetry translated by Roscommon,” said Thompson.

“Yes, or as Dr. Johnson’s version of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal.”

“We must be thinking of adjourning,” said Herbert, as the college clock began to strike eight.

“Or we may find ourselves inscribed among St. Peter’s madmen,” said Lathom.

“St. Peter’s madmen—who were they?” exclaimed Herbert and Thompson together.

“Five men St. Peter deemed to be madmen,” rejoined their host. “One ate the sand of the sea so greedily that it ran out of his mouth: verily he was the covetous man of this world. The next madman stood over a pit filled with sulphur and pitch, and strove to inhale the noxious vapor that rose from the burning mass; he was the glutton and the debauchee. A third lay on a burning furnace, and endeavored to catch the sparks that rose from it, that he might feast on them: for he was rich, and would have fed on gold, though it would have been his death. The next lunatic sat on the pinnacle of the temple, with his mouth open to catch the wind, for he was a hypocrite; whilst the last madman devoured every finger and toe of his own he could get into his mouth, and laughed at others; for he was a calumniator of the good, and devoured his own kind.”

“And the sixth stayed up to read in a Christmas vacation,” suggested Thompson.