EPIGRAMS
Collections of Mediæval Epigrams are both numerous and lengthy and not infrequently their comparative value depends largely on the translator’s learning or talent.
For instance a distich of Plato’s is thus translated by Coleridge,
THE THIEF AND THE SUICIDE
Jack, finding gold, left a rope on the ground;
Bill, missing his gold, used the rope which he found.
and is thus rendered by Shelley,
A man was about to hang himself,
Finding a purse, then threw away his rope;
The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf,
The halter found and used it. So is Hope
Changed for Despair—one laid upon the shelf,
We take the other. Under heaven’s high cope
Fortune is God—all you endure and do
Depends on circumstance as much as you.
But the modernization is not just now our pursuit, so the epigrams will be given in something approaching chronological order and the translator’s name mentioned when known.
Plato
THE MISER AND THE MOUSE
“Thou little rogue, what brings thee to my house?”
Said a starv’d miser to a straggling mouse.
“Friend,” quoth the mouse, “thou hast no cause to fear;
I only lodge with thee, I eat elsewhere.”
Lucillius
A MISER’S DREAM
Flint dream’d he gave a feast, ’twas regal fare,
And hang’d himself in ’s sleep in sheer despair.
Nicarchus
THE GREAT CONTENTION
Three dwarfs contended by a state decree,
Which was the least and lightest of the three.
First, Hermon came, and his vast skill to try,
With thread in hand leap’d through a needle’s eye.
Forth from a crevice Demas then advanc’d
And on a spider’s web securely danc’d.
What feat show’d Sospiter in this high quarrel?—
No eyes could see him, and he won the laurel.
Unknown Author
ON LATE-ACQUIRED WEALTH
Poor in my youth, and in life’s later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour,
Who nought enjoy’d while young, denied the means;
And nought when old enjoy’d, denied the power.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE
Phido nor hand nor touch to me applied;
Fever’d, I thought but of his name—and died.
ON THE INCONSTANCY OF WOMAN’S LOVE
My Fair says, she no spouse but me
Would wed, though Jove himself were he.
She says it: but I deem
That what the fair to lovers swear
Should be inscribed upon the air,
Or in the running stream.
Catullus
ON HIS OWN LOVE
That I love thee, and yet that I hate thee, I feel;
Impatient, thou bid’st me my reasons explain:
I tell thee, nor more for my life can reveal,
That I love thee, and hate thee—and tell it with pain.
Aly Ben Ahmed Ben Mansour
TO THE VIZIR CASSIM OBID ALLAH, ON THE DEATH OF ONE OF HIS SONS
Poor Cassim! thou art doom’d to mourn
By destiny’s decree;
Whatever happen it must turn
To misery for thee.
Two sons hadst thou, the one thy pride,
The other was thy pest;
Ah, why did cruel death decide
To snatch away the best?
No wonder thou should’st droop with woe,
Of such a child bereft;
But now thy tears must doubly flow,
For ah!—the other’s left.
The Khaliph Radhi Billah
TO A LADY UPON SEEING HER BLUSH
Leila! whene’er I gaze on thee
My alter’d cheek turns pale,
While upon thine, sweet maid, I see
A deep’ning blush prevail.
Leila, shall I the cause impart
Why such a change takes place?
The crimson stream deserts my heart,
To mantle on thy face.
Janus Pannonius
ON AURISPA
Aurispa nothing writes though learn’d, for he
By a wise silence seems more learn’d to be.
Actius Sannazarius
ON AUFIDIUS
A hum’rous fellow in a tavern late,
Being drunk and valiant, gets a broken pate;
The surgeon with his instruments and skill,
Searches his skull, deeper and deeper still,
To feel his brains, and try if they were sound;
And, as he keeps ado about the wound,
The fellow cries—Good surgeon, spare your pains,
When I began this brawl I had no brains.
Euricius Cordus
TO PHILOMUSUS
If only when they’re dead, you poets praise,
I own I’d rather have your blame always.
THE DOCTOR’S APPEARANCE
Three faces wears the doctor; when first sought
An angel’s—and a god’s the cure half wrought:
But when, that cure complete, he seeks his fee,
The devil looks then less terrible than he.
Georgius Buchananus
TO ZOILUS
With industry I spread your praise,
With equal, you my censure blaze;
But, Zoilus, all in vain we do—
The world nor credits me nor you.
ON LEONORA
There’s a lie on thy cheek in its roses,
A lie echoed back by thy glass.
Thy necklace on greenhorns imposes,
And the ring on thy finger is brass.
Yet thy tongue, I affirm, without giving an inch back,
Outdoes the sham jewels, rouge, mirror, and pinchbeck.
Johannes Secundus
ON CHARINUS, THE HUSBAND OF AN UGLY WIFE
Your wife’s possest of such a face and mind,
So charming that, and this so soft and kind,
So smooth her forehead, and her voice so sweet,
Her words so tender and her dress so neat;
That would kind Jove, whence man all good derives,
In wondrous bounty send me three such wives,
Dear happy husband, take it on my word,
To Pluto I’d give two, to take the third.
Theodorus Beza
In age, youth, and manhood, three wives have I tried,
Whose qualities rare all my wants have supplied.
The first, goaded on by the ardour of youth,
I woo’d for the sake of her person, forsooth:
The second I took for the sake of her purse;
And the third—for what reason? I wanted a nurse.
Paulus Thomas
ON CELSUS
With self love Celsus burns: is he not blest?
For thus without a rival he may rest.
Stephanus Paschasius
MARRIED LIFE
No day, no hour, no moment, is my house
Free from the clamour of my scolding spouse!
My servants all are rogues; and so am I,
Unless, for quiet’s sake, I join the cry.
I aim, in all her freaks, my wife to please;
I wage domestic war, in hopes of ease.
I vain the hopes! and my fond bosom bleeds,
To feel how soon to peace mad strife succeeds:
To find, with servants jarring, or my wife,
The worst of lawsuits is a married life.
Johannes Audœmus
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS
I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend;
For when at worst, they say, things always mend.
ADVICE TO PONTICUS
Thou nothing giv’st, but dying wilt: then die:
He giveth twice, who giveth speedily.
Balthasar Bonifacius
DANGEROUS LOVE
All whom I love die young; Zoilus, I’ll try,
Tho’ loath’d, to love thee—that thou too may’st die.
From Bhartrihari, an Indian philosopher who flourished about the ninth century, we select the following cynical paragraphs.
I believed that one woman was devoted to me, but she is now attracted by another man, and another man takes pleasure in her, while a second woman interests herself in me. Curses on them both, and on the god of love, and on the other woman, and on myself.
The fundamentally ignorant man is easily led, and the wise man still more easily; but not even the Almighty Himself can exercise any influence on the smatterer.
A man may tear the pearl from between the teeth of the crocodile; he may steer his ship over the roughest seas; he may twine a serpent round his brow like a laurel; but he cannot convince a foolish and stubborn opponent.
A man may squeeze oil from sand; he may slake his thirst from the well in a mirage; he may even obtain possession of a hare’s horn; but he cannot convince a foolish and stubborn opponent.
A dog will eat with delight the most noisome and decaying bones, and will pay no attention even if the ruler of the gods stands before him—and in like manner a mean man takes no heed of the worthlessness of his belongings.
Our nobility of birth may pass away; our virtues may fall into decay: our moral character may perish as if thrown over a precipice: our family may be burnt to ashes, and a thunderbolt may dash away our power like an enemy: let us keep a firm grip on our money, for without this the whole assembly of virtues are but as blades of glass.
Let a man be wealthy, and he shall be quite wise, learned in the sacred writings and of good birth; virtuous, handsome and eloquent. Gold attracts all the virtues to itself.
The same portion of the sky that forms a circle round the moon by night also forms a circle round the sun by day How great is the labour of both!
A sour heart; a face hardened with inward pride and a nature as difficult to penetrate as the narrowest of mountain passes—these things are known to be characteristic of women: their mind is known by the wise to be as changeable as the drop of dew on the lotus leaf. Faults develop in a woman as she grows up, exactly as poisonous branches sprout from the creeper.
The beautiful features of a woman are praised by the poets—her breasts are compared to pots of gold: her face to the shining moon, and her hips to the forehead of an elephant: nevertheless the beauty of a woman merits no praise.
From The Baharistan, the work of Jami, a Persian poet and philosopher.
Bahlúl being asked to count the fools of Basrah, replied: “They are without the confines of computation. If you ask me, I will count the wise men, for they are no more than a limited few.”
A learned man being annoyed while writing a letter to one of his confidential friends, at the conduct of a person who, seated at his side, glanced out of the corner of his eye at his writing, wrote: “Had not a hireling thief been seated at my side and engaged in reading my letter I should have written to thee all my secrets.” The man said: “By God, my lord, I have neither read nor even looked at thy letter.” “Fool!” exclaimed the other; “how then canst thou say what thou now sayest?”
A mendicant once coming to beg something at the door of a house, the master of it called out to him from the interior: “Pray excuse me: the women of the house are not here.” The beggar retorted: “I wish for a morsel of bread, not to embrace the women of the house.”
A certain person made a claim of ten dirams on Júhí. The judge enquired: “Hast thou any testimony to offer?” On the answer being in the negative he continued: “Shall I put him on his oath?” “Of what value is his oath?” said the man in reply. “O judge of the Faithful,” then proposed Júhí in his turn, “there lives in my quarter of the town an Imám, temperate, truthful and beneficent, send for him and put him on his oath instead of me, that this man’s mind may be easy.”
A poet read me once a wretched ode—
Verse of the kind where “alif” finds no place.
I said the kind of verse that thou should’st make,
Is that in which no letter we could trace.
Jáhiz relates: “I never experienced so much shame as this event occasioned me. One day a woman took my hand and led me to the shop of a master metal founder, saying to him: ‘Be it thus formed.’ I being puzzled to know what this conduct signified, questioned the master, who in reply said: ‘She had ordered me to make her a figure in the form of Satan. When I told her that I did not know in what semblance to make it, she brought thee, as thou knowest, and said: ‘Make it in this semblance.’”
The same learned man, too, gives us this relation: “As I was once standing in the street, in conversation with a friend, a woman came and standing opposite me, gazed in my face. When her staring had exceeded all bounds, I said to my slave: ‘Go to that woman and ask her what she seeks.’ The slave returning to me thus reported her answer: ‘I wished to inflict some punishment on my eyes which had committed a great fault, and could find none more severe for them than the sight of thy ugly face.’”
A person who perceived an ugly man asking pardon for his sins, and praying for deliverance from the fire of hell, said to him: “Wherefore, O friend, with such a countenance as thou hast, would’st thou cheat hell, and give such a face reluctantly to the fire?”
An assembly of people being seated together, and engaged in discussing the merits and defects of men, one of them observed: “Whoever has not two seeing eyes is but half a man; and whoever has not in his house a beautiful bride is but half a man; finally he who cannot swim in the sea is but half a man.” A blind man in the company who had no wife, and could not swim, called out to him: “O my dear friend, thou hast laid down an extraordinary principle, and cast me so far out of the circle of manhood, that still half a man is required before I can take the name of one who is no man.”
A Beduin having lost a camel, made an oath that when he found it he would sell it for one diram. When however he found it, repenting of his oath, he tied a cat to its neck, and called out: “Who will buy the camel for one diram and the cat for a hundred dirams; but both together, as I will not part them.” “How cheap,” said a person who had arrived there, “would be this camel, had it not this collar attached to its neck!”
A Beduin who had lost a camel, proclaimed: “Whoever brings me my camel shall have two camels as a reward.” “Out, man!” said they to him; “what kind of business is this? Is the whole ass load of less value than a small additional bundle laid upon it?” “You have this excuse for your words,” replied he, “that you have never tasted the pleasure of finding, and the sweetness of recovering what has been lost.”
A Khalíf was partaking of food with an Arab from the desert. During the repast as his glance fell upon the Arab’s portion he saw in it a hair, and said: “O Arab, take that hair out of thy food.” The Arab exclaimed: “It is impossible to eat at the table of one who looks so at his guest’s portion as to perceive a hair in it.” Then withdrawing his hand he swore never again to partake of food at his table.
A weaver left a deposit in the house of a learned man. After a few days had elapsed, finding some necessity for it, he paid him a visit and found him seated at the door of his house giving instruction to a number of pupils who were standing in a row before him. “O Professor,” said the man, “I am in want of the deposit which I left.” “Be seated a moment,” replied the other, “until I have finished the lesson.” The weaver sat down, but the lesson lasted a long time and he was pressed for time. Now that learned man had a habit when giving lessons, of wagging his head, and the weaver seeing this, and fancying that to give a lesson was merely to wag the head, said: “Rise up, O Professor, and make me thy deputy till thy return: let me wag my head in place of thee, and do thou bring out my deposit, for I am in a hurry.” The learned man, hearing this, laughed and said:
In public halls the city jurist boasts
That all, obscure or clear, to him is known;
But if thou ask him aught, his answer mark:—
A gesture with the hand or head alone.
From a collection called The Pleasantries of Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, the typical noodle of the Turks.
Cogia Effendi one day went into a garden, pulled up some carrots and turnips and other kinds of vegetables, which he found, putting some into a sack and some into his bosom; suddenly the gardener coming up, laid hold of him, and said, “What are you seeking here?” The Cogia, being in great consternation, not finding any other reply, answered, “For some days past a great wind has been blowing, and that wind blew me hither.” “But who pulled up these vegetables,” said the gardener? “As the wind blew very violently,” replied the Cogia, “it cast me here and there, and whatever I laid hold of in the hope of saving myself remained in my hands.” “Ah,” said the gardener, “but who filled the sack with them?” “Well,” said the Cogia, “that is the very question I was about to ask myself when you came up.”
One day Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi said, “O Mussulmen, give thanks to God Most High that He did not give the camel wings; for, had He given them, they would have perched upon your houses and chimneys, and have caused them to tumble upon your heads.”
One day the, Cogia saw a great many ducks playing on the top of a fountain. The Cogia, running towards them, said, “I’ll catch you”; whereupon they all rose up and took to flight. The Cogia, taking a little bread in his hand, sat down on the side of the fountain, and crumbling the bread in the fountain, fell to eating. A person coming up, said, “What are you eating?” “Duck broth,” replied the Cogia.
One day the Cogia went with Cheragh Ahmed to the den of a wolf, in order to see the cubs. Said the Cogia to Ahmed: “Do you go in.” Ahmed did so. The old wolf was abroad, but presently returning, tried to get into the cave to its young. When it was about half way in the Cogia seized hard hold of it by the tail. The wolf in its struggles cast a quantity of dust into the eyes of Ahmed. “Hallo, Cogia,” he cried, “What does this dust mean.” “If the wolf’s tail breaks,” said the Cogia, “You’ll soon see what the dust means.”
One day a thief got into the Cogia’s house. Cries his wife, “O Cogia, there is a thief in the house.” “Don’t make any disturbance,” says the Cogia. “I wish to God that he may find something, so that I may take it from him.”
Cogia Effendi, every time he returned to his house, was in the habit of bringing a piece of liver, which his wife always gave to a common woman, placing before the Cogia leavened patties to eat when he came home in the evening. One day the Cogia said, “O wife, every day I bring home a liver: where do they all go to?” “The cat runs away with all of them,” replied the wife. Therefore the Cogia getting up, put his hatchet in the trunk and locked it up. Says his wife to the Cogia, “For fear of whom do you lock up the hatchet?” “For fear of the cat,” replied the Cogia. “What should the cat do with the hatchet?” said the wife. “Why,” replied the Cogia, “as he takes a fancy to the liver, which costs two aspres, is it not likely that he will take a fancy to the hatchet, which costs four?”
One day the Cogia, being out on a journey, encamped along with a caravan, and tied up his horse along with the others. When it was morning the Cogia could not find his horse amongst the rest, not knowing how to distinguish it; forthwith taking a bow and arrow in his hand, he said, “Men, men, I have lost my horse.” Every one laughing, took his own horse; and the Cogia looking, saw a horse which he instantly knew to be his own. Forthwith placing his right foot in the stirrup, he mounted the horse, so that his face looked to the horse’s tail. “O Cogia,” said they, “why do you mount the horse the wrong way?” “It is not my fault,” said he, “but the horse’s, for the horse is left-handed.”
One day as the Cogia was travelling in the Derbend he met a shepherd. Said the shepherd to the Cogia. “Art thou a faquir?” “Yes,” said the Cogia. Said the shepherd, “See these seven men who are lying here, they were men like you whom I killed because they could not answer questions which I asked. Now, in the first place let us come to an understanding; if you can answer my questions let us hold discourse, if not, let us say nothing.” Says the Cogia, “What may your questions be?” Said the shepherd, “The moon, when it is new, is small, afterwards it increases, until it looks like a wheel; after the fifteenth, it diminishes, and does not remain; then again, there is a little one, of the size of Hilal, which does remain. Now what becomes of the old moons?” Says the Cogia. “How is it that you don’t know a thing like that? They take those old moons and make lightning of them, have you not seen them when the heaven thunders, glittering like so many swords?” “Bravo, Fakeer,” said the shepherd. “Well art thou acquainted with the matter, I had come to the same conclusion myself.”
One day the Cogia’s wife, in order to plague the Cogia, boiled some broth exceedingly hot, brought it into the room and placed it on the table. The wife then, forgetting that it was hot, took a spoon and put some into her mouth, and, scalding herself, began to shed tears. “O, wife,” said the Cogia, “what is the matter with you; is the broth hot?” “Dear Efendy,” said the wife, “my mother, who is now dead loved broth very much; I thought of that, and wept on her account.” The Cogia thinking that what she said was truth, took a spoonful of the broth and burning his mouth began to cry and bellow. “What is the matter with you,” said his wife; “why do you cry?” Said the Cogia, “You cry because your mother is gone, but I cry because her daughter is here.”
One day a man came to the house of the Cogia and asked him to lend him his ass. “He is not at home,” replied the Cogia. But it so happened that the ass began to bray within. “O Cogia Efendy,” said the man, “you say that the ass is not at home, and there he is braying within.” “What a strange fellow you are!” said the Cogia. “You believe the ass, but will not believe a grey bearded man like me.”
One day the Cogia roasted a goose, and set out in order to carry it to the Emperor. On the way, feeling very hungry, he cut off one leg and ate it. Coming into the presence of the Emperor, he placed the goose before him. On seeing it, Tamerlank said to himself, “The Cogia is making game of me,” and was very angry, and demanded, “How happens it that this goose has but one foot?” Said the Cogia, “In our country all the geese have only one foot. If you disbelieve me, look at the geese by the side of that fountain.” Now at that time there was a flock of geese by the rim of the fountain, all of whom were standing on one leg. Timour instantly ordered that all the drummers should at once play up; the drummers began to strike with their sticks, and forthwith all the geese stood on both legs. On Timour saying, “Don’t you see that they have two legs?” the Cogia replied, “If you keep up that drumming you yourself will presently have four.”
One day the Cogia’s wife, having washed the Cogia’s kaftan, hung it upon a tree to dry; the Cogia going out saw, as he supposed, a man standing in the tree with his arms stretched out. Says the Cogia to his wife, “O wife, go and fetch me my bow and arrow.” His wife fetched and brought them to him; the Cogia taking an arrow, shot it and pierced the kaftan and stretched it on the ground; then returning, he made fast his door and lay down to sleep. Going out in the morning he saw that what he had shot was his own kaftan; thereupon, sitting down, he cried aloud, “O God, be thanked; if I had been in it I should have certainly been killed.”
One day as the Cogia was going to his house, he met a number of students, and said to them, “Gentlemen, pray this night come to our house and taste a sup of the old father’s broth.” “Very good,” said the students, and following the Cogia, came to the house. “Pray enter,” said he, and brought them into the house, then going up to where his wife was, “O wife,” said he, “I have brought some travellers that we may give them a cup of broth.” “O master,” said his wife, “is there oil in the house or rice, or have you brought any that you wish to have broth?” “Bless me,” said the Cogia, “give me the broth pan,” and snatching it up, he forthwith ran to where the students were, and exclaimed, “Pray, pardon me gentlemen, but had there been oil or rice in our house, this is the pan in which I would have served the broth up to you.”
One day the Cogia going into a person’s garden climbed up into an apricot tree and began to eat the apricots. The master coming said, “Cogia, what are you doing here?” “Dear me,” said the Cogia, “don’t you see that I am a nightingale sitting in the apricot tree?” Said the gardener, “Let me hear you sing.” The Cogia began to warble. Whereupon the other fell to laughing, and said: “Do you call that singing?” “I am a Persian nightingale,” said the Cogia, “and Persian nightingales sing in this manner.”
From The Book of Laughable Stories, collected by Gregory Bar Hebræus in the thirteenth century. The collection includes some seven hundred stories taken from the literary products of all the Oriental countries available at that time.
Bazarjamhir said, “When thou dost not know which of two things is the better for thee [to do], take counsel with thy wife and do the opposite of that which she saith, for she will only counsel [thee to do] the things which are injurious to thee.”
A certain woman saw Socrates as they were carrying him along to crucify him, and she wept and said, “Woe is me, for they are about to slay thee without having committed any offence.” And Socrates made answer unto her, saying, “O foolish woman, wouldst thou have me also commit some crime that I might be punished like a criminal?”
Alexander [the Great] saw among the soldiers of his army a man called Alexander who continually took to flight in the time of war, and he said to him, “It is said that upon the ring of Pythagoras there was written, ‘The evil which is not perpetual is better than the good which is not perpetual.’”
It is said that upon the ring of Pythagoras there was written, “The evil which is not perpetual is better than the good which is not perpetual.”
It was said to Socrates, “Which of the irrational animals is not beautiful?” And he replied, “Woman,” referring to her folly.
Another of the sages said, “The members of a man’s household are the moth of his money.”
A certain man who had once been a painter left off painting and became a physician. And when it was said to him, “Why hast thou done this?” he replied, “The errors [made] in painting [all] eyes see and scrutinize; but the mistakes of the healing art the ground covereth.”
Another king was asked by his sages, “To what limit hath thine understanding reached?” And he replied, “To the extent that I believe no man, neither do I put any confidence in any man whatsoever.”
Another king said, “If men only knew how pleasant to me it is to forgive faults there is not one of them who would not commit them.”
A poet said unto a certain avaricious man, “Why dost thou never bid me to a feast with thee?” He replied to him, “Because thou eatest very heartily indeed, besides thou swallowest so hurriedly; and whilst thou art still eating one morsel thou art getting ready for the next.” The poet said to him, “What wouldst thou have then? Wouldst thou have me whilst I am eating one morsel to stand up and bow the knee, and then take another?”
Another sage said, “I hold every man who saith that he hateth riches to be a liar until he establisheth a sure proof thereof from what he hath gathered together, and having established his belief it is, at the same time, quite certain that he is a fool!”
Another miser whilst quarreling violently with his neighbour was asked by a certain man, “Why art thou fighting with him?” He replied to him, “I had eaten a roasted head, and I threw the bones outside my door, so that my friends might rejoice and mine enemies be sorry when they saw in what a luxurious manner I was living; and this fellow rose up and took the bones and threw them before his own door.”
Another poet was questioned by a man concerning a certain miser, saying, “Who eateth with him at his table?” and the poet replied, “Flies.”
To a certain comedian it was said, “When a cock riseth up in the early morning hours, why doth he hold one foot in the air?” He replied, “If he should lift up both feet together he would fall down.”
Another actor went into his house and found a sieve laid upon his couch, and he went and hung himself up on the peg in the wall. His wife said to him, “What is this? Art thou possessed of a devil?” And he said to her, “Nay, but when I saw the sieve in my place, I went to its place.”
Another fool had two hunting dogs, one black and the other white. And the governor said to him, “Give me one of them.” The man said to him, “Which of them dost thou want?” and the governor said, “The black one.” The man said, “The black one I love more than the white,” and the governor replied, “Then give me the white one.” And the foolish man said to him, “The white one I love more than both put together.”
Another fool said, “My father went twice to Jerusalem, and there did he die and was buried, but I do not know which time he died, whether it was during the first visit or the last.”
When another fool was told, “Thy ass is stolen,” he said, “Blessed be God that I was not upon him.”
Another silly man buried some zûzê coins in the plain, and made a fragment of a cloud a mark of the place where it was. And some days after he came to carry away the money, but could not find the place to do so, and he said, “Consider now; the zûzê were in the ground, and they must have been carried away by some people. For who can steal the cloud which is in the sky? And what arm could reach there unto? This matter is one worthy to be wondered at.”
Another simpleton was asked, “How many days’ journey is it between Aleppo and Damascus?” and he replied, “Twelve; six to go and six to come back.”
Another silly man having gone on a journey to carry on his trade wrote to his father, saying, “I have been ill with a very grievous sickness, and if any one else had been in my place he would not have been able to live.” And his father made him answer, saying, “Believe me, my son, if thou hadst died thou wouldst have grieved me sadly, and I would never have spoken to thee again in the whole course of my life.”
A certain lunatic put on a skin cloak with the hairy side outwards, and when people asked him why he did so, he replied, “If God had known that it was better to have the hairy side of the skin cloak inwards, He would not have created the wool on the outside of the sheep.”
Another fool owned a house together with some other folk, and he said one day, “I want to sell the half of it which is my share and buy the other half, so that the whole building may be mine.”
From earliest times the stupid or blundering fellow has been the butt of his comrades’ shafts of wit or sarcasm.
The feeling of superiority, so delightful to the human mind, found easy expression in jeering at the discomfiture of the noodle.
More often than not, noodle stories are told of residents of some particular locality or district, whose people are looked upon as simpletons. Doubtless this originally meant merely country people, who were provincial or outlandish compared to the city bred.
But as the Greeks chose Bœotia for their noodle colony and the Persians guyed the people of Emessa, so each country has had a location or a community for its laughing stock down to the Gothamites of the English.
As a rule the same noodle stories are found in many languages, and only an exhaustive study of comparative folk lore can adequately consider the various tales.
As an instance, there is the story, of Eastern origin, that may be found in the booby tales of all nations. It has come down in late years in the form of a play, called in a German version, “Der Tisch Ist Gedeckt” and in an English form, “The Obstinate Family.”
In the Arabian tale,
A blockhead, having married his pretty cousin, gave the customary feast to their relations and friends. When the festivities were over, he conducted his guests to the door, and from absence of mind neglected to shut it before returning to his wife. “Dear cousin,” said his wife to him when they were alone, “go and shut the street door.” “It would be strange indeed,” he replied, “if I did such a thing. Am I just made a bridegroom, clothed in silk, wearing a shawl and a dagger set with diamonds, and am I to go and shut the door? Why, my dear, you are crazy. Go and shut it yourself.” “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the wife. “Am I, young, robed in a dress, with lace and precious stones—am I to go and shut the street door? No, indeed! It is you who are become crazy, and not I. Come, let us make a bargain,” she continued; “and let the first who speaks go and fasten the door.” “Agreed,” said the husband, and immediately he became mute, and the wife too was silent, while they both sat down, dressed as they were in their nuptial attire, looking at each other and seated on opposite sofas. Thus they remained for two hours. Some thieves happened to pass by, and seeing the door open, entered and laid hold of whatever came to their hands. The silent couple heard footsteps in the house, but opened not their mouths. The thieves came into the room and saw them seated motionless and apparently indifferent to all that might take place. They continued their pillage, therefore, collecting together everything valuable, and even dragging away the carpets from beneath them; they laid hands on the noodle and his wife, taking from their persons every article of jewellery, while they, in fear of losing the wager, said not a word. Having thus cleared the house, the thieves departed quietly, but the pair continued to sit, uttering not a syllable. Towards morning a police officer came past on his tour of inspection, and seeing the door open, walked in. After searching all the rooms and finding no person, he entered their apartment, and inquired the meaning of what he saw. Neither of them would condescend to reply. The officer became angry, and ordered their heads to be cut off. The executioner’s sword was about to perform its office, when the wife cried out, “Sir, he is my husband. Do not kill him!” “Oh, oh,” exclaimed the husband, overjoyed and clapping his hands, “you have lost the wager; go and shut the door.” He then explained the whole affair to the police officer, who shrugged his shoulders and went away.
Another story, known in a score of variants is found in a collection of tales of the Kabaïl, Algeria, to this effect:
The mother of a youth of the Beni Jennad clan gave him a hundred reals to buy a mule; so he went to market, and on his way met a man carrying a water melon for sale. “How much for the melon?” he asks. “What will you give?” says the man. “I have only got a hundred reals,” answered the booby; “had I more, you should have it.” “Well,” rejoined the man, “I’ll take them.” Then the youth took the melon and handed over the money. “But tell me,” says he, “will its young one be as green as it is?” “Doubtless,” answered the man, “it will be green.” As the booby was going home, he allowed the melon to roll down a slope before him. It burst on its way, when up started a frightened hare. “Go to my house, young one,” he shouted. “Surely a green animal has come out of it.” And when he got home, he inquired of his mother if the young one had arrived.
Other stories of boobies or simpletons follow, taken here and there from the enormous mass of humorous literature on this theme.
Yet noodles are not always witless fools.
The principle of the humor in such tales is merely and only the superiority complex, that loves to laugh good naturedly or with a contemptuous tolerance at the speech or actions of those less clever than itself. It is the attitude of the cognoscenti toward,
“The lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy,
Who doesn’t think she waltzes,—but would rather like to try,”
as W. S. Gilbert puts it.
One day some men were walking by the riverside, and came to a place where the contrary currents caused the water to boil as in a whirlpool. “See how the water boils!” says one. “If we had plenty of oatmeal,” says another, “we might make enough porridge to serve all the village for a month.” So it was resolved that part of them should go to the village and fetch their oatmeal, which was soon brought and thrown into the river. But there presently arose the question of how they were to know when the porridge was ready. This difficulty was overcome by the offer of one of the company to jump in, and it was agreed that if he found it ready for use, he should signify the same to his companions. The man jumped in, and found the water deeper than he expected. Thrice he rose to the surface, but said nothing. The others, impatient at his remaining so long silent, and seeing him smack his lips, took this for an avowal that the porridge was good, and so they all jumped in after him and were drowned.
A poor old woman used to beg her food by day and cook it at night. Half of the food she would eat in the morning, and the other half in the evening. After a while a cat got to know of this arrangement, and came and ate the meal for her. The old woman was very patient, but at last could no longer endure the cat’s impudence, and so she laid hold of it. She argued with herself as to whether she should kill it or not. “If I slay it,” she thought, “it will be a sin; but if I keep it alive, it will be to my heavy loss.” So she determined only to punish it. She procured some cotton wool and some oil, and soaking the one in the other, tied it on to the cat’s tail and then set it on fire. Away rushed the cat across the yard, up the side of the window, and on to the roof, where its flaming tail ignited the thatch and set the whole house on fire. The flames soon spread to other houses, and the whole village was destroyed.
Not a few of the Bizarrures of the Sieur Gaulard are the prototypes of bulls and foolish sayings of the typical Irishman, which go their ceaseless rounds in popular periodicals, and are even audaciously reproduced as original in our “comic” journals. To cite some examples:
A friend one day told M. Gaulard that the Dean of Besançon was dead. “Believe it not,” said he, “for had it been so he would have told me himself, since he writes to me about everything.”
M. Gaulard asked his secretary one evening what hour it was. “Sir,” replied the secretary, “I cannot tell you by the dial, because the sun is set.” “Well,” quoth M. Gaulard, “and can you not see by the candle?”
On another occasion the Sieur called from his bed to a servant desiring him to see if it was daylight yet. “There is no sign of daylight,” said the servant. “I do not wonder,” rejoined the Sieur, “that thou canst not see day, great fool as thou art. Take a candle and look with it out at the window, and thou shalt see whether it be day or not.”
In a strange house, the Sieur found the walls of his bed chamber full of great holes. “This,” exclaimed he in a rage, “is the cursedest chamber in all the world. One may see day all the night through.”
Travelling in the country, his man, to gain the fairest way, rode through a field sowed with pease, upon which M. Gaulard cried to him, “Thou knave, wilt thou burn my horse’s feet? Dost thou not know that about six weeks ago I burned my mouth with eating pease, they were so hot?”
A poor man complained to him that he had had a horse stolen from him. “Why did you not mark his visage,” asked M. Gaulard, “and the clothes he wore?” “Sir,” said the man, “I was not there when he was stolen.” Quoth the Sieur, “You should have left somebody to ask him his name, and in what place he resided.”
M. Gaulard felt the sun so hot in the midst of a field at noontide in August that he asked of those about him, “What means the sun to be so hot? How should it not keep its heat till winter, when it is cold weather?”
A proctor, discoursing with M. Gaulard, told him that a dumb, deaf, or blind man could not make a will but with certain additional forms. “I pray you,” said the Sieur, “give me that in writing, that I may send it to a cousin of mine who is lame.”
One day a friend visited the Sieur and found him asleep in his chair. “I slept,” said he, “only to avoid idleness; for I must always be doing something.”
The Abbé of Poupet complained to him that the moles had spoiled a fine meadow, and he could find no remedy for them. “Why, cousin,” said M. Gaulard, “it is but paving your meadow, and the moles will no more trouble you.”
M. Gaulard had a lackey belonging to Auvergne, who robbed him of twelve crowns and ran away, at which he was very angry, and said he would have nothing that came from that country. So he ordered all that was from Auvergne to be cast out of the house, even his mule; and to make the animal more ashamed, he caused his servants to take off its shoes and its saddle and bridle.
Among the cases decided by a Turkish Kází, two men came before him one of whom complained that the other had almost bit his ear off. The accused denied this, and declared that the fellow had bit his own ear. After pondering the matter for some time, the judge told them to come again two hours later. Then he went into his private room, and attempted to bring his ear and his mouth together; but all he did was to fall backwards and break his head. Wrapping a cloth round his head, he returned to court, and the two men coming in again presently, he thus decided the question: “No man can bite his own ear, but in trying to do so he may fall down and break his head.”
The typical noodle of the Turks, the Khoja Nasru ’d-Dín, quoted above as Cogia Nasr Eddin Effendi, is said to have been a subject of the independent prince of Karaman, at whose capital, Konya, he resided, and he is represented as a contemporary of Timúr (Tamerlane), in the middle of the fourteenth century. The pleasantries which are ascribed to him are for the most part common to all countries, but some are probably of genuine Turkish origin. To cite a few specimens: The Khoja’s wife said to him one day, “Make me a present of a kerchief of red Yemen silk, to put on my head.” The Khoja stretched out his arms and said, “Like that? Is that large enough?” On her replying in the affirmative he ran off to the bazaar, with his arms still stretched out, and meeting a man on the road, he bawled to him, “Look where you are going, O man, or you will cause me to lose my measure!”
One evening the Khoja went to the well to draw water, and seeing the moon reflected in the water, he exclaimed, “The moon has fallen into the well; I must pull it out.” So he let down the rope and hook, and the hook became fastened to a stone, whereupon he exerted all his strength, and the rope broke, and he fell upon his back. Looking into the sky, he saw the moon, and cried out joyfully, “Praise be to Allah! I am sorely bruised, but the moon has got into its place again.”
The Chinese have a story of a lady who had been recently married, and on the third day saw her husband returning home, so she slipped quietly behind him and gave him a hearty kiss. The husband was annoyed, and said she offended all propriety. “Pardon! pardon!” said she. “I did not know it was you.”
Indian fiction abounds in stories of simpletons, and probably the oldest extant drolleries of the Gothamite type are found in the J[.a]takas, or Buddhist Birth stories. Assuredly they were own brothers to our mad men of Gotham, the Indian villagers who, being pestered by mosquitoes when at work in the forest, bravely resolved, according to J[.a]taka 44, to take their bows and arrows and other weapons and make war upon the troublesome insects until they had shot dead or cut in pieces every one; but in trying to shoot the mosquitoes they only shot, struck, and injured one another. And nothing more foolish is recorded of the Schildburgers than Somadeva relates, in his Kathá Sarit Ságara, of the simpletons who cut down the palm-trees: Being required to furnish the king with a certain quantity of dates, and perceiving that it was very easy to gather the dates of a palm which had fallen down of itself, they set to work and cut down all the date-palms in their village, and having gathered from them their whole crop of dates, they raised them up and planted them again, thinking they would grow.
In Málava there were two Bráham brothers, and the wealth inherited from their father was left jointly between them. And while they were dividing that wealth they quarrelled about one having too little and the other having too much, and they made a teacher learned in the Vedas arbitrator, and he said to them, “You must divide everything your father left into two halves, so that you may not quarrel about the inequality of the division.” When the two fools heard this, they divided every single thing into two equal parts—house, beds, in fact, all their property, including their cattle.
Henry Stephens (Henri Estienne), in the Introduction to his Apology for Herodotus, relates some very amusing noodle-stories, such as of him who, burning his shins before the fire, and not having wit enough to go back from it, sent for masons to remove the chimney; of the fool who ate the doctor’s prescription, because he was told to “take it”; of another wittol who, having seen one spit upon iron to try whether it was hot, did likewise with his porridge; and, best of all, he tells of a fellow who was hit on the back with a stone as he rode upon his mule, and cursed the animal for kicking him. This last exquisite jest has its analogue in that of the Irishman who was riding on an ass one fine day, when the beast, by kicking at the flies that annoyed him, got one of its hind feet entangled in the stirrup, whereupon the rider dismounted, saying, “Faith, if you’re going to get up, it’s time I was getting down.”
The poet Ovid alludes to the story of Ino persuading the women of the country to roast the wheat before it was sown, which may have come to India through the Greeks, since we are told in the Kathá Sarit S[.a]gara of a foolish villager who one day roasted some sesame seeds, and finding them nice to eat, he sowed a large quantity of roasted seeds, hoping that similar ones would come up. The story also occurs in Coelho’s Contes Portuguezes, and is probably of Buddhistic origin. An analogous story is told of an Irishman who gave his hens hot water, in order that they should lay boiled eggs!
Few folk-tales are more widely diffused than that of the man who set out in quest of as great noodles as those of his own household. The details may be varied more or less, but the fundamental outline is identical, wherever the story is found; and, whether it be an instance of the transmission of popular tales from one country to another, or one of those “primitive fictions” which are said to be the common heritage of the Aryans, its independent development by different nations and in different ages cannot be reasonably maintained.
Thus, in one Gaelic version of this diverting story—in which our old friends the Gothamites reappear on the scene to enact their unconscious drolleries—a lad marries a farmer’s daughter, and one day while they are all busily engaged in peat cutting, she is sent to the house to fetch the dinner. On entering the house, she perceives the speckled pony’s packsaddle hanging from the roof, and says to herself, “Oh, if that packsaddle were to fall and kill me, what should I do?” and here she began to cry, until her mother, wondering what could be detaining her, comes, when she tells the old woman the cause of her grief, whereupon the mother, in her turn, begins to cry, and when the old man next comes to see what is the matter with his wife and daughter, and is informed about the speckled pony’s packsaddle, he too, “mingles his tears” with theirs. At last the young husband arrives, and finding the trio of noodles thus grieving at an imaginary misfortune, he there and then leaves them, declaring his purpose not to return until he has found three as great fools as themselves. In the course of his travels he meets with some strange folks: men whose wives make them believe whatever they please—one, that he is dead; another, that he is clothed, when he is stark naked; a third, that he is not himself. He meets with the twelve fishers who always miscounted their number; the noodles who went to drown an eel in the sea; and a man trying to get his cow on the roof of his house, in order that she might eat the grass growing there.
In Russian variants the old parents of a youth named Lutonya weep over the supposititious death of a potential grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman had dropped had killed that hypothetical infant. The parents’ grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves the house, declaring he will not return until he has met with people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and sees several foolish doings. In one place a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in another, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar a spoonful at a time; and in a third place some carpenters are attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and Lutonya earns their gratitude by showing them how to join a piece to it.
A well known English version is to this effect: There was a young man who courted a farmer’s daughter, and one evening when he came to the house she was sent to the cellar for beer. Seeing an axe stuck in a beam above her head, she thought to herself, “Suppose I were married and had a son, and he were to grow up, and be sent to this cellar for beer, and this axe were to fall and kill him—oh, dear! oh dear!” and there she sat crying and crying, while the beer flowed all over the cellar floor, until her old father and mother come in succession and blubber along with her about the hypothetical death of her imaginary grown up son. The young man goes off in quest of three bigger fools, and sees a woman hoisting a cow on to the roof of her cottage to eat the grass that grew among the thatch, and to keep the animal from falling off, she ties a rope round its neck, then goes into the kitchen, secures at her waist the rope, which she had dropped down the chimney, and presently the cow stumbles over the roof, and the woman is pulled up the flue till she sticks half way. In an inn he sees a man attempting to jump into his trousers—a favourite incident in this class of stories; and farther along he meets with a party raking the moon out of a pond.
Another English variant relates that a young girl having been left alone in the house, her mother finds her in tears when she comes home, and asks the cause of her distress. “Oh,” says the girl, “while you were away, a brick fell down the chimney, and I thought, if it had fallen on me I might have been killed!” The only novel adventure which the girl’s betrothed meets with, in his quest of three bigger fools, is an old woman trying to drag an oven with a rope to the table where the dough lay.
There is a Sicilian version in Pitrá’s collection, called The Peasant of Larcarà, in which the bride’s mother imagines that her daughter has a son who falls into the cistern. The groom—they are not yet married—is disgusted, and sets out on his travels with no fixed purpose of returning if he finds some fools greater than his mother-in-law, as in the Venetian tale. The first fool he meets is a mother, whose child, in playing the game called nocciole, tries to get his hand out of the hole whilst his fist is full of stones. He cannot, of course, and the mother thinks they will have to cut off his hand. The traveller tells the child to drop the stones, and then he draws out his hand easily enough. Next he finds a bride who cannot enter the church because she is very tall and wears a high comb. The difficulty is settled as in the former story. After a while he comes to a woman who is spinning and drops her spindle. She calls out to the pig, whose name is Tony, to pick it up for her. The pig does nothing but grunt, and the woman in anger cries, “Well, you won’t pick it up? May your mother die!” The traveller, who had overheard all this, takes a piece of paper, which he folds up like a letter, and then knocks at the door. “Who is there?” “Open the door, for I have a letter for you from Tony’s mother, who is ill and wishes to see her son before she dies.” The woman wonders that her imprecation has taken effect so soon, and readily consents to Tony’s visit. Not only this, but she loads a mule with everything necessary for the comfort of the body and soul of the dying pig. The traveller leads away the mule with Tony, and returns home so pleased with having found that the outside world contains so many fools that he marries as he had first intended.
In other Italian versions, a man is trying to jump into his stockings; another endeavours to put walnuts into a sack with a fork; and a woman dips a knotted rope into a deep well, and then having drawn it up, squeezes the water out of the knots into a pail.
Mediæval writers most frequently gave voice to short proverbs, maxims or epigrams, but a longer story is this delightful one from the old Folk tales of India.
San Shroe Bu
ENFORCED GREATNESS
Once upon a time there lived a very poor middle aged couple on the outskirts of a great and magnificent city. Early in the morning the man used to set out to the city and return home in the evening with a few odd annas earned by picking up small jobs in the warehouses of wealthy merchants. One fine morning, being lazier than usual, he remained in bed with his eyes closed though fully awake, and furtively watched the proceedings of his wife during her toilette. When she was completely satisfied with her performance the man pretended to wake up as though from a deep sleep and addressed his wife, “you know, my dear, of late I have been feeling that some strange power has been granted to me by the gracious nats who preside over our destinies. To illustrate my point, you saw just now that I was fast asleep, and yet, would you believe it, I know exactly what you were doing a little while ago from the time you rose from your bed up till the present moment,” and proceeded to tell her all she did at her toilette. As may be imagined, his wife was quite astonished at this feat, and womanlike, she began to see in this power the means to a profitable living.
Just about this time the kingdom became greatly distracted by a series of daring thefts which took place both by day and night. All efforts made by the authorities to capture the culprits proved useless. At length the king became seriously alarmed for the safety of his treasures, and in order to afford better protection he redoubled the guards round the palace. But in spite of all this precaution the thieves entered the palace one night and succeeded in carrying away a large quantity of gold, silver and precious stones.
On the following morning the king issued a proclamation to the effect that a thousand gold mohurs would be given as a reward to the person who could either capture the thieves or restore the stolen property. So without consulting her husband in whom she had absolute faith, she went off to the palace and informed the king that her husband was a great astrologer and that it would be quite easy for him to find the lost treasures. The king’s heart was filled with gladness on receiving this information. He told the good woman that if her husband could do all that she promised, further honours and rewards would be heaped upon him.
When the woman returned home she joyfully related to her husband the details of her interview with the king. “What have you done, you silly fool?” shouted the man with mingled astonishment and alarm. “The other day when I spoke to you about my powers I was merely imposing upon you. I am neither an astrologer nor a diviner. It will be impossible for me to find the lost property. By your silly act you have not only brought disgrace upon us but you have also imperilled our lives. I don’t care what happens to you; I only know that I am going to commit suicide this very day.”
So saying he left the house and entered a dense forest with the intention of cutting a stout creeper with which to hang himself. After he got what he wanted he climbed up a big tree to tie one end of the creeper to a branch. But while he was engaged in this act the notorious thieves came to the foot of the very tree on which he was perched and proceeded to divide the treasures which they stole from the palace. The man on the top remained absolutely still and eagerly listened to all that was going on down below. Apparently the division was not quite satisfactory to every one, and as a result a terrible dispute arose among them. For long hours they argued and abused each other without being able to come to a settlement. At length seeing that the sun was already declining they agreed to bury the treasure at the foot of the tree and to return on the morrow for a further discussion relative to their respective shares.
As soon as they left the place the poor man came down from the tree and ran home as fast as he could. “My dear wife, I know exactly where the treasures are to be found. If you make haste and come along with me I shall be able to remove the whole lot to our house.” So they hastened together with baskets on their heads and reached the spot when darkness had properly set in. They then dug up the treasures as quickly as they could and conveyed them home.
On the following day they went to the palace and restored the lost treasures to the king. Greatly overjoyed at his good fortune the king praised the man and marvelled at his rare knowledge. In addition to the reward which he received, the man was forthwith appointed the chief astrologer to the King with a handsome salary which placed him beyond the dreams of avarice.
While in the enjoyment of such honours and rewards the astrologer one day thought to himself, “So far I have been very fortunate. My luck has been phenomenally good. Everybody takes me to be a great man, though actually I am not. I wonder for how long my luck will befriend me?” From that time forward his mind became uneasy. He often sat up in bed at nights dreading the future which should bring about his exposure and disgrace. Every day he spoke to his wife about his false position and the peril that threatened him. He saw that it would be utter folly and madness to make a clean breast of everything as he had already committed himself too far. So he decided to say nothing for the present but to await a favourable opportunity of extricating himself from the awkward situation.
It so happened that one day the king received a letter from the ruler of a distant country which stated that he had heard about the famous astrologer. But that somehow he did not quite believe all that was said concerning the wisdom and knowledge of the man. By way of testing his real powers would he, the king, enter into a bet? If acceptable, he said he would send him a gourd fruit by his Envoys, and if his astrologer could say how many seeds it contained, he was willing to forfeit his kingdom provided he (the former) did the same in the event of his protégé going wrong in his calculations. Having absolute faith in his astrologer the king forthwith sent a reply to the letter accepting the bet.
For many days after this the poor astrologer thought very hard how he should act in the matter. He knew that the gourd fruit usually contained thousands of seeds and that to attempt a guess would be worse than useless. Being fully convinced that the day of reckoning had at last arrived, he determined to run away and hide himself in some obscure corner rather than face the disgrace of a public exposure. So the next thing he did was to procure a boat. He then loaded it with food for many days and quietly left the shores of the city.
The following day as he was nearing the mouth of the river, a foreign vessel came sailing up under a full spread of canvas. He saw from a distance that the sailors, having nothing particular to do, sat in a group and were engaged in pleasant conversation. As he came alongside the vessel he heard a man remark to the others, “Somehow I feel quite certain that our king will lose the bet. Don’t you fellows know that this country possesses an astrologer who is infallible in his calculations? He is reputed to possess the combined sight of a thousand devas. To such a one the single seed, lying hidden within this gourd we now convey with us, will not prove an obstacle of any serious difficulty. You may therefore rest assured that he will find it out in a very short time.”
When the man heard these words he felt very glad and blessed his good luck for having freed him once again from a dangerous situation. Instead, therefore, of continuing his journey, he swung his boat round and made for home, happy in the possession of his freshly acquired knowledge. On his arrival he related everything to his wife who shed tears of joy on hearing the good news.
Early next day, hearing that the king was about to grant an audience to the foreign Envoys, the royal astrologer went to the palace. The courtiers were very glad to see him turn up, for so great was their confidence in him that they felt that their country was quite safe and that the chances were in favour of their acquiring a new kingdom. When the king entered the Hall of Audience he invited the astrologer to sit on his right while the others sat in front of him with their faces almost touching the floor. Then the real proceedings began.
First of all presents were exchanged and complimentary speeches were delivered on both sides. When these ceremonies were over the Chief Envoy addressed the king in the following terms, “Oh Mighty Monarch! The real object of our journey to your most beautiful country has already formed the subject of correspondence between your Majesty and my king. I will not therefore tire you by its recital all over again. My master commands me to show you this gourd and to ask you to say how many seeds exactly it contains. If what you say be correct his kingdom passes into your possession, but on the other hand should you be wrong your kingdom becomes the property of my master.”
Hearing these words the king smiled and turning to the astrologer near him, said, “My dear saya, it is unnecessary for me to tell you what you have got to do. Consult your stars and tell us how many seeds the fruit contains. You already know how generous I have been to you in the past. And now at this crisis, if you are able to assist me in winning a kingdom, my reward to you shall be such as to make you rejoice for all the remaining days of your life.” “Your Majesty,” replied the astrologer, “everything I have, including my life, belongs to you. By your will I am able to live, and by your will I must also die. In the present case my calculations point to one answer only, and therefore I have no hesitation in saying that this gourd contains one seed only.”
Accustomed to seeing gourds with thousands of seeds, the king turned pale when he heard the astrologer’s answer. But still having complete faith in him, with effort he restrained himself from further questioning him. The gourd was then placed upon a gold plate and was cut open in the presence of all those present. To the astonishment of everybody there was but a single seed as was said by the astrologer. The foreign Envoy congratulated the king on having won his bet and on the possession of so valuable a servant. He then returned home with a heavy heart bearing the news of his sovereign’s ruin and his country’s misfortune.
As to the astrologer his fame spread far and wide. All sorts of honours and rewards were heaped upon him. He was even granted the unique privilege of entering or leaving any part of the palace at all hours, just as his own inclinations directed him. Yet in spite of all these things he was not happy. He knew he was an imposter who stood in imminent danger of being found out. He was more than satisfied with the reputation he had made and the riches he had acquired. He did not desire any more of these things. His greatest ambition now was to find a graceful way of escape from his false position.
So he thus spoke to his wife one day, “My dear wife, so far I have had most wonderful luck. It has enabled me to escape two great dangers with honour to myself. But how long will this luck stand by me? Something tells me that I shall be found out on the third occasion. What I propose to do next is this. Listen carefully so that you may carry out my instructions without a hitch. Tomorrow while I am at the palace with the king you must set fire to our house. Being of thatch and bamboo it will not take long to be consumed. You must then come running to the palace to inform me about it and at the same time you must keep on repeating these words, ‘the Astrological Tables are gone.’ I will then do the rest.”
On the following day while the king was holding a grand Durbar in the Hall of Audience, a great commotion was heard outside the gates. On enquiry the king was informed that the astrologer’s wife had come to inform her husband that their house was burnt down and that everything of value, including the most precious astrological tables by which her husband made his wonderful predictions, had been consumed by the fire. Hearing these words the astrologer pretended to be terribly affected. He struck his forehead with the palm of his hand and for a long time he remained silent and motionless with grief. Then turning to the king he said, “May it please your Majesty I am now utterly ruined. For had it been my riches alone that perished in the fire I should not have minded so much. They could have been easily replaced. But now since these precious tables are gone it is impossible to procure a similar set from anywhere else. I hope I have served your Majesty faithfully and to your satisfaction in the past; but I grieve to say that I shall not be in a position to give you the same service in the future. I beseech you therefore to release me from the present responsible position, for I shall no longer be useful to you. But in recognition of my past humble services if your Majesty, in your great goodness of heart, can see fit to grant me a small pension for the rest of my life I shall have cause to consider myself exceptionally favoured.”
The king was very sad to hear of his favourite’s misfortune. And as there was nothing else to be said or done in the matter he ordered a beautiful building to be erected on the site of the house that was burnt down. Next he filled it with a large retinue of servants and other equipments such as horses, carriages and so forth. Then the whole thing was made over to the astrologer with the command that for the rest of his life he was to draw from the Royal Treasury no less a sum than ten thousand gold mohurs a month.
As may be imagined the lucky astrologer was more than satisfied with the arrangements and inwardly congratulated himself upon his good fortune which once more enabled him to escape from a dangerous situation. Thus some men are born great, some achieve greatness; but there are also others who have greatness forced upon them, and it is to this third and last class that our hero the pretentious astrologer belongs.
In the Middle Ages, popular sculpture and painting were but the translation of popular literature, and nothing was more common to represent, in pictures and carvings, than individual men under the forms of the animals who displayed similar characters or similar propensities. Cunning, treachery, and intrigue were the prevailing vices of the middle ages, and they were those also of the fox, who hence became a favourite character in satire. The victory of craft over force always provoked mirth. The fabulists, or, we should perhaps rather say, the satirists, soon began to extend their canvas and enlarge their picture, and, instead of single examples of fraud or injustice, they introduced a variety of characters, not only foxes, but wolves, and sheep, and bears, with birds also, as the eagle, the cock, and the crow, and mixed them up together in long narratives, which thus formed general satires on the vices of contemporary society. In this manner originated the celebrated romance of “Reynard the Fox,” which in various forms, from the twelfth century to the eighteenth, has enjoyed a popularity which was granted probably to no other book. The plot of this remarkable satire turns chiefly on the long struggle between the brute force of Isengrin the Wolf, possessed only with a small amount of intelligence, which is easily deceived—under which character is presented the powerful feudal baron—and the craftiness of Reynard the Fox, who represents the intelligent portion of society, which had to hold its ground by its wits, and these were continually abused to evil purposes. Reynard is swayed by a constant impulse to deceive and victimise everybody, whether friends or enemies, but especially his uncle Isengrin. It was somewhat the relationship between the ecclesiastical and baronial aristocracy. Reynard was educated in the schools, and intended for the clerical order; and at different times he is represented as acting under the disguise of a priest, of a monk, of a pilgrim, or even of a prelate of the church. Though frequently reduced to the greatest straits by the power of Isengrin, Reynard has generally the better of it in the end: he robs and defrauds Isengrin continually, outrages his wife, who is half in alliance with him, and draws him into all sorts of dangers and sufferings, for which the latter never succeeds in obtaining justice. The old sculptors and artists appear to have preferred exhibiting Reynard in his ecclesiastical disguises, and in these he appears often in the ornamentation of mediæval architectural sculpture, in wood-carvings, in the illuminations of manuscripts, and in other objects of art. The popular feeling against the clergy was strong in the middle ages, and no caricature was received with more favour than those which exposed the immorality or dishonesty of a monk or a priest. A sculpture in the church of Christchurch, in Hampshire, represents Reynard in the pulpit preaching; behind, or rather perhaps beside him, a diminutive cock stands upon a stool—in modern times we should be inclined to say he was acting as clerk. Reynard’s costume consists merely of the ecclesiastical hood or cowl. Such subjects are frequently found on the carved seats, or misereres, in the stalls of the old cathedrals and collegiate churches. The painted glass of the great window of the north cross-aisle of St. Martin’s church in Leicester, which was destroyed in the last century, represented the fox, in the character of an ecclesiastic, preaching to a congregation of geese.
Reynard’s mediæval celebrity dates certainly from a rather early period. Montfaucon has given an alphabet of ornamental initial letters, formed chiefly of figures of men and animals, from a manuscript which he ascribes to the ninth century, among which is one representing a fox walking upon his hind legs, and carrying two small cocks, suspended at the ends of a cross staff. It is hardly necessary to say that this group forms the letter T. Long before this, the Frankish historian Fredegarius, who wrote about the middle of the seventh century, introduces a fable in which the fox figures at the court of the lion. The same fable is repeated by a monkish writer of Bavaria, named Fromond who flourished in the tenth century, and by another named Aimoinus, who lived about the year 1,000. At length, in the twelfth century, Guibert de Nogent, who died about the year 1124, and who has left us his autobiography (de Vita Sua), relates an anecdote in that work, in explanation of which he tells us that the wolf was then popularly designated by the name of Isengrin; and in the fables of Odo, as we have already seen, this name is commonly given to the wolf, Reynard to the fox, Teburg to the cat, and so on with the others. This only shows that in the fables of the twelfth century the various animals were known by these names, but it does not prove that what we know as the romance of Reynard existed. Jacob Grimm argued from the derivation and forms of these names, that the fables themselves, and the romance, originated with the Teutonic peoples, and were indigenous to them; but his reasons seem more specious than conclusive, and Paulin Paris holds that the romance of Reynard was native of France, and that it was partly founded upon old Latin legends perhaps poems. Its character is altogether feudal, and it is strictly a picture of society, in France primarily, and secondly in England and the other nations of feudalism, in the twelfth century. The earliest form in which this romance is known is in the French poem—or rather poems, for it consists of several branches or continuations—and is supposed to date from about the middle of the twelfth century. It soon became so popular, that it appeared in different forms in all the languages of Western Europe, except in England, where there appears to have existed no edition of the romance of Reynard the Fox until Caxton printed his prose English version of the story. From that time it became, if possible, more popular in England than elsewhere, and that popularity had hardly diminished down to the commencement of the present century.
The popularity of the story of Reynard caused it to be imitated in a variety of shapes, and this form of satire, in which animals acted the part of men, became altogether popular.
A direct imitation of “Reynard the Fox” is found in the early French romance of “Fauvel,” the hero of which is neither a fox nor an ass, but a horse. People of all ranks and classes repair to the court of Fauvel, the horse, and furnish abundant matter for satire on the moral, political, and religious hypocrisy which pervaded the whole frame of society. At length the hero resolves to marry, and, in a finely illuminated manuscript of this romance, preserved in the Imperial Library in Paris, this marriage furnishes the subject of a picture, which gives the only representation to be met with of one of the popular burlesque ceremonies which were so common in the middle ages.
Among other such ceremonies, it was customary with the populace, on the occasion of a man’s or woman’s second marriage, or an ill-sorted match, or on the espousals of people who were obnoxious to their neighbours, to assemble outside the house, and greet them with discordant music. This custom is said to have been practiced especially in France, and it was called a charivari. There is still a last remnant of it in our country in the music of marrow-bones and cleavers, with which the marriages of butchers are popularly celebrated; but the derivation of the French name appears not to be known. It occurs in old Latin documents, for it gave rise to such scandalous scenes of riot and licentiousness, that the Church did all it could, though in vain, to suppress it. The earliest mention of this custom, furnished in the Glossarium of Ducange, is contained in the synodal statutes of the church of Avignon, passed in the year 1337, from which we learn that when such marriages occurred, people forced their way into the houses of the married couple, and carried away their goods, which they were obliged to pay a ransom for before they were returned, and the money thus raised was spent in getting up what is called in the statute relating to it a Chalvaricum. It appears from this statute, that the individuals who performed the charivari accompanied the happy couple to the church, and returned with them to their residence, with coarse and indecent gestures and discordant music, and uttering scurrilous and indecent abuse, and that they ended with feasting. In the statutes of Meaux, in 1365, and in those of Hugh, bishop of Beziers, in 1368, the same practice is forbidden, under the name of Charavallium; and it is mentioned in a document of the year 1372, also quoted by Ducange, under that of Carivarium, as then existing at Nîmes. Again, in 1445, the Council of Tours made a decree, forbidding, under pain of excommunication, “the insolences, clamours, sounds, and other tumults practiced at second and third nuptials, called by the vulgar a Charivarium, on account of the many and grave evils arising out of them.” It will be observed that these early allusions to the charivari are found almost solely in documents coming from the Roman towns in the south of France, so that this practice was probably one of the many popular customs derived directly from the Romans. When Cotgrave’s “Dictionary” was published (that is, in 1632) the practice of the charivari appears to have become more general in its existence, as well as its application; for he describes it as “a public defamation, or traducing of; a foule noise made, blacke santus rung, to the shame and disgrace of another; hence an infamous (or infaming) ballad sung, by an armed troupe, under the window of an old dotard, married the day before unto a young wanton, in mockerie of them both.” And, again, a charivaris de poelles is explained as “the carting of an infamous person, graced with the harmonie of stinging kettles and frying-pan musicke.” The word is now generally used in the sense of a great tumult of discordant music, produced often by a number of persons playing different tunes on different instruments at the same time.
The sermons and satires against extravagance in costume began at an early period. The Anglo-Norman ladies, in the earlier part of the twelfth century, first brought in vogue in our island this extravagance in fashion, which quickly fell under the lash of satirist and caricaturist. It was first exhibited in the robes rather than in the head-dress. These Anglo-Norman ladies are understood to have first introduced stays, in order to give an artificial appearance of slenderness to their waists; but the greatest extravagance appeared in the forms of their sleeves. The robe, or gown, instead of being loose, as among the Anglo-Saxons, was laced close around the body, and the sleeves, which fitted the arm tightly till they reached the elbows, or sometimes nearly to the wrist, then suddenly became larger, and hung down to an extravagant length, often trailing on the ground, and sometimes shortened by means of a knot. The gown, also, was itself worn very long. The clergy preached against these extravagances in fashion, and at times, it is said, with effect; and they fell under the vigorous lash of the satirist. In a class of satires which became extremely popular in the twelfth century, and which produced in the thirteenth the immortal poem of Dante—the visions of purgatory and of hell—these contemporary extravagances in fashion are held up to public detestation, and are made the subject of severe punishment. They were looked upon as among the outward forms of pride. It arose, no doubt, from this taste—from the darker shade which spread over men’s minds in the twelfth century—that demons, instead of animals, were introduced to personify the evil-doers of the time. Such is the figure, seen in a very interesting manuscript in the British Museum (MS. Cotton. Nero, C iv.). The demon is here dressed in the fashionable gown with its long sleeves, of which one appears to have been usually much longer than the other. Both the gown and sleeve are shortened by means of knots, while the former is brought close round the waist by tight lacing. It is a picture of the use of stays made at the time of their first introduction.
This superfluity of length in the different parts of the dress was a subject of complaint and satire at various and very distant periods, and contemporary illuminations of a perfectly serious character show that these complaints were not without foundation.
The professional entertainers of the Middle Ages performed in the streets and public places, or in the theatres, and especially at festivals, and they were often employed at private parties, to entertain the guests at a supper.
We trace the existence of this class of performers during the earlier period of the middle ages by the expressions of hostility towards them used from time to time by the ecclesiastical writers, and the denunciations of synods and councils. Nevertheless, it is evident from many allusions to them, that they found their way into the monastic houses, and were in great favour not only among the monks, but among the nuns also; that they were introduced into the religious festivals; and that they were tolerated even in the churches. It is probable that they long continued to be known in Italy and the countries near the centre of Roman influence, and where the Latin language was continued, by their old name of mimus. The Anglo-Saxon vocabularies interpret the Latin mimus by glig-mon, a gleeman. In Anglo-Saxon, glig or gliu meant mirth and game of every description, and as the Anglo-Saxon teachers who compiled the vocabularies give, as synonyms of mimus, the words scurra, jocifta, and pantomimus, it is evident that all these were included in the character of the gleeman, and that the latter was quite identical with his Roman type. It was the Roman mimus introduced into Saxon England. We have no traces of the existence of such a class of performers among the Teutonic race before they became acquainted with the civilisation of imperial Rome. We know from drawings in contemporary illuminated manuscripts that the performances of the gleeman did include music, singing, and dancing, and also the tricks of mountebanks and jugglers, such as throwing up and catching knives and balls, and performing with tamed bears, etc.
But even among the peoples who preserved the Latin language, the word mimus was gradually exchanged for others employed to signify the same thing. The word jocus had been used in the signification of a jest, playfulness, jocari signified to jest, and joculator was a word for a jester; but, in the debasement of the language, jocus was taken in the signification of everything which created mirth. It became, in the course of time the French verb jeu, and the Italian gioco, or giuoco. People introduced a form of the verb jocare, which became the French juer, to play or perform. Joculator was then used in the sense of mimus. In French the word became jogléor, or jougléor, and in its later form jougleur. I may remark that, in mediæval manuscripts, it is almost impossible to distinguish between the u and the n, and that modern writers have misread this last word as jongleur, and thus introduced into the language a word which never existed, and which ought to be abandoned. In old English, as we see in Chaucer, the usual form was jogelere. The mediæval joculator, or jougleur, embraced all the attributes of the Roman mimus, and perhaps more. In the first place he was very often a poet himself, and composed the pieces which it was one of his duties to sing or recite. These were chiefly songs, or stories, the latter usually told in verse, and so many of them are preserved in manuscripts that they form a very numerous and important class of mediæval literature. The songs were commonly satirical and abusive, and they were made use of for purposes of general or personal vituperation. Out of them, indeed, grew the political songs of a later period. They carried about with them for exhibition tame bears, monkeys, and other animals, taught to perform the actions of men. As early as the thirteenth century, we find them including among their other accomplishments that of dancing upon the tight-rope. Finally, the jougleurs performed tricks of sleight of hand, and were often conjurers and magicians. As, in modern times, the jougleurs of the middle ages gradually passed away, sleight of hand appears to have become their principal accomplishment, and the name only was left in the modern word juggler. The jougleurs of the middle ages, like the mimi of antiquity, wandered about from place to place, and often from country to country, sometimes singly and at others in companies, exhibited their performances in the roads and streets, repaired to all great festivals, and were employed especially in the baronial hall, where, by their songs, stories, and other performances, they created mirth after dinner.
This class of society had become known by another name, the origin of which is not so easily explained. The primary meaning of the Latin word minister was a servant, one who ministers to another, either in his wants or in his pleasures and amusements. It was applied particularly to the cupbearer. In low Latinity, a diminutive of this word was formed, minestellus, or ministrellus, a petty servant, or minister. When we first meet with this word, which is not at a very early date, it is used as perfectly synonymous with joculator, and, as the word is certainly of Latin derivation, it is clear that it was from it the middle ages derived the French word menestrel (the modern menetrier), and the English minstrel. The mimi or jougleurs were perhaps considered as the petty ministers to the amusements of their lord, or of him who for the time employed them. Until the close of the middle ages, the minstrel and the jougleur were absolutely identical. Possibly the former may have been considered the more courtly of the two names. But in England, as the middle ages disappeared, and lost their influence on society sooner than in France, the word minstrel remained attached only to the musical part of the functions of the old mimus, while, as just observed, the juggler took the sleight of hand and the mountebank tricks. In modern French, except where employed technically by the antiquity, the word menetrier means a fiddler.
The jougleurs, or minstrels, formed a very numerous and important, though a low and despised, class of mediæval society. The dulness of every-day life in a feudal castle or mansion required something more than ordinary excitement in the way of amusement, and the old family bard, who continually repeated to the Teutonic chief the praises of himself and his ancestors, was soon felt to be a wearisome companion. The mediæval knights and their ladies wanted to laugh, and to make them laugh sufficiently it required that the jokes, or tales, or comic performances, should be broad, coarse, and racy, with a good spicing of violence and of the wonderful. Hence the jougleur was always welcome to the feudal mansion, and he seldom went away dissatisfied. But the subject of the present chapter is rather the literature of the jougleur than his personal history, and, having traced his origin to the Roman mimus, we will now proceed to one class of his performances.
It has been stated that the mimus and the jougleurs told stories. Of those of the former, unfortunately, none are preserved, except, perhaps, in a few anecdotes scattered in the pages of such writers as Apuleius and Lucian, and we are obliged to guess at their character, but of the stories of the jougleurs a considerable number has been preserved. It becomes an interesting question how far these stories have been derived from the mimi, handed down traditionally from mimus to jougleur, how far they are native in our race, or how far they were derived at a later date from other sources. And in considering this question, we must not forget that the mediæval jougleurs were not the only representatives of the mimi, for among the Arabs of the East also there had originated from them, modified under different circumstances, a very important class of minstrels and story-tellers, and with these the jougleurs of the west were brought into communication at the commencement of the crusades. There can be no doubt that a very large number of the stories of the jougleurs were borrowed from the East, for the evidence is furnished by the stories themselves; and there can be little doubt also that the jougleurs improved themselves, and underwent some modification, by their intercourse with Eastern performers of the same class.
The people of the middle ages, who took their word fable from the Latin fabula, which they appear to have understood as a mere term for any short narration, included under it the stories told by the mimi and jougleurs; but, in the fondness of the middle ages for diminutives, by which they intended to express familiarity and attachment, applied to them more particularly the Latin fabella, which in the old French became fablel, or, more usually, fabliau. The fabliaux of the jougleurs form a most important class of the comic literature of the middle ages. They must have been wonderfully numerous, for a very large quantity of them still remain, and these are only the small portion of what once existed, which have escaped perishing like the others by the accident of being written in manuscripts which have had the fortune to survive; while manuscripts containing others have no doubt perished, and it is probable that many were only preserved orally, and never written down at all. The recital of these fabliaux appears to have been the favourite employment of the jougleurs, and they became so popular that the mediæval preachers turned them into short stories in Latin prose, and made use of them as illustrations in their sermons. Many collections of these short Latin stories are found in manuscripts which had served as note-books to the preachers, and out of them was originally compiled that celebrated mediæval book called the “Gesta Romanorum.”
The Trouvères, or poets, who wrote the Fabliaux flourished chiefly from the close of the twelfth century to the earlier part of the fourteenth. They all composed in French, which was a language then common to England and France, but some of their compositions bear internal evidence of having been composed in England. No objection appears to have been entertained to the recital of these licentious stories before the ladies of the castle or of the domestic circle, and their general popularity was so great, that the more pious clergy seem to have thought necessary to find something to take their place in the post-prandial society of the monastery, and especially of the nunnery; and religious stories were written in the same form and metre as the fabliaux. Some of these have been published under the title of Contes Devots, and, from their general dulness, it may be doubted if they answered their purpose of furnishing amusement so well as the others.
Troubadour was the Provençal name for the Trouvères, and in the twelfth century these poets flourished so luxuriantly that their influence is still felt in the poetic sentiment of today.
Yet they were in no sense humorous writers, unless their satire on the foibles and follies of the times may be so construed. They were Boudoir poets and their airs and graces were romantic rather than mirthful.
Much of their production was of the languishing, sighing order, but the Fabliaux, of a ruder narrative type were also popular.
These Fabliaux, now usually given out in expurgated editions, were extremely plain spoken, and, as so often occurred, were adopted and adapted by the monks for the real or pretended furtherance of their religious teachings.
The Troubadours did much for lyric art by their conscientious attention to form, but the humor of their productions is almost a negligible quantity. Their songs were invariably sung, and usually to the accompaniment of the blue-ribboned guitar, but oftenest the burden was of sorrowful intent.
And it was, perhaps, owing to the want of a humorous sense, that the Troubadours could carry on their lackadaisical and lovesick careers.
Yet there were some of the Troubadours’ songs which showed a departure from the usual romantic wailings and a few are here given.
Doubtless the very free translation adds to their humor, but the motive is clear.
Rambaud d’Orange thus declares his policy in treatment to the fair sex.
I.
My boy, if you’d wish to make constant your Venus,
Attend to the plan I disclose.
Her first naughty word you must meet with a menace,
Her next—drop your fist on her nose.
When she’s bad, be you worse,
When she scolds, do you curse,
When she scratches, just treat her to blows.
II.
Defame and lampoon her, be rude and uncivil,
Then you’ll vanquish the haughtiest dame.
Be proud and presumptuous, deceive like the ——
And aught that you wish you may claim.
All the beautiful slight,
To the plain be polite,
That’s the way the proud hussies to tame.
Bernard de Ventadour is thus unromantic.
You say the moon is all aglow,
The nightingale a-singing.
I’d rather watch the red wine flow
And hear the goblets ringing.
You say ’tis sweet to hear the gale
Creep sighing through the willows.
I’d rather hear a merry tale
’Mid a group of jolly fellows.
You say ’tis sweet the stars to view
Upon the waters gleaming.
I’d rather see (’twixt me and you
And the post) my supper steaming.
While the Monk of Montaudon, an incorrigible satirist, thus descants on the ladies.
I am a saint of good repute, by mortals called St. Julian;
Being wanted much on earth I go not oft to realms cerulean.
Yet once of late I made a call, which you may term a high call—
I went aloft to have a chat along with good St. Michael.
But soon the saint was called away, which closed our conversation,
To judge between some dames and monks engaged in disputation.
Paint was the subject of their strife, the rock on which they split;
Each party wanted to monopolise the use of it.
The monks declared, with many tears, that they were ruined quite,
For not an ounce of it was left to keep their pictures bright.
The ladies laid it on so thick, as you can understand,
That the compounders could not quite keep pace with their demand.
And so, unless the former were restrained by stringent law,
Each shrine they swore would quickly cease its worshippers to draw.
Then stepped an ancient beauty forth, and thus to Mike descanted:
“Our sex was painted long before paint was for pictures wanted;
As for myself, how can it hurt a clergyman or saint,
If the crows’-feet beneath my eyes I cover up with paint?
In keeping up my beauteous looks I cannot see a crime;
In spite of them I’ll still repair the ravages of time.”
St. Michael scratched his pate awhile, then, looking very wise,
Said: “Dames and monks, let me suggest, I pray, a compromise.
The soul as well as body, dames, requires both paint and padding.
You should not wholly spend your years in love-making and gadding.
And you, my monks, be less severe, nor bend the bow to breaking;
All dames should have a moderate time allowed to them for raking.
Then let them paint till forty-five”—at this the dames looked glum—
“Or fifty,” cried the saint in haste. “Agree, my monks, now come.”
“No,” said the monks, “that cannot be, the time is far too long;
But, though we feel within our souls the compromise is wrong,
Yet, in our deep respect for you, our scruples we will drop,
And let the dames, till thirty-five, frequent the painter’s shop;
But only on condition that thereafter they shall cease
To daub, and let us monks enjoy our privilege in peace.”
Before the ladies could rejoin, two other saints appeared—
Peter and Lawrence—by the dames no less than monks revered.
They reasoned with the parties, and so well employed their wit,
That they persuaded them at length the difference to split.
The monks agreed to yield five years; the ladies condescended
Up to their fortieth year to paint, and there the trial ended.
And the same merry Monk of Montaudon voices his sentiments thus:
I like those sports the world calls folly,
Banquets that know no melancholy;
I love a girl whose talk is jolly,
Not silent like a painted dolly.
A rich man of my love is winner,
His foe I feel must be a sinner;
And I adore, or I’d be thinner,
A fine fat salmon-trout for dinner.
I hold among my chief of blisses,
Basking beside a stream with misses;
Love sunshine, flowers; but O than this is
A joy more deep—I do like kisses.
I hate a husband who’s uxorious;
A grocer’s son, whose dress is glorious;
Hate men in drink who get uproarious
And maids whose conduct is censorious.
I hate young folks who are precocious,
Hate parsons with a beard ferocious;
Of wine too much can no one broach us;
But too much water is atrocious!
The Court of Love, a gay and whimsical institution, doubtless originated in the contests of the Troubadours, when the poets recited for a prize the particular style of an ode called the Tenson.
Though a fascinating subject, we may not dwell on it further than to quote the thirty-one articles of the Code of Love, this being the most available bit of humor.
- 1. Marriage is no legitimate excuse against love.
- 2. Whoever cannot conceal cannot love.
- 3. No one must have two lovers at the same time.
- 4. Love must always be increasing or diminishing.
- 5. Favours unwillingly granted have no charm.
- 6. No male must love until of full age.
- 7. Whoever of two lovers survives the other must observe a widowhood of two years.
- 8. None should be deprived of love except they lose their reason.
- 9. None can love except when compelled by the stress of love.
- 10. Love is an exile from the homes of avarice.
- 11. She who is scrupulous of the marriage tie should not love.
- 12. A true lover desires no embraces save those of his lady-love.
- 13. Love divulged rarely lasts.
- 14. Easy winning makes love contemptible; difficulty renders it dear.
- 15. Every lover grows pale at the sight of his lady-love.
- 16. The heart of a lover trembles at the sudden sight of his lady-love.
- 17. A new love makes an old one depart.
- 18. Probity alone makes a man worthy to be loved.
- 19. If love diminishes it soon fails, and rarely recovers its strength.
- 20. The lover is always timid.
- 21. From true jealousy love always increases.
- 22. When suspicion is aroused about a lover, jealousy and love increase.
- 23. Filled with thoughts of love, the lover eats and drinks less [than usual].
- 24. Every act of a lover is determined by thoughts of the beloved.
- 25. A true lover thinks naught happy save what would please his beloved.
- 26. Love can deny nothing to love.
- 27. A lover cannot be satiated with the charms of the beloved.
- 28. A slight prejudice makes a lover think ill of the beloved.
- 29. He is not wont to love who is oppressed by too great abundance of pleasure.
- 30. A true lover is always without intermission filled with the image of his lady-love.
- 31. Nothing hinders one woman being loved by two men, or one man by two women.
On these rules—some nonsensical, many contradictory, and all abominable—the following decisions, among many others, were based.
The first is that of the Countess of Champagne already quoted, with its approval by Queen Eleanor. In its original verbiage it runs thus:
Question. Can true love exist between married persons?
Judgment, by the Countess of Champagne: “We say and establish, by the tenor of these presents, that love cannot extend its rights to married persons. In fact, lovers accord everything to each other mutually and gratuitously, without being constrained by motives of necessity; while married people are bound by the duty of mutually sacrificing their wills and refusing nothing the one to the other.
“Let this judgment, which we have given with extreme care, and after taking counsel of a large number of ladies, be to you a constant and irrefragable truth. Thus determined in the year 1174, the third day before the kalends of May.”
Question. Do the greater affection and livelier attachment exist between lovers or married people? [It having been already decided, let us remember, that married people could not love one another.]
Judgment, by Ermengarde, Viscountess of Narbonne: “The attachment of married people and the tender affection of lovers are sentiments of a nature and custom altogether different. There can consequently be no just comparison established between objects which have no resemblance or connection the one with the other.”
Question. A lady attached to a gentleman in an honorable love marries another. Has she the right to repel her former lover and refuse him his accustomed favours?
Judgment, by Ermengarde, Viscountess of Narbonne: “The supervenience of the marriage bond does not bar the right of the prior attachment, unless the lady utterly renounces love, and declares that she does so for ever.”
The Gesta Romanorum, one of the most important collections of moral tales, was put together during the thirteenth century by a learned Frenchman named Pierre Bercheure, who was a Benedictine Prior. He chose to lay the scenes of the stories in Rome, though this was not historically true. Gesta means merely acts or exploits, and many of the tales are descended from Oriental Folk Lore.
Not all students of ancient literature agree as to the authorship of the Gesta as it appears in its present form, but the consensus of opinion seems to point to the aforesaid Frenchman.
However, the collector’s name matters little; the work itself, while it harks back to the Fables of Æsop and Pilpay and to the Talmud, is of interest as a veritable storehouse of Mediæval stories.
Each of these has its religious application, but it is easy to think that the readers were oftener intrigued by the story than by the appended moral.
OF SLOTH
The emperor Pliny had three sons, to whom he was extremely indulgent. He wished to dispose of his kingdom, and calling the three into his presence, spoke thus—“The most slothful of you shall reign after my decease.” “Then,” answered the elder, “the kingdom must be mine; for I am so lazy, that sitting once by the fire, I burnt my legs, because I was too indolent to withdraw them.” The second son observed, “The kingdom should properly be mine, for if I had a rope round my neck, and held a sword in my hand, my idleness is such, that I should not put forth my hand to cut the rope.” “But I,” said the third son, “ought to be preferred to you both; for I outdo both in indolence. While I lay upon my bed, water dropped from above upon my eyes; and though, from the nature of the water, I was in danger of becoming blind, I neither could nor would turn my head ever so little to the right hand or to the left.” The emperor, hearing this, bequeathed the kingdom to him, thinking him the laziest of the three.
Application
My beloved, the king is the devil; and the three sons, different classes of corrupt men.
OF THE GOOD, WHO ALONE WILL ENTER THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN
There was a wise and rich king who possessed a beloved, but not a loving wife. She had three illegitimate sons who proved ungrateful and rebellious to their reputed parent. In due time she brought forth another son, whose legitimacy was undisputed; and after arriving at a good old age, he died, and was buried in the royal sepulchre of his fathers. But the death of the old king caused great strife amongst his surviving sons, about the right of succession. All of them advanced a claim, and none would relinquish it to the other; the three first, presuming upon their priority in birth, and the last upon his legitimacy. In this strait, they agreed to refer the absolute decision of their cause to a certain honourable soldier of the late king. When this person, therefore, heard their difference, he said, “Follow my advice, and it will greatly benefit you. Draw from its sepulchre the body of the deceased monarch; prepare, each of you, a bow and single shaft, and whosoever transfixes the heart of his father, shall obtain the kingdom.” The counsel was approved, the body was taken from its repository and bound naked to a tree. The arrow of the first son wounded the king’s right hand—on which, as if the contest were determined, they proclaimed him heir to the throne. But the second arrow went nearer, and entered the mouth; so that he too considered himself the undoubted lord of the kingdom. However, the third perforated the heart itself, and consequently imagined that his claim was fully decided, and his succession sure. It now came to the turn of the fourth and last son to shoot; but instead of fixing his shaft to the bow-string, and preparing for the trial, he broke forth into a lamentable cry, and with eyes swimming in tears, said, “Oh! my poor father; have I then lived to see you the victim of an impious contest? Thine own offspring lacerate thy unconscious clay?—Far, oh! far be it from me to strike thy venerated form, whether living or dead.” No sooner had he uttered these words, than the nobles of the realm, together with the whole people, unanimously elected him to the throne; and depriving the three barbarous wretches of their rank and wealth, expelled them for ever from the kingdom.
Application
My beloved, that wise and rich king is the King of kings, and Lord of lords, who joined himself to our flesh, as to a beloved wife. But going after other gods, it forgot the love due to him in return, and brought forth by an illicit connection, three sons, viz., Pagans, Jews, and Heretics. The first wounded the right hand—that is, the doctrine of Christ by persecutions. The second, the mouth—when they gave Christ vinegar and gall to drink; and the third, wounded, and continue to wound the heart,—while they strive, by every sophistical objection, to deceive the faithful. The fourth son is any good Christian.
OF THE INCARNATION OF OUR LORD
A certain king was remarkable for three qualities. Firstly, he was braver than all men; secondly, he was wiser; and lastly, more beautiful. He lived a long time unmarried; and his counsellors would persuade him to take a wife. “My friends,” said he, “it is clear to you that I am rich and powerful enough; and therefore want not wealth. Go, then, through town and country, and seek me out a beautiful and wise virgin; and if ye can find such a one, however poor she may be, I will marry her.” The command was obeyed; they proceeded on their search, until at last they discovered a lady of royal extraction with the qualifications desired. But the king was not so easily satisfied, and determined to put her wisdom to the test. He sent to the lady by a herald a piece of linen cloth, three inches square; and bade her contrive to make for him a shirt exactly fitted to his body. “Then,” added he, “she shall be my wife.” The messenger, thus commissioned, departed on his errand, and respectfully presented the cloth, with the request of the king. “How can I comply with it,” exclaimed the lady, “when the cloth is but three inches square? It is impossible to make a shirt of that; but bring me a vessel in which I may work, and I promise to make the shirt long enough for the body.” The messenger returned with the reply of the virgin, and the king immediately sent a sumptuous vessel, by means of which she extended the cloth to the required size, and completed the shirt. Whereupon the wise king married her.
Application
My beloved, the king is God; the virgin, the mother of Christ; who was also the chosen vessel. By the messenger, is meant Gabriel. The cloth, is the Grace of God, which, by proper care and labour, is made sufficient for man’s salvation.
OF THE DECEITS OF THE DEVIL
There were once three friends, who agreed to make a pilgrimage together. It happened that their provisions fell short, and having but one loaf between them, they were nearly famished. “Should this loaf,” they said to each other, “be divided amongst us, there will not be enough for any one. Let us then take counsel together, and consider how the bread is to be disposed of.” “Suppose we sleep upon the way,” replied one of them; “and whosoever hath the most wonderful dream, shall possess the loaf.” The other two acquiesced, and settled themselves to sleep. But he who gave the advice, arose while they were sleeping, and eat up the bread, not leaving a single crumb for his companions. When he had finished he awoke them. “Get up quickly,” said he, “and tell us your dreams.” “My friends,” answered the first, “I have had a very marvellous vision. A golden ladder reached up to heaven, by which angels ascended and descended. They took my soul from my body, and conveyed it to that blessed place where I beheld the Holy Trinity; and where I experienced such an overflow of joy, as eye hath not seen, nor ear heard. This is my dream.” “And I,” said the second, “beheld the devils with iron instruments, by which they dragged my soul from the body, and plunging it into hell flames, most grievously tormented me; saying, ‘As long as God reigns in heaven this will be your portion.’” “Now then,” said the third, who had eaten the bread, “hear my dream. It appeared as if an angel came and addressed me in the following manner, ‘My friend, would you see what is become of your companions?’ I answered, ‘Yes, Lord. We have but one loaf between us, and I fear that they have run off with it.’ ‘You are mistaken,’ he rejoined, ‘it lies beside us: follow me.’ He immediately led me to the gate of heaven, and by his command I put in my head and saw you; and I thought that you were snatched up into heaven and sat upon a throne of gold, while rich wines and delicate meats stood around you. Then said the angel, ‘Your companion, you see, has an abundance of good things, and dwells in all pleasures. There he will remain for ever; for he has entered a celestial kingdom and cannot return. Come now where your other associate is placed.’ I followed, and he led me to hell-gates, where I beheld you in torment, as you just now said. Yet they furnished you, even there, with bread and wine in abundance. I expressed my sorrow at seeing you in misery, and you replied, ‘As long as God reigns in heaven here I must remain, for I have merited it. Do you then rise up quickly, and eat all the bread, since you will see neither me nor my companion again.’ I complied with your wishes; arose, and eat the bread.”
Application
My beloved, the Saracens and Jews; the rich and powerful; and finally, the perfect among men, are typified by the three companions. The bread, represents the kingdom of heaven.
OF VIGILANCE IN OUR CALLING
A thief went one night to the house of a rich man, and scaling the roof, peeped through a hole to examine if any part of the family were yet stirring. The master of the house, suspecting something, said secretly to his wife, “Ask me in a loud voice how I acquired the property I possess; and do not desist until I bid you.” The woman complied, and began to vociferate, “My dear husband, pray tell me, since you never were a merchant, how you obtained all the wealth which you have now collected.” “My love,” answered her husband, “do not ask such foolish questions.” But she persisted in her enquiries; and at length, as if overcome by her urgency, he said, “Keep what I am going to tell you a secret, and your curiosity shall be gratified.”
“Oh, trust me.”
“Well, then, you must know that I was a thief, and obtained what I now enjoy by nightly depredations.” “It is strange,” said the wife, “that you were never taken.” “Why,” replied he, “my master, who was a skilful clerk, taught me a particular word, which, when I ascended the tops of people’s houses, I pronounced, and thus escaped detection.” “Tell me, I conjure you,” returned the lady, “what that powerful word was.” “Hear, then; but never mention it again, or we shall lose all our property.” “Be sure of that;” said the lady, “it shall never be repeated.”
“It was—is there no one within hearing?—the mighty word was ‘False.’”
The lady, apparently quite satisfied, fell asleep; and her husband feigned it. He snored lustily, and the thief above, who had heard their conversation with much pleasure, aided by the light of the moon, descended, repeating seven times the cabalistic sound. But being too much occupied with the charm to mind his footing, he stepped through the window into the house; and in the fall dislocated his leg and arm, and lay half dead upon the floor. The owner of the mansion, hearing the noise, and well knowing the reason, though he pretended ignorance, asked, “What was the matter?” “Oh!” groaned the suffering thief, “False words have deceived me.” In the morning he was taken before the judge, and afterwards suspended on a cross.
Application
My beloved, the thief is the devil; the house is the human heart. The man is a good prelate, and his wife is the church.
To sum up, then, it would appear that the humorous muse in the Middle Ages concerned herself chiefly with scattering and disseminating moral lessons, which, because of the superiority of the teachers to the taught, showed up an ignorance that was laughable.
The fables and maxims that had been passed from mouth to mouth were put into writing and translated into various tongues.
The Sanscrit or Hindoo stories were undoubtedly the oldest and from them were taken the Arabic and Persian tales. These drifted into Europe and took a proper place among the literatures of the world.
Coleridge says that humor took its rise in the Middle Ages, while a present day writer contradictingly asserts that nobody smiled from the second century until the fifteenth.
It is true, that as the advent of Christianity put a full stop to all progress in the arts and sciences so it impeded the advance of learning and delayed the development of humor.
And yet, though men may not have smiled during the dark ages, they now and then laughed, at a humor that was far from subtle, but which was the foundation of the world’s merriment.
The monks and ecclesiastics who formulated the moral precepts for the people found that the lessons were better conveyed by funny stories than by serious ones, and the preachers came to use the hammer of amusement to drive home their good advices.