“CELESTINUS AND THE MILLER’S HORSE.”
Alexander had an only son, named Celestinus, who was very dear to him; desirous of having him well instructed, he sent for a certain sage, and proffered his son to him for a pupil, promising a bountiful remuneration for his labor. The sage agreed, and took the boy home with him. Celestinus was a diligent scholar, and made great and satisfactory progress under the tuition of the philosopher.
One day, as the tutor and pupil were walking together through a meadow, their attention was directed to a horse grievously afflicted with the mange. He lay on the ground in the middle of the field, and on either side of him two sheep were feeding, tied together by a rope which chanced to hang over the horse’s back; irritated by the rubbing of the cord, the poor horse rose, and naturally drew with him the two sheep. The weight of the sheep made the rope press more and more upon his poor back, and galled him dreadfully. Unable to endure the pain, the horse ran towards his master’s home; the faster he ran, the more the sheep knocked against his flanks, and by their weight ground the cord into the sores on his back; with every struggle of the horse and his living burdens, the cord sank deeper into the wound.
On went the horse maddened with pain; at last he reached the hut of his master, the miller, and dashed in with his burdens through the open door. No one was within, but a fire of logs burned brightly on the hearth; plunging and striking with his hoofs, the horse scattered the burning logs about the house; the flames caught the building, and soon surrounded the poor animal. Unable to move from the terror of the flames, there died the poor horse and the unlucky sheep, amid the ruins of the miller’s hut.
“My son,” said the tutor, when from afar he saw the end of the accident, “you have seen the beginning, the middle, and the end of this incident; when you return to your study, make me some verses upon it, and show me wherefore the house was burned. If you fail, beware of the punishment.”
It was all in vain that Celestinus tried to coin a verse or two on such a curious subject. He felt more than usually unpoetical; and as for assigning a cause for the fire, he so puzzled himself with his own arguments, as at last to begin to doubt whether there was any cause at all. At length he left his room, and tried what a walk would do towards making him able to poetize.
“My son,” said a venerable-looking man that met him on his solitary ramble, “what makes you so sorrowful?”
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” replied the youth; “it is quite useless to tell you of my trouble; you cannot help me.”
“Nay, but my son—how can we decide until we hear the cause?”
“Well, then, good father, I have got to make some verses on a mangy horse and two sheep, and I do not know how.”
“And to decide wherefore the hut, the horse, and the sheep were burnt.”
“Why, father, how do you know that?” exclaimed Celestinus.
“Though human to look at, I am not of this world,” replied the old man; “come, make a contract with me, henceforth to serve me, and care not for your master; and I will make you such a copy of verses as never were yet seen. Come, choose; you know the alternative—the philosopher flogs sharply.”
Celestinus hesitated a long time, but at last, through fear, he agreed to the Devil’s proposal.
“Now, then, my son,” said the Devil, “write what I tell you. Are you ready to begin?”
A mangy horse lay in a field,
A sheep on either side;
Across his back a rope was hung,
To which the sheep were tied.
Teas’d by the rope, up rose the horse,
With him the sheep up swung,
On either flank, thus weighted well,
The rope his withers wrung.
Clogg’d by his living load, he seeks
Yon miller’s hut to gain;
The rope wears deeper, and his pace
Is quicken’d with the pain.
He minds not bolts, nor bars, nor logs
That on the hearthstone burn;
Nor fears with ready, scattering hoof,
The flaming pile to spurn.
Wide flies the fire, above, around,
The rafters catch the flame;
Poor Dobbin, and his fleecy load,
Are roasted in the same.
Had but that miller deigned at home,
His careful watch to keep,
He had not burnt his house, or horse,
Nor roasted both his sheep.
Delighted with the verses, Celestinus hastened to his master on his return home. The philosopher read them with astonishment.
“Boy,” said he, “whence did you steal these verses?”
“I did not steal them, sir.”
“Come, come, boy—they are clearly not your own; tell me who made them for you.”
“I dare not, master,” replied the boy.
“Dare not, why dare not? Come boy, tell me the truth, or abide a worse punishment than would have awaited you had you not brought me any verses.”
Terrified at his master’s threats, Celestinus revealed his interview with the Devil in a human form, and his contract of service with him. Deeply grieved at the occurrence, the preceptor ceased not to talk with his pupil, until he had persuaded him, humbly and heartily, on his knees, to confess to God his grievous sin in his compact with the Devil. His confederacy with the Evil One thus renounced, Celestinus became a good and holy man, and, after a well-spent life, resigned his soul to God.
“Pray, Lathom, what moral did your old monk intend to draw from this diabolical poetry?” asked Thompson.
“His application is very recondite; the preceptor is a prelate of the Church; the mangy horse, a sinner covered with sins; the two sheep represent two preachers bound by the cord of charity; the miller’s house is the world, and the fire, detraction. I must admit that the application, in this case, is far less valuable or intelligible than the story itself.”
“In an old book of moral advice,” said Herbert, “I found a description of three madmen, that reminded me much of the five kinds described by St. Peter, as related by your old writer. The first carried a fagot of wood, and because it was already too heavy for him, he added more wood to it, in the hopes of thereby making it lighter.”
“And he,” rejoined Lathom, “was a sinner, daily adding new sins to old, because unable to bear the weight of his original errors.”
“The very same. The second madman drew water from a deep well with a sieve; his labor was incessant, and his progress just as slow. Can you explain the nature of his sin?”
“I can read the explanation,” rejoined Lathom, “for I have this moment found out the source of your extract in my old monk’s book. This madman was the man who does good, but does it sinfully, and therefore it is of no benefit. The third madman was far worse: he carried a beam in his chariot; and wishing to enter his court-yard, and finding the gate so narrow that it would not admit the beam, he whipped his horse until it tumbled both itself and its master into a deep well. The beam was worldly vanities, with which their possessor sought to enter into heaven, but by which he was cast down into hell.”
“The belief in witchcraft,” began Herbert, “is very well illustrated by a late publication of the Camden Society of London.”
“Nay, nay, Reginald, no more of witches now,” rejoined Lathom; “the subject deserves far more time, attention, and illustration than we can now afford it, and must be adjourned for the present. Let me conclude this evening with the tale of