The only known copy of this little volume, the text of which I reproduce in extenso, belonged [in 1865] to M. Joachim Gomez de la Cortina, Marquis de Morante, who was so exceedingly kind as to send it from Madrid to Paris, that I might examine it at my leisure. M. de la Cortina has described it in the fifth volume of the catalogue of his library (Madrid, 1859; octavo). My only previous knowledge of it was derived from that catalogue, although it was bought of M. Techener not more than ten years ago, for 80 reals (20 francs).
Tory to his Book.[224]
Go, book, to the sacred sanctuaries of pious poets; you are light, polished, radiant, and neat. Splendidly arrayed you are, and have nard, and roses, and saffron; the Latin goddesses, gracious divinities, together with Phœbus. Be not afraid lest you do not carry with you the favour of the gods; they will lift you, laurel-scented, above the stars.
Agnes Tory, sweetest and most modest of maidens, addresses the wayfarer from her tomb.
Thou who passest with light foot, beloved wayfarer, stay thy step a little; lo, I wish to say a few words to thee. Live in remembrance of death, free from vices, and, if thou art wise, cast aside that hope of life which thou cherishest. Thou art radiant with beauty to-day, but, when the thread is cut, impious Fate hurries thee straight on to nought. I know this by experience, for, lately but a young girl of ten, I was suddenly snatched away. Like a rose I bloomed, sharer in those virtues which are usually seen in tender maidenhood. But yet I died, overwhelmed by the cruel fates, and now I am food for the flesh-eating worms. Food for the flesh-eating worms I lie, but not so wholly lifeless that I cannot speak the truth to thee. I speak in the Latin tongue, and this is not strange, fair friend, for I am to be named the daughter of a pious poet. Desiring to instruct me in the Ausonian tongue, and also to render me accomplished in the polite arts, he, like a most affectionate father, teaching me night and day, himself laid the foundations, sweet and ample, for my life. I should be accomplished in the learning of the famous Muses, and I should sing beautiful songs in pleasing measure; and then my sire would have given me fond kisses, placing the laurel-wreath upon my head. O pitiful lot of human beings! O hopes doomed to perish! On earth there is nothing that can be lasting. Not only does death show herself face to face to wretched mortals, but with silent step she steals upon them secretly and unbeknown. Ah! beware, therefore, beware, thou who art doomed to die, the world will certainly in a moment's time fall and crash about thee. Thou, while thou still livest, while thou seekest great honours, art with infirm and rapid step steadily approaching thy doom. If thou departest satisfied with this one certain warning, and if thou believest that I speak the truth, bestrew me with flowers, violets and lilies, and nard. Pray for me too, if it please thee, and weep. Me thou wilt cause by thy prayers to mount to the lofty vault of Heaven, where is perpetual light, peace, and grateful rest. This was the little that I wished thee to know. Live in remembrance of death, thou who art destined soon to die. Farewell.
She died where she was born, at Paris, 25 August, A.D. 1522.
She lived nine years, eleven months, about thirty days; the hours are known to none; God alone knows the minutes.
FATHER and DAUGHTER, Speakers.
F. Food for the worms you lie, dearest daughter. Me you leave in perpetual tears and weeping.
D. Dear father, spare your weeping and tears. It is all over with me. Death carries away both young and old.
F. Nor can I refrain from terrible wailing. Alas! I should have more rightly died before you.
D. Such was not the will of the heavenly fates. At your death, believe me, you shall most certainly come to me.
F. In the meantime, with bended head, I will bring with full hands violets and lilies to your tomb.
D. Add your prayers; through prayers I shall fly to the high vault of Heaven. Pious prayers enable us to ascend to the lofty stars.
F. It is as you say; and do you too, my daughter, pray for your father; pray that he may rise with you to the glad Heavens.
D. To the glad Heavens you shall rise, free from bitter cares, and with all the trouble of your mind removed.
F. You speak the truth, and so I will do. The good God calls you to himself in Heaven? Dear daughter, farewell.
F. Alas! my sweet soul, you are dead.
D. Courage, father, no one is immortal.
Twelve distichs to be inscribed on the twelve different sides of an urn.
On the first side.
You wish flowers! violets! you wish lilies! garlands! cyperus! These this earthen urn will give you, take them and be glad.
On the second.
In this urn the deceased maiden Agnes lies; in its centre breathes a delightful odour.
On the third.
Here is Merriment, here Love too, Sport, and Virtue; and here the Graces' selves, beings divine, with the Muses, sit and dwell.
On the fourth.
In this urn are marjoram and sweet-smelling cyperus; here are violets, lilies, garlands, roses.
On the fifth.
Not alone does the maiden Agnes here abide, but, with Phœbus, the Clarian goddesses themselves sit and dwell.
On the sixth.
Gold-leaf joined with gems, and green jewels, are kept with everlasting flowers in this urn.
On the seventh.
Do you wish and long to become acquainted with Agnes' urn? See, where the laurel grows upward to the lofty sky.
On the eighth.
Here lies in death Agnes of memory dear; she could already sing tripping measures with tender voice.
On the ninth.
Here lies the maiden poet ten years of age, an honour to freeborn song and maidenhood.
On the tenth.
If you wish to know where Agnes' ashes really lie, they are here; hesitate not in your belief, but be assured.
On the eleventh.
Do you wish to hear Phœbus and the Muses' selves singing in sweet strains? Approach this urn, and you will straightway hear.
On the twelfth.
A rising poet, deceased in tender years, lies here with laurel-crowned maidenhood.
MONITOR and AGNES, Speakers.
MON. Answer me a few questions, I pray, maiden poet.
A. I will, provided you ask but few.
MON. I will ask but few.
A. Ask.
MON. What is your mind in death?
A. Of gold.
MON. What is your body?
A. Of dust.
MON. What is your spirit?
A. Of air.
MON. Enough; calm repose and peace be for ever yours.
A. And yours in life a full measure of sweet health.
Distichs hanging on written tablets from a laurel-tree near the tomb and urn of Agnes.
On the first tablet.
Here lies a poet, image of distinguished virtue, noble and illustrious type of nature.
On the second.
Here, with drooping quiver, lie the broken arms which freeborn Love once used to carry.
On the third.
Pearl, crystal, magnet, and the green emerald gleam with the virgin poet that lieth here.
On the fourth.
Here will be perpetual spring with various flowers as long as flashing Phœbus drives his golden chariot.
On the fifth.
Here rest Comeliness and Sport, and Laughter, and Merriment; here is Love, unarmed, with the laurel-crowned maid.
On the sixth.
Inside this urn is a treasure; touch it not, countless gems are within it.
On the seventh.
As long as Phœbus shall fill the regions of the heavens with his rays, here will be violets and flowers, here will be the anise.
On the eighth.
Here abide Love, and Sport, and Laughter, and Merriment, and Wit; here abide the Muses and the Graces; here abides Apollo.
On the ninth.
Here dwells, with the honey-dropping Muses, a maiden destined to receive glory and perpetual song.
On the tenth.
Here the earth is green, producing spontaneously marjoram-garlands, and here it is damp and fertile with vernal dews.
On the eleventh.
Here violets, here flowers, here lilies, garlands, crowns grow spontaneously, and spontaneously thrive.
On the twelfth.
Here Genius with cruel hand breaks in twain his standards, seeing that the type of nature has perished.
MONITOR and MAIDENHOOD, Speakers.
MON. Ho there! maiden, beauteous with your rosy face, what do you here, weeping in deep distress?
MA. I am moaning.
MON. What is the reason for your moaning?
MA. The maiden Agnes, whose ashes this earthen urn beside me holds.
MON. Whence comes this sweet odour to my nostrils?
MA. From the urn, an odour placed there by the Graces, beings divine.
MON. What did they place there?
MA. Roses and cinnamon, balsam and nard, flowers and violets, lilies, garlands, and saffron.
MON. Is there marjoram also in the urn, the cyperus with oil of myrrh?
MA. There is in it every fragrant herb and pleasant odour.
MON. Does the urn, beautifully decked, wear a green crown?
MA. As is fitting and right, it wears a laurel-wreath.
MON. What is the reason?
MA. It contains the rejoicing Muses, who celebrate with song the rites of the tender maiden.
MON. Do they sing alone?
MA. Alone? No. Phœbus Apollo in the centre tunes his lyre and performs the mystic rites.
MON. What, then, do you mean, sweetest maid, by this great moaning, and why do the divinities beside you sweetly sing?
MA. I will tell you the truth. I cannot but willingly weep; so nobly gifted was she in intellect. But ten years of age, having followed her father's precepts, she was even then a poet who could sing in tripping measure.
MON. A mighty miracle of nature you recount to me.
MA. Nothing on this earth can be truer.
MON. Who are these whom I see standing here?
MA. Sport, Merriment, then Gesture, Honour, Virtue, and festive Love.
MON. And these shattered arms that lie in great numbers around the urn?
MA. The gods themselves carried them when they were whole.
MON. What will they do now that all these arms have been thus broken?
MA. They will lament and weep and groan for all time.
MON. Shall you too weep?
MA. I shall weep in sorrow all my days.
MON. Have you a name?
MA. I have.
MON. What is it?
MA. Maidenhood.
MON. Dear one, farewell.
MA. Farewell, dearest Monitor, and forget not her who lieth here and was once a beautiful maiden.
MONITOR and AGNES, Speakers.
MON. Little poet, lying here, all-deserving of famous praise, may I speak a few words with you?
A. You may.
MON. Who made for you this urn set with brilliant gems?
A. Who? My father, famed in this art.
MON. Your father is certainly an excellent potter.
A. He practises industriously every day the liberal arts.
MON. Does he also write melodies and poems?
A. He does. He also blesses with sweet words this lot of mine.
MON. Yes, the skill of the man is wonderful.
A. Hardly has any land produced so famous a man.
MON. O maiden happy in such a father!
A. I certainly am so. He also exalts my name to the skies.
MON. I hear the symphony.
A. The Clarian Muses, together with Phœbus, sing their melodies here with me night and day.
MON. Near you I see the Graces.
A. They tender garlands to me.
MON. Whence do they pluck violets?
A. On the Elysian Hills.
MON. Are there others with you?
A. There are also three divinities.
MON. What are they?
A. Sport, and Love, fair Monitor, and Merriment.
MON. What do they?
A. They lay in place for me holy holocausts, and they fill the accustomed hearths with tinder and with fire.
MON. Have you long been a goddess of the upper regions?
A. I am becoming a goddess of the upper regions.
MON. If you are a goddess, why do you not have your dear parents ascend to the heavenly realms?
A. They will both ascend.
MON. But when?
A. When their fates clearly see that it is necessary. Each man has his fixed day, appointed for him by the fates.
MON. Each man, therefore, has his fixed and immovable day?
A. To every man comes death on a certain day.
MON. Meanwhile what will your father and mother do here on earth?
A. What? They will perform their holy, sacred duties, and pray.
MON. Afterwards what will happen?
A. In blessedness they will ascend to the heavenly realms, when the Heavenly Father above so wills.
MON. I will now go back to my duties.
A. When you wish, of course; live in happiness, and a kind farewell.
MON. And may you live with the gods above, as a heavenly intelligence, as a famous constellation, as a benign goddess.
GENIUS and WAYFARER, Speakers.
G. Stay a little, I beg, and go no farther, wayfarer, before looking at this urn and tomb.
W. Who are you?
G. I am Tutelary Genius.
W. What would you have?
G. I wish to converse a little with you here, friend.
W. I am willing.
G. See how a maiden poet, taken away by cruel fate, is contained in this earthen urn.
W. How old was she?
G. Twice five years.
W. And did she, well-skilled, sing poetic measures?
G. She did.
W. 'Tis a wonder that you tell me of.
G. She wrote festive songs in sweet verse, spontaneously playing, spontaneously singing.
W. O rare grace of nature! O manifest glory of the gods! That so tender a maiden should be a poet!
G. 'Twas a song, whatever she by chance wished to utter; whatever she desired to say, 'twas a song.
W. Whence came to her the source of such a power?
G. From the realms above, whence it is used to come.
W. As one divine, therefore, she wrote charming verses?
G. As one divine, following her own and her father's precepts.
W. Does her father too compose melodies?
G. He does, he is a poet fair and proper. He is proper and deft and neat, bright and decent. He is one whom the Muse blesses with divine song.
W. He is certainly well-deserving of some Mæcenas.
G. Few are the Mæcenases that live in the French world. No one to-day either encourages the liberal arts by appropriate gifts or undertakes to encourage them in any way. Uprightness and fair virtue are in no esteem. So powerful is the sway of unhappy Avarice. Treachery, deceit, and vice are in the ascendant. Virtues are put in the background, and every form of wretched evil creeps abroad.
W. What, therefore, does he who is trained by the charming Muses?
G. He takes pleasure in being able to live in his own house.
W. He ought to go with hurried step to the courts of kings.
G. He does not care to, because he has a free heart. Your potentates sometimes take pleasure in looking at songs, but what then? They requite them with nods. Golden songs, drawn from the high heavens, they should reward with jewels and with pure gold. But, frivolous as they are, they foolishly give their grand gifts to fools, spendthrifts, and rogues.
W. Did he educate his own daughter in studies befitting her birth?
G. He did, and in the fine arts besides.
W. And was she earnest to retain her father's precepts?
G. She had no greater wish than to follow her father's words.
W. Oh, what a great honour she would have been to her country and her father, had she lived to undertake the duties of life.
G. Yes, her glory would have excelled that of all other girls in French lands. She was distinguished in appearance, her face was beautiful in its modesty, and she was all compact of golden words and ways. She drew to herself the hearts of men, young and old, and made them follow her wishes with constant loyalty.
W. This is a miracle you tell me of.
G. I tell you the truth, wayfarer. She was a mirror of true-born nobility.
W. Oh, overwhelming grief! Oh, bitter grief and pain! That such a one could die so suddenly! What will her father do in the meantime?
G. Bowed down with grief, he will suffer pain of heart and shed unceasing tears.
W. He would do better to pour forth a flood of prayers to the heavenly gods and to join to his prayers the last rites to the dead.
G. He joins the last rites to his prayers and never ceases. He fills the customary hearths with tinder and fire.
W. O maiden worthy of so deserving a father! O father, too, blessed in such a daughter!
G. She now shines benign in the glad clouds, like a radiance newly-risen, like a golden constellation.
W. May she triumph, shining in the ethereal realms, and may the daughter graciously take her father with her.
G. Go about your affairs, if you will depart, wayfarer. This is what I wished to say. Friend, farewell.
W. Live in happiness, guardian of the tomb and revealer of the urn. I go about my affairs diligently and in haste.
Printed at Paris, near the Law School, A.D. 1523, 15th day of Feb'y.
10
CHAMP FLEVRY AU QUEL EST CONTENU LART & SCIENCE DE LA DEUE & VRAYE PROPORTIÕ DES LETTRES ATTIQUES, QUŌ DIT AUTREMĒT LETTRES ANTIQUES, & VULGAIREMENT LETTRES ROMAINES PROPORTIONNEES SELON LE CORPS & VISAGE HUMAIN.—Ce Liure est Priuilegie pour Dix Ans Par Le Roy nostre Sire, & est a vendre a Paris sus Petit Pont a Lenseigne du Pot Casse, par maistre Geofroy Tory de Bourges Libraire, & Autheur du dict Liure. Et par Giles Gourmont aussi libraire demourant en la Rue sainct Iaques a Lenseigne des Trois Coronnes.
[Here the Pot Cassé, no. 4 (see p. 45 supra).]
Privilegie povr dix ans.
A small folio of 8 preliminary leaves (signature A), comprising the title, the privilège, etc., and LXXX numbered leaves (signatures B to O); in all, 14 signatures. The first and last have 8 leaves each, the others 6.
I have already spoken of this book at considerable length in the first part, and shall refer to it again in the third; but in this place I must at least describe it from a bibliographical standpoint.
On the verso of the title-page which I have just quoted, we read what follows:[225]—