There is an interesting example of this in the sermon for Septuagesima Sunday, which was written on a somewhat blind text from the twenty-eighth chapter of Job. Honorius proceeds expounding it through a number of strained allegories, which he doubtless drew from Gregory’s Moralia; for that great pope was the recognized expositor of Job, and the Book of Job was simply Gregory through all the Middle Ages. Perhaps Honorius felt that this sermon was rather soporific. At all events he stops in the middle to give a piece of advice to the supposed preacher: “Often put something of this kind in your sermon; for so you will relieve the tedium.” And he continues thus:
“Brethren, on this holy day there is much to say which I must pass over in silence, lest disgusted you should wish to leave the church before the end. For some of you have come far and must go a long way to reach your houses. Or perhaps, some have guests at home, or crying babies; or others are not swift and have to go elsewhere, while to some a bodily infirmity brings uneasiness lest they expose themselves. So I omit much for everybody’s sake, but still would say a few words.
“Because to-day, beloved, we have laid aside the song of gladness and taken up the song of sadness, I would briefly tell you something from the books of the pagans, to show how you should reject the melody of this world’s pleasures in order that hereafter with the angels you may make sweet harmonies in heaven. For one should pick up a gem found in dung and set it as a kingly ornament; thus if we find anything useful in pagan books we should turn it to the building up of the Church, which is Christ’s spouse. The wise of this world write that there were three Syrens in an island of the sea, who used to chant the sweetest song in divers tones. One sang, another piped, the third played upon a lyre. They had the faces of women, the talons and wings of birds. They stopped all passing ships with the sweetness of their song; they rent the sailors heavy with sleep; they sank the ships in the brine. When a certain duke, Ulysses, had to sail by their island, he ordered his comrades to bind him to the mast and stuff their ears with wax. Thus he escaped the peril unharmed, and plunged the Syrens in the waves. These, beloved, are mysteries, although written by the enemies of Christ. By the sea is to be understood this age which rolls beneath the unceasing blasts of tribulations. The island is earth’s joy, which is intercepted by crowding pains, as the shore is beat upon by crowding waves. The three Syrens who with sweet caressing song overturn the navigators in sleep, are three delights which soften men’s hearts for vice and lead them into the sleep of death. She who sings with human voice is Avarice, and to her hearers thus she tunes her song: ‘Thou shouldst get together much, so as to be able to spread wide thy fame, and also visit the Lord’s sepulchre and other places, restore churches, aid the poor and thy relatives as well.’ With such baneful song she charms the miser’s heart, until the sleep of death oppresses him. Then she tears his flesh, the wave devours the ship, and the wretch by fierce pains is waked from his riches and plunged in eternal flame. She who plays upon the pipe is Vainglory (Jactantia), and thus she pipes her lay for hers: ‘Thou art in thy youth, and noble; make thyself appear glorious. Spare no enemies, but kill them all when able. Then people will call thee a good knight.’ Again will she chant: ‘Thou shouldst win Jerusalem, and give great alms. Then thou wilt be famous, and wilt be called good by all.’ To the lay brethren (conversis) she sings: ‘Thou must fast and pray always, singing with loud voice. Then wilt thou hear thyself lauded as a saint by all.’ Such song with vain heart she makes resound till the whirlpool of death devours the wretch emptied of worth.
“She who sings to a lyre is Wantonness (Luxuria), and she chants melodies like these to her parasites: ‘Thou art in thy youth; now is the time to sport with the girls—old age will do to reform in. Here is one with a fine figure; this one is rich; from this one you would gain much. There is plenty of time to save your soul.’ In such way she melts the hearts of the wanton till Cocytus’s waves engulf them suddenly tripped by death.
“They have the faces of women, because nothing so estranges man from God as the love of women. They have wings of birds, because the desire of worldlings is always unstable, their appetites now craving one thing, and again their lust flying to another object. They have also the talons of birds, because they tear their victims as they snatch them away to the torments of hell. Ulysses is called Wise. Unharmed he steers his course by the island, because the truly wise Christian swims over the sea of this world, in the ship of the Church. By the fear of God he binds himself to the mast of the ship, that is, to the cross of Christ; with wax, that is with the incarnation of Christ, he seals the ears of his comrades, that they may turn their hearts from lusts and vices and yearn only for heavenly things. The Syrens are submerged, because he is protected from their lusts by the strength of the Spirit. Unharmed the voyagers avoid the peril, inasmuch as through victory they reach the joys of the saints.”[59]
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE RATIONALE OF THE VISIBLE WORLD: HUGO OF ST. VICTOR
Just as the Middle Ages followed the allegorical interpretation of Scripture elaborated by the Church Fathers, so they also accepted, and even made more precise, the patristic inculcation of the efficacy of such most potent symbols as the water of baptism and the bread and wine transubstantiated in the Eucharist.[60] Passing onward from these mighty bases of conviction, the mediaeval genius made fertile use of allegory in the polemics of Church and State, and exalted the symbolical principle into an ultimate explanation of the visible universe.