Chapter IV: Introduction (3)

At last he came to that which we are all so firmly persuaded we possess, that no one ever prayed to have it given him—I mean common sense. There was a huge heap of it, as big as all the other things put together. It was like a clear, soft liquid, which easily evaporates if it is not kept tightly corked, and was contained in bottles of various shapes and sizes, each one being labelled with the name of its owner. Astolfo noticed one which was much larger than the rest, and read on the label, “_Orlando’s Wits_.” He saw also a great part of his own; but what made him marvel more than anything was the fact that many people whom he had believed to have plenty of sense were now shown to have little or none, the bottles marked with their names being nearly full. Some lose it through love, others in striving after honours; yet others, in seeking for riches by land and sea, or by putting their trust in great lords and princes, or in pursuing after follies of magic and sorcery, or gems or pictures, or anything else which a man values above others. There was a great quantity of the wits of philosophers and astrologers stored there, and also of those of poets. Astolfo took up his own, having received permission to do so, and put the flask to his nose; and it appears that his wits returned to their place right enough, for Turpin confesses that from thenceforth Astolfo lived very wisely indeed for a long time. But afterwards, it is true, he made one mistake which once more deprived him of his brains. Then he took up the large flask which contained Orlando’s, and which was no light weight, and turned to depart....

_Lodovico Ariosto._

_THE POET TO HIS PATRON._

O, Master Anthony, I am in love
With that fine doublet you’ve _not_ given me!
I love, and wish it well as heartily
As ’twere the lady I call “Flower” and “Dove.”
I look on’t front and back—a perfect fit!
The more I look, the more I long for it.
It pleases me, inside and out,
And up and down. Oh! heaven,
That you have only lent me it, not given!
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

When in the morn I see it on my back,
I always think that it must be my own;
That cunning stitchery of herring-bone,
How great a marvel! I am on the rack!
I shall do something desperate,—good lack!
And will not—cannot understand
I must restore it to your hand—
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

Oh! Master Anthony, if you knew how
To set about it, you a faction-chief
Might be. Look at me in this doublet now,—
Am I not gallant?—half a Mars, in brief?
Make up your mind you want it not again,
And I will be your brave,
Your foot-page and your slave,
And walk, with sword on thigh, among your train!

O canzonet!
If thou dost fail this doublet for to get,
Thou well may’st say, I have
Been such a fool, I should be called a knave!
_Francesco Berni_ (1490?–1536).

_BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE._

When I made this speech, there was present that gentleman of Cardinal Santa Fiore’s with whom I had had words, and confirmed to the Pope all that had been told him! The Pope remained swelling with rage, and said nothing. Now I do _not_ wish to fail in stating my reasons in a just and righteous manner. That gentleman of Santa Fiore’s came to me one day, and brought me a little ring all tarnished with quicksilver, saying, “Burnish this ring for me, and make haste about it.” I had a great many pieces of goldsmith’s work in hand, with most valuable jewels waiting to be set, and hearing myself, moreover, ordered about with so much assurance by a man whom I had never seen or spoken to before, answered that I had not a burnisher by me just then, and that he had better go to another. He, without any reason in the world, told me that I was an ass. To these words of his I replied that he did not speak the truth, and that I was a man, on every account worth more than he; but that, if he bothered me, I would certainly kick harder than any ass. He went straight to the cardinal, and made out that I had all but murdered him. Two days after this I was shooting behind the palace at a wild pigeon, which had its nest in a hole, very high up; and that same pigeon I had seen shot at by a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, a Milanese, who had never hit it. On the day when I was shooting, it had become shy, and scarcely showed its head; and because this Giovan Francesco and I were rival marksmen, certain gentlemen and friends of mine who were in my workshop pointed it out to me, and said, “That is Tacca’s pigeon which he has so often shot at. See, the poor bird has grown suspicious, and scarcely shows its head.” I looked up, and said, “It shows quite enough for me to hit it, if I only had time to take aim first.” Those gentlemen said that the man himself who invented the firelock could never hit it. I replied I was willing to wager a pitcher of the best Greek wine that I would do so; and, taking aim, and shooting from the arm, without any support for my piece, I did what I had promised, without thinking of the cardinal or anybody else; nay, I had the less reason to do so, as I believed the cardinal to be very much my patron. Thus may the world see what divers ways Fortune takes, when she wishes to be the ruin of a man. To return to the Pope: he remained, all swollen and sulky, brooding over what he had heard....

_Benvenuto Cellini_ (1500–1570).

_HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING._

When we had passed the Mount Simplon aforesaid, we found a river near a place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and rather deep, and crossed by a little narrow bridge without a parapet. There was a hard frost that morning, and when I reached the bridge—for I was in front of the rest, and saw that it was very dangerous—I ordered my young men and the servants to dismount, and lead their horses by the bridle. Thus I passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking with one of those two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. The other was a notary, who had remained somewhat behind, and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying that for fear of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going on foot; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the bridge, prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dangerous place. This man, who could not help showing his French nature, said to me in French that I was a man of little courage, and that there was no danger at all. While he was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur, through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the bridge, and fell close beside a large stone, turning over with its legs in the air; and as God very often shows compassion to fools, this beast, along with the other beast, his horse, fell into a great and deep hole, wherein both he and his horse went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to run, and with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and, holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the edge of a gown which that man was wearing, and by that gown I pulled him up, while he was still under water; and because he had drunk a great quantity of water, and within a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of danger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat he answered me that I had done nothing—that the most important thing were his parchments, which were worth much money. It seemed that he spoke thus in anger, all soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly. At this I turned to the guides we had with us, and promised to pay them if they would help this beast. One of the guides valorously, and with great difficulty, set himself to do what he could, and fished up all the parchments, so that he lost nothing; the other would not put himself to any trouble to help him....

_Benvenuto Cellini._

_OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET.”_

Fain would I sing that direful wrath which swayed
Men’s bosoms for a Bucket, spoil renowned!
Stolen from Bologna, and in pomp displayed,
By hostile Modenese with conquest crowned.
Phœbus! the conflicts and adventures dread
Of horrid war assist me to resound.
Inspiring God! till I am grown acuter,
Lend me thy helping hand, and be my tutor.

And thou, the nephew of the Pope of Rome!
And of the generous Carlo, son the second;
Thou who hast wisdom in thy youthful bloom,
In tender years of high endowments reckoned;
From studies deep, in which thou’rt quite at home,
If thou canst turn, by recreation beckoned,
List to my song; see here the Grecian Helen
Transformed into a Bucket, war compelling!
_Alessandro Tassoni_ (1565–1635).

_THE CALL TO ARMS._

Then like the Spartans lived the Modenese
Unfortified, without a parapet;
So shallow were the fosses that with ease
Men might run in and out early or late;
The Great Bell’s toll now echoed on the breeze,
And up from bed jumped all the people straight;
Summoned to arm, some bolted quick downstairs,
Some to the windows rushed—and some to prayers.

Some snatched a shoe and slipper, some in haste
Had only one leg stockinged, others again
In petticoats turned inside out were dressed,
Lovers exchanged their shirts; some with disdain
Took frying-pans for shields, and forward pressed
With buckets on for helms, others were fain
To brandish hedge-bills, and in breast-plates bright
Ran swaggering to the Square, prepared for fight.

There had the Potta, ready at his post,
The City Standard valorously spread;
Himself on horseback armed, and he could boast
Bright scarlet breeches, shoes too, lively red:
The Modenese, abridging, to their cost,
Potestà, wrote but Potta in its stead;
And hence the Bolognese in joke had got a
Cognomen, and they called his Mayorship Potta!

Messer Lorenzo Scotti, sage and strong,
Was Potta then, and suits at law decided;
Now foot and horsemen, a promiscuous throng,
All hurry to the Square, and these divided
Are posted at the gateways; from among
The rest a chosen squadron is confided
To Rangon’s son Gherardo,—to his hand
The Standard too is given and chief command.
_Alessandro Tassoni._

_THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS._

O’er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,
The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,
Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,
More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,
Followed their masters to the Council Hall.

First came the Prince of Delos, Phœbus hight,
In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,
Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light
Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,
Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.

Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,
Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen
Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o’er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,
Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,
And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.

The Paphian Queen for her accommodation
Had two stage-coaches; richly decorated
Was that wherein she sat in conversation
With Cupid and the Graces; on them waited
Pages in habits suited to their station;
The other coach with courtiers gay was freighted,
The chamberlain and tutor debonnair,
And the chief cook, Dan Bacon, too was there.

But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared
At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin’s back his form upreared,
Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;
For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother,[5] when she meets him,
Because so like a fisherman he treats him.

Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;
She had risen early, and o’er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair
Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern star
Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses, quite provoking,
Knitting, at the same time, a worsted stocking.

Juno-Lucina did not go—and why?
She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove’s chief taster, standing by,
For the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,
And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,
To water the domestics’ wine that day.

· · · · ·

On starry benches sit the famous warriors
Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,
Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers
Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard,
Alcides, captain of the city guard.

And as the madness which his brain affected
Was not quite cured, officiously he strode,
And swung aloft his club, and blows directed
Along the crowd to clear the royal road.
Like drunken Swiss he looked, and seemed connected
With ruffians low who hire themselves abroad
On festal days, before the Pope to bluster,
Breaking of arms and skull-caps in a fluster.

With Jove’s broad hat and spectacles arrived
The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived,
He damned poor mortals’ prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,
Which graced his father’s cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay,
He regularly signed them twice a day.

Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,
With starry diadem upon his head,
And o’er his shoulders an imperial vest,
Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest;
In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,
And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
_Alessandro Tassoni._

_PRAISES OF THE WINE OF MONTEPULCIANO._

Oh! how widely wandereth he
Who, in the search of verity,
Keeps aloof from glorious wine!
Lo! the knowledge it bringeth to me.
For Barbarossa, this wine so bright,
With its rich red look and its strawberry light,
So invites me
And so delights me,
I should infallibly quench my inside with it,
Had not Hippocrates
And old Andromachus
Strictly forbidden it
And loudly chidden it,
So many stomachs have sickened and died with it.
Yet discordant as it is,
Two good biggins will not come amiss;
Because I know, while I’m drinking them down,
What is the finish and what is the crown.
A cup of good Corsican
Does it at once;
Or a cup of old Spanish
Is next for the nonce:
Quackish resources are things for a dunce.
Cups of chocolate,
Ay, or tea,
Are not medicines
Made for me.
I would sooner take to poison,
Than a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee.
Let the Arabs and the Turks
Count it ’mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus,
Down in Erebus,
’Twas the detestable Fifty invented it;
The Furies then took it,
To grind and to cook it,
And to Proserpine all these presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia
Doats on a beverage so unseemly,
I differ with the man extremely.

· · · · ·

There’s a squalid thing called beer:—
The man whose lips that thing comes near
Swiftly dies, or falling foolish,
Grows, at forty, old and owlish.
She that in the ground would hide her,
Let her take to English cider:
He who’d have his death come quicker,
Any other Northern liquor.
Those Norwegians and those Laps
Have extraordinary taps:
Those Laps especially have strange fancies:
To see them drink,
I verily think
Would make me lose my senses.
But a truce to such vile subjects
With their impious, shocking objects,
Let me purify my mouth
In an holy cup o’ the south:
In a golden pitcher let me
Head and ears for comfort get me,
And drink of the vine of the wine benign
That sparkles warm in Sansovine;
Or of that vermillion charmer
And heart-warmer,
Which brought up in Tregonzano
And on stony Giggiano,[6]
Blooms so bright and lifts the head so
Of the toasters of Arezzo.
_Francesco Redi_ (1626–1696).

_FROM A LETTER TO PIER MARIA BALDI._

Buffalmacco was a famous painter in his day; and in my judgment—and I am not altogether a fool in these matters—he still deserves to be preferred to Titian and the divine Michael Angelo—and one can go no further than that. If you wish, Signor Baldi, to know the reasons and motives of this judgment of mine, do not expect me to say that Buffalmacco was so skilled and perfect a master as to be able to teach the art of painting in its greatest refinements to an ape which the Bishop of Arezzo kept for his pastime; but I shall certainly tell you that Buffalmacco was he who discovered that noble and ever-to-be-remembered and ever-to-be-praised invention of tempering colours, not with water from the well, but with the most brilliant white wine that could ever be produced by the best shoots of the most renowned vines on the Florentine hills. Before Buffalmacco had made this discovery, he used to execute paintings which—you may rely upon it—were exactly like your own face; that is to say, pale, washed-out, and mouldy-looking; and in many of them I fancy I recognise my own portrait, with a face like a mummy, thin, dry, hollow-cheeked, worn to a shadow, and coloured with a certain hue like that of bread-crust or a quince baked in the oven, and so melancholy as to make people weep who were quite ready to laugh. But when this great master of all masters began to use wine with his colours—

“PULCINELLA.”
]

“His painted saints on the wall he discloses
With fresh, blooming faces, all milk and roses!”

and they were all the right sort of folk—jovial, cheerful, wholesome, and good-tempered, so that people talked about them even as far as the gates of Paris, and the ladies of Faenza—certain knowing nuns, whose convent stood where the lower fort is now—had more faith in Buffalmacco than in all the Apelleses and Protogeneses who were in credit with the ancient Greeks. Now, what do I mean by all this screed of nonsense? I mean to draw the conclusion, that since you are so kind as to draw the illustrations to that book of mine, you will most assuredly come to grief unless you mix your colours with _Vernaccia_ or some other good wine, and you will do no work that is worth looking at. And since it is not right that you should be at any expense in consequence of this work of mine, I send you a sample of white wine of Syracuse, with other samples of wine given me by his Serene Highness the Grand Duke; with which, if you mix your colours, you will not only give a good appearance to your pictures, but also get back your former healthy looks, in spite of those disgusting messes which you are made to swallow, every morning, by those two physicians, your friends. Try this new prescription, and you will soon be well.

_Francesco Redi._

_PULCINELLA’S DUEL._
COLBRAND AND PULCINELLA (_both armed_).

_Col._ I am beside myself with joy; the master evidently thinks something of me; he has given me a nag! Now we shall see whether or no it is possible for an idiot of a rustic to take Nanon from me. I’ll ornament his face for him! If he is a man of his word, and keeps his appointment, woe to him!

_Pul._ Perdition! Who is here?

_Col._ If he comes——! (_Threatens him._)

_Pul._ After all, I am a man—I remember the saying; for necessity teaches one many things.

_Col._ Oh! bravo! You have kept your word, and come in time.

_Pul._ Listen, Colbrand. If you want to fight, I am quite ready; but you must tell me, first, how long you have learnt fencing.

_Col._ What does that matter?

_Pul._ It matters to me.

_Col._ Five years.

_Pul._ I have been learning for ten. I don’t want to take a mean advantage of you; go and take lessons five years more, and then come, and I’ll give you satisfaction.

_Col._ Ah! you coward!

_Pul._ Ah! get out of the way!

_Col._ You shall not go away—you are caught—one of us has to remain here.

_Pul._ Very well, you remain, and I will go away.

_Col._ You pretend not to understand me. I mean that one of us has to remain here dead.

_Pul._ Oh! dead?

_Col._ Certainly.

_Pul._ Well, do you remain dead, and then we shall be all right.

_Col._ Who is to kill me?

_Pul._ I, if you wish.

_Col._ No, I do not wish. I shall defend myself to the utmost.

_Pul._ Come, let’s say no more about it. Is it worth while to kill a man for the sake of a woman?

_Col._ These excuses will not serve you—draw your sword, or I will strike.

_Pul._ (_aside_). Oh! the devil! I’m dead. (_Aloud._) Listen to me. The first time I girt on my sword I made a vow that it should never be stained with blood.

_Col._ You ass in clothes! You shall either give up Nanon to me, or I will rid the world of you.

_Pul._ Listen to me. You have a quarrel with me out of jealousy, because I have taken your sweetheart from you; but I have none with you—on the contrary, I am sorry for you; it would be too bad to kill you, after having made a fool of you.

_Col._ I am not listening to you. Come, this blade shall be your answer.

_Pul._ I have no quarrel with you.

_Col._ What am I to do, then?

_Pul._ Call me some vile names, then I shall get angry, and come to blows with you.

_Col._ Very well. You are a scoundrel, a ruffian, a cowardly knave.

_Pul._ Supposing that what you say is the truth, what reason have I to be angry?

_Col._ You are a dissolute wretch, the son of vile parents.

_Pul._ I think you must be a gipsy to know this. You are telling me nothing but the truth.

_Col._ In this way we shall do nothing.

_Pul._ But if what you say is true?

_Col._ (_aside_). Oh! the base wretch! Come on, will you?

_Pul._ Softly, softly. (_Aside._) I see no one coming. Tell me things that are not true, and then I shall fire up like any Englishman. I know what my nature is.

_Col._ Very well, you are a gentleman.

_Pul._ A gentleman! I! and when was I ever that?

_Col._ Yes, a gentleman—a valiant and honourable gentleman.

_Pul._ And I am to fight with a pig—a dirty blackguard like you?

_Col._ This to me! Power of the world! draw your sword this moment, or I’ll strike.

_Pul._ Steady, steady. Wait a bit—don’t you see I have to get it drawn.

_Col._ Well, if you do not draw it, I won’t strike. I am waiting for you.

_Pul._ If I do not draw, you will not strike?

_Col._ No.

_Pul._ I am not going to draw for ten years to come at the very least.... Very well, come on. (_Draws his sword._) Here I am, quite ready. How do you wish to have it?

_Col._ At the first blood.

_Pul._ Very well. Ah! ah! eh! (_He strikes at Colbrand, standing as far from him as he can, and crying out loudly._)

_Col._ Do be quiet. Some one will come, and we shall be disturbed.

[Pulcinella makes more noise than ever, when _Logman_ arrives on the scene, and demands an explanation of the quarrel. The presence of a third person revives Pulcinella’s courage, and he loudly declares his intention of running Colbrand through and through till his person is like a sieve. He then falls to chaffing the pompous steward, who loses his temper, and finally dismisses him. Pulcinella, leaving the stage, asks, “Do you know why I am going?” and candidly adds, “because I am afraid.” While Colbrand, seeing that he is well out of the way, remarks to Logman, “For your sake I will remain quiet—but, another time ...” leaving the terrible threat incomplete.]

_Francesco Cerlone_ (_c._ 1750–1800).

_A BERGAMASC PETER PEEBLES._

A certain Bergamasc, an honest fellow, and ignorant as a log, came up here some years ago, with five or six thousand scudi in cash. He at once encountered certain astute rustics, who, making him believe that black was white, and dazzling him with the most extraordinary promises, soon succeeded in borrowing the greater part of his money. Now, alleging as excuses, sometimes storms, sometimes drought, and then again thunder and lightning, they have managed so to spin out matters that the poor man cannot get back a farthing of his money to this day. Do not imagine, however, that this difficulty causes him any sorrow; on the contrary, it gives him the greatest delight in the world, for it has opened up to him the possibility of unlimited law-suits—a prospect as dear to his heart as sugar to flies. And, not content with civil suits, he worried so long at his debtors that, at last, one of them—better at paying up than the rest—attempted to pay his whole debt at a blow, which he did with a scythe, on the top of the creditor’s head. It was well for him that the blow did not reach the neck, at which it was aimed, and which it would have cut through like a stalk of clover; but glanced off on the forehead, only wounding the skin. You never saw greater joy than he experienced when he felt the blood running down his face, and made sure of it by putting up his hand. I think he would have died of sheer satisfaction, had his delight not been tempered by the disappointed reflection that, after all, he had not had his skull broken. He went off at once to find me,—and, nearly frightening me out of my wits with his ensanguined countenance, shouted, “I am going. I am off to Venice this minute! Give me an introduction to an honest solicitor!” I, seeing the state he was in, thought he was wandering in his mind, and that, instead of a solicitor, he meant to ask for a surgeon. But when I had heard what had happened, and understood what his intention was, I promised to do what he asked, and so far pacified him that he allowed the steward’s wife to dress his head with a little white-of-egg and tow, and bandage it with a piece of rag. Then he insisted on telling me his story all over again, and how fortunate he was in having another plea to enter;—he would not, he said, part with his broken head for several ducats—in fact, he was quite ready to pay his debtor a dozen ducats or so for the favour done him. Now, having got together all his documents, and, further, written out on a sheet of paper, in the Bergamasc dialect, the whole history of the quarrel—a curious and valuable manuscript—he is coming to Venice, to get legal advice about it, and be directed how to get back his own, by means of his broken head. Here he is, then, with his spurs on, like a fighting-cock, and I have charged him with this present letter to you; so please to send him to some man with a conscience, who may try and help him get back his money, and also persuade him that he will do well to leave this part of the country—for it is ill jesting with our farmers, and if he tries it, he will soon find himself skinned. I recommend him to you most earnestly, because he is in the right,—because he is a good fellow by nature,—and because of his shocking ignorance. Before sending him to the solicitor, get him to tell you a little about his litigations. I promise you that you will hear words which all the commentators on the Pandects would never have discovered. Besides this, he begins to speak in a big bass voice which gradually rises and ends in a falsetto, so that his conversation is a species of music. His eloquence and arrangement of facts are something marvellous; he will begin by telling you of his broken head, and his disputes with the farmers; he will then go on to say that he has lent them money, and end up by telling you that he was from Bergamo. In short, he begins with the death, and goes backwards till he gets to the christening. When you find him a lawyer, be sure, in the first place, to choose one who understands stories told upside down. Help him all you can, and let me know what you think of him when you see him. Good-bye.

_Gasparo Gozzi_ (1713–1786).

_HOW TO SUCCEED IN LITERATURE._

In those old-fashioned times, when people lived, so to speak, at haphazard, and when, if a man wished to gain a reputation for learning, he forgot himself and all he had and stuck to his books day and night—the ways of acquiring for one’s self an honoured and illustrious name were very different from what they are now. But in those days the business was a long one, and the path to be trodden was steep and rugged; and few were those who reached the top of the mountain, where Learning sheds abroad her gifts and graces. In our own day, however, we have shortened the journey, and opened a level and easy road, wherein you may walk, as it were, on cotton, with no other trouble than that of elbowing back those rival competitors who are pressing forward too boldly, or firing a snap-shot at those who are spreading their wings too rapidly. If any young man wishes to get on quickly, and to be greatly honoured, let him lay up a good store of _mots_ and jests against his rivals, and have his head so full of them that they may fall from his tongue in showers like hailstones; and let him utter them on every possible occasion, whether in or out of season does not matter. Let him remember, moreover, that it is not enough to speak ill of others, but that he must also speak well of himself, and remember that Horace and Ovid, both of them, said that neither time, nor fire, nor any other calamity could destroy their works out of the world. If he cannot imitate those two writers in any other respect, let him do it in this. He should not spend much time and labour in composition, but dash off everything in hot haste; for the file and the foot-rule will spoil all the fire of his writing. Once upon a time the great art was to use art and yet conceal it; nowadays, in order to make no mistake in the using of it, it is considered the safest thing to have none at all. Those who are considered good authors he should leave alone, otherwise he may be accused of plagiarism; let him make capital of himself and his own brain, and fly wherever the latter is disposed to carry him. These are the general principles through following which I promise eternal fame to the young man in question. It is true that in this way a man does not leave a great literary reputation behind him after his death;—but what matters this last vanity, or the glory of an epitaph either?

_Gasparo Gozzi._

_A FABLE._

Jove, having one day drank more nectar than usual, and being in a pleasant humour, the fancy took him to make some present to mankind. And having called Momus, he gave him what he had decided upon, packed in a portmanteau, and sent him down to the earth. “Oh!” cried Momus (when he arrived in a chariot) to the human race, “Oh! truly blessed generation. Behold how Jove, liberal of his benefits towards you, opens his generous hand! Come, hasten, receive! Never complain again that he has made you short-sighted. His gift quite compensates you for this defect.” So saying, he unfastened the portmanteau, and emptied out of it an enormous heap of spectacles. Behold, then, the whole of mankind busy picking them up; every man has his pair—all are content, and thank Jove for having acquired so excellent an aid to their eyesight. But the spectacles caused them to see things under a deceitful appearance. To one man a thing seems blue, while another sees it yellow; one thinks it is white, and another black, so that to every one it appears different. But what of that? Every individual was delighted with his pair, and quite taken up with it, and insisted on its being the best. My dear friends, we are the heirs of these people, and the spectacles have fallen to our lot. Some see things one way, and some another, and every one thinks he is right.

_Gasparo Gozzi._

_KING TEODORO AND HIS CREDITORS._
FROM THE COMIC OPERA, “IL RE TEODORO.”

[About 1730, the Corsicans rose in rebellion against the Genoese, who
had long been masters of the island; and a German baron of the name of
Theodor von Neuhoff, who landed with supplies for the insurgents,
received the title of king. Being obliged to leave in order to raise
additional forces, he was arrested for debt. Casti’s opera is founded
on this circumstance, and represents him as coming to Venice, under a
feigned name, with his companion Gafforio, in desperate straits for
money.]

_Gafforio._ Cast away grief, my king!—this sorrow,

Surely, is most unworthy thee!

_Teodoro._ I’ve neither kingdom nor coin,—and borrow

I cannot—a monarch who would be?

_Gaff._ Ah! remember the great Darius,

Marius, and Themistocles—

And many a worthy man and pious,—

Surely the fate of such as these,

Heroes of every age and nation,

Ought to be a consolation.

_Teod._ All these stories, my son, I know,

Having read history, like yourself,

But the want that presses so

Is not history now, but pelf.

[_Achmet, Sultan of Turkey, dethroned and banished, but plentifully supplied with funds, takes up his quarters at the same hotel as Theodore. The latter’s creditors, hearing he is at Venice, demand his arrest, and he is imprisoned._]

_Teod._ Then this catacomb

Is the tomb

Of all my vast design?

Is this the kingdom, this the throne,

Are these the glorious realms unknown,

I thought should yet be mine?

_Belisa_ (_his sister_). With your passion for reigning,

I’ve told you, my brother,

One day or another

To gaol you would go!

_Gaff._ Keep courage, O Leader,

For Regulus olden

And Bajazet, Soldan,

Had worse fates, you know!

_Teod._ Have done, once for all,

With your musty old stories,

Your heroes and glories,—

Don’t bother me so!

[_All Theodore’s friends come to take leave of him, and he adjures them_:]

Oh! go, and do not grieve me!

For pity’s sake be still.

_All._ That which attracts the human heart,

How vain and frail it seems to be!

_Teod._ Good heavens! how very weary,

How infinitely dreary,

Are good and virtuous people

That preach morality!

_Gaff._ In order to avenging

Your wrongs and impositions,

At all the courts of Europe

I will present petitions.

_Achmet._ For Theodore the banished

We’ll take up a collection,

And I shall be most happy,

Contributing my fraction.

_Taddeo_ (_landlord_). As long as, in this city,

In prison, sir, you stay,

I shall be glad to send you

Your dinner every day!

_Belisa._ Cheer up, O my brother!

The laws of this day

Are always in favour

Of him who can’t pay!

As soon as they see

That you have not a groat

They must set you free,

If they wish it, or not!

_All._ Take comfort, farewell!—

Never anything stable

In this world did dwell!

_Teod._ In peace kindly leave me,

I’ve told you before—

I’ve had enough preaching,

And wish for no more!

_Giovanni Battista Casti_ (1721–1803).

_THE POET PROMISES TO PAY HIS CREDITOR—WHEN HE HAS MONEY._

Thou askest me for money (while I’ve none),
And losest time in vain which thou might’st save:
If thou an “_I promise to pay_” dost crave,
I’ll make no bones at all to give thee one:
I neither grant thee nor refuse the boon;
Since what one never had one never gave;
I promise that I’ll pay thee when I have;
And thou’rt content with my goodwill thereon.
Then let’s have peace, nor let me thus be bored
For those three groats a hundred times a day:
When got, I’ll give them of my own accord.
Why wilt thou thus torment and wear me out?
Why worry a poor devil in this way?
Canst thou not say, “Where nothing is—there’s nought.”

_The Poet laments the good old times previous to the existence of Duns,
Bailiffs, Writs, and I.O.U.’s._

Oh! blissful days, what time Queen Bertha spun![7]
Most fortunate and highly favoured season!
That age hight anciently the golden one,
No doubt because so happy was the reason:
No I.O.U.’s were then, nor writs, to dun,
Nor frequent law-suits, such as now, with fees on;
Nor people then were summoned, should they run
In debt, nor lost their liberty in prison.
But times are changed—not now what once they were;
And woe to that poor devil who gets in debt!
For he must go to gaol and perish there!
And should his dun not be so hard on, yet
He plagues him night and day, wherever met,
As thou dost me—pursuing me everywhere!

_He complains that his Creditor uses him worse than would a Pirate._

Algiers and Tunis, Tripoli, Salé,
Places that lie where are the days most hot,
So brute a race of men perhaps have not,
As brutal as my creditor with me:
This man not born like other men could be:
But in ill-will and rancorousness begot,
By one that ne’er sucked mercy’s milk, I wot,
And daily made him bad examples see.
The Barbary Pirate, when he makes a slave,
Robs him of cash that he may find on one,
But does not want his money when he has none:
But, using me more cruelly than a pirate,
My dun don’t care whether or not I have;
When I’ve no money, still he doth require it.

_He declares his Dun to be ubiquitous in pursuit of him._

Philosophers hold that if in one place
One body is, another is elsewhere;
Two bodies being quite separate, in no case
A single one can be both here and there.
Moreo’er of that should any person care
To know the physical reason, ’tis to trace....
But, not to wait the causes to deduce,
Suffice we know the fact, as on its face.
Yet if the thing were otherwise than so—
(To cite a case in point) I should pronounce
One body may be here and there at once;
For, by the body o’ me! now there as well,
And now I find thee here, where’er I go:
But how the devil thou dost, I cannot tell.
_Gio. Battista Casti._

_DIDYMUS, THE CLERIC,[8] ON THE ITALIAN UNIVERSITIES._

He thought that all the schools of Italy were full, either of mathematicians, who could understand one another without speaking; or of grammarians, who shouted themselves hoarse lecturing on the art of eloquence, yet could not make any living soul understand what they said; or of poets, who did their best to deafen those who did not listen to them, and were loud in welcoming every new tyrant who gained power over their nation. This is the reason why, as troublesome fools, they were exiled—with more justice than any other class—by Socrates, who, according to our author, was endowed with the spirit of prophecy—especially as regards the things which are taking place in our own day.

_Ugo Foscolo_ (1778–1827).

_THE FIRST HOUR AND THE SUN._

_First Hour._ Good morning, your Excellency.

_Sun._ Yes, or rather good-night.

_First Hour._ The horses are ready.

_Sun._ Very good.

_First Hour._ The morning star has been out some time.

_Sun._ Very good—let her come or go as it suits her.

_First Hour._ What does your Excellency mean?

_Sun._ I mean that I want you to leave me alone.

_First Hour._ But, your Excellency, the night has already lasted so long that it cannot last any longer,—and if we were to wait, you see, your Excellency, it might give rise to some disorder.

_Sun._ Let come of it what will—I shall not move.

_First Hour._ Oh! your Excellency, what is this? don’t you feel well?

_Sun._ No, no—I don’t feel anything, except that I don’t want to move, so you may go about your business.

_First Hour._ How can I go, if you do not come?—for I am the first hour of the day. And how can there be any day at all if your Excellency does not deign to come out as usual?

_Sun._ If you are not the first hour of the day, you can be the first hour of the night; or else the night hours can go on double duty, and you and your companions may take it easy. Because—I tell you what it is: I am tired of this continual going round and round in order to give light to a few wretched little animals living on a handful of mud, so small that I, though I have pretty good sight, cannot manage to see it. So this night I have made up my mind that I can’t be bothered any more; and if men want light, let them keep their fires burning, or provide it in some other way.

_First Hour._ But how does your Excellency expect the poor wretches to manage it? And then it will be an enormous expense for them to keep up their lamps and provide candles enough to burn all day long. If they had already discovered that kind of air which will burn, and could use it to light up their streets, and rooms, and shops, and cellars, and everything else—and all at a small expense—why, then I should say that the thing was not so bad. But the fact is, that it will be three hundred years, more or less, till men find out that expedient; and in the meantime they will get to the end of all the oil, and wax, and pitch, and tallow, and have nothing more to burn.

_Sun._ Let them go and catch fireflies, or those little worms which shine in the dark.

_First Hour._ And how will they provide against the cold?—for without the help they have had from you the wood of all the forests will never be enough to warm them. Besides which they will also die of hunger; for the earth will no longer yield its fruits. And so, at the end of a few years, the race of those poor animals will be entirely lost. They will crawl about for a time, groping in the dark after something to eat and warm themselves at; and, in the end, when the last spark of fire has died out, and they have eaten everything that a human being could possibly swallow, they will all die in the dark, frozen hard like bits of rock crystal.

_Sun._ And if they do, what business is that of mine? Am I the nurse of the human race?—or perhaps their cook, who has to provide and prepare their food for them? What is it to me that a certain small quantity of invisible animalcules, thousands of miles distant from me, cannot see, or bear the cold, without my light? Besides, even though it were my duty to serve as stove or hearth, so to speak, to this human family, it is surely reasonable that, if the family want to warm themselves, they should come and stand round the stove—not that the stove should walk round the house. And so, if the earth has need of my presence, let her bestir herself, and see that she gets it; for, as far as I am concerned, I want nothing of her, and there is no reason why I should go after her.

_First Hour._ Your Excellency means, if I understand aright, that what you did formerly is now to be done by the Earth.

_Sun._ Yes, now—and henceforward for ever.

_Giacomo Leopardi_ (1798–1837).

NOTE.—This dialogue is supposed to take place at the date of Galileo’s
discovery of the real relations of the Solar System.

_FASHION AND DEATH._

_Fashion._ Madam Death! Madam Death!

_Death._ Wait till my time comes, and I’ll come without your calling.

_F._ Madam Death!

_D._ Go!—and the Devil go with you! I shall come fast enough when you don’t want me.

_F._ As if I were not immortal!

_D._ Immortal? Past is already the thousandth year since the days of the immortals were ended.

_F._ Why, madam, you are talking in the manner of Petrarch, as though you were a lyric poet of the sixteenth—or the nineteenth century.

_D._ I am very fond of Petrarch’s rhymes, because there is my _Triumph_ among them, and the rest of them are nearly all about me too. But, anyway, get out of my sight at once.

_F._ Come—for the love you bear to the seven deadly sins, stop a little, and look at me.

_D._ I am looking at you.

_F._ Don’t you know me?

_D._ You ought to know that my sight is not good, and that I cannot use spectacles, because the English do not make any that would serve me—and even though they made them, I have no nose to put them on.

_F._ I am Fashion, your sister.

_D._ My sister?

_F._ Yes—don’t you remember that we are both daughters of Decadence?

_D._ What should I remember, whose business it is to destroy all memory?

_F._ But I do, and I know that we are both equally busy, continually undoing and changing the things of this world, although you set about this task in one way, and I in another.

_D._ If you are not talking to your own thoughts, or to some person whom you have inside your throat, do raise your voice a little, and pronounce your words more clearly; for if you go on mumbling between your teeth with that thin cobweb of a voice of yours, I shall take till to-morrow to hear you. My hearing, as you know, is no better than my sight.

_F._ Although it is not exactly usual,—and in France people do not speak in order to be heard,—yet, as we are sisters, and can drop ceremony between ourselves, I will speak as you wish. I say that the nature and custom of both of us is continually to ruin the world; but you, from the beginning, have thrown yourself on the person and the blood, whereas I mostly content myself with beards, hair, clothes, furniture, palaces, and such-like. It is true that I have not failed to carry on certain games which may well be compared to yours—as, for instance, piercing holes in ears, lips, or noses,—burning the flesh of men with red-hot irons, with which I make them mark themselves for the sake of beauty,—forming the heads of babies by means of bandages and other contrivances, so that all the people in a country may have heads of the same shape, as I have done in Africa and in America,—laming people with narrow shoes,—choking the breath out of them, and making their eyes start out of their heads with the tightness of their stays,—and a hundred other things of the same kind. Not only so, but, generally speaking, I persuade and force all people of any position to bear unending fatigue and discomfort, every day of their lives—oftentimes pain and torture; and some of them will even die gloriously for the love they bear to me. I say nothing of the headaches, chills, colds of every kind,—daily, tertian, and quartan fevers, which men get through obeying me,—submitting to shiver with cold and be suffocated with heat, as I please,—to cover their bodies with woollen stuff, and their chests with linen, and do everything in the way I tell them, even though it be to their own hurt.

_D._ Well,—I am quite willing to believe that you are my sister, and, if you wish to have it so, I will consider it more certain than death—and you need not prove it out of the parish register. But if I stand still in this way, I turn faint; yet, if you have courage to run alongside of me, take care not to kill yourself, as I go at a great pace. If you can run you can tell me all you have to say as we go along; if not, I must leave you with a salutation, and promise you, in consideration of our relationship, to leave you all my property when I die.

_F._ If we had to run a race together, I don’t know which of us would win; for if you run, I do more than gallop. And as for standing still in one place,—if in turns you faint, it kills me. So then, let us run together, and, as you say, speak of our affairs as we go.

_D._ Let it be so. Since, then, you are my sister, it would be the right thing if you could help me somehow or other in my business.

_F._ I have already done so, more than you think. In the first place, though I am continually destroying or changing all other customs, I have never in any place induced people to leave off dying; and for this reason, you see, the practice has universally remained in force from the beginning of the world up to the present day.

_D._ It is a mighty miracle that you should not have done what you cannot do.

_F._ What I cannot do? You do not seem to know the power of fashion.

_D._ Well, well—it will be time to talk about this when the fashion of not dying has come in. But meanwhile, I should like you, as a good sister, to help me to obtain the contrary result more easily and quickly than I have hitherto done.

_F._ I have already told you of some of my work which is very profitable to you. But that is a trifle in comparison with what I am going to tell you. For your sake I have gradually—especially in the later times—caused people to disuse and forget the exercises which are beneficial to health, and brought in other customs which weaken the body and shorten life. Besides which, I have introduced into the world such rules and customs, that life itself, as well for the body as the soul, is rather dead than alive, so that this century may truly be called the Age of Death.... Besides, whereas formerly you used to be hated and abused, nowadays, thanks to me, things have reached such a pass, that whoever has any intellect at all values and praises you, preferring you above life, and turns his eyes to you as to his greatest hope. Finally, seeing that many had made their boast of living after death in the memories of their fellow-men, ... I have abolished this habit of seeking after immortality, and of conferring it in case there should be any who deserved it.... These things, which are neither few nor small, I have, up to now, accomplished for the love of you, wishing to increase your state and power on earth, as has, in fact, been the case. I am disposed to do as much as this, and more, every day, and it was with this intention I set out to seek you; and I think it would be well that, for the future, we should remain together. Thus we could lay our plans better than formerly, and also carry them out more effectually.

_D._ You speak truly; and I am quite willing we should do so.

_Giacomo Leopardi._

_THE POET ON TRAMP._

Poets have ever been a roving crew,
And honoured in their travels east and west.
Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered through
Ionia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;
And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his will
To a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.