Crafting and Executing Strategy 19th Edition Thompson Test Bank
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22. Sayth Erasmus, "There is no harm in a fabella, apologus, or
parabola, so long as its character be distinctlie recognised for such,
but contrariwise, much goode; and ye
same hath been sanctioned,
not only by ye
wiser heads of Greece and Rome, but by our deare
Lord himself. Therefore, Cecilie, whom I love exceedinglie, be not
abasht, child, at my reproof, for thy dialogue between the two
peacocks was innocent no less than ingenious, till thou wouldst have
insisted that they, in sooth, sayd something like what thou didst
invent. Therein thou didst violence to ye
truth, which St. Paul hath
typified by a girdle, to be worn next the heart, and that not only
confineth within due limits but addeth strength. So now be friends;
wert thou more than eleven and I no priest, thou shouldst be my
little wife, and darn my hose, and make me sweet marchpane, such
as thou and I love. But, oh! this pretty Chelsea! What daisies! what
buttercups! what joviall swarms of gnats! The country all about is as
nice and flat as Rotterdam."
Anon, we sit down to rest and talk in the pavillion.
Sayth Erasmus to my father, "I marvel you have never entered into
the king's service in some publick capacitie, wherein your learning
and knowledge, bothe of men and things, would not onlie serve your
own interest, but that of your friends and ye
publick."
Father smiled and made answer, "I am better and happier as I am.
As for my friends, I alreadie do for them alle I can, soe as they can
hardlie consider me in their debt; and, for myself, ye
yielding to
theire solicitations that I wd
putt myself forward for the benefit of
the world in generall, wd
be like printing a book at request of
friends, that ye
publick may be charmed with what, in fact, it values
at a doit. The cardinall offered me a pension, as retaining fee to the
king a little while back, but I tolde him I did not care to be a
mathematical point, to have position without magnitude."
23. Erasmus laught and sayd, "I woulde not have you ye
slave of anie
king; howbeit, you mighte assist him and be useful to him."
"The change of the word," sayth father, "does not alter the matter; I
shoulde be a slave, as completely as if I had a collar rounde my
neck."
"But would not increased usefulnesse," says Erasmus, "make you
happier?"
"Happier?" says father, somewhat heating; "how can that be
compassed in a way so abhorrent to my genius? At present, I live as
I will, to which very few courtiers can pretend. Half-a-dozen blue-
coated serving-men answer my turn in the house, garden, field, and
on the river: I have a few strong horses for work, none for show,
plenty of plain food for a healthy family, and enough, with a hearty
welcome, for a score of guests that are not dainty. The lengthe of
my wife's train infringeth not the statute; and, for myself, I soe hate
bravery, that my motto is, 'Of those whom you see in scarlet, not
one is happy.' I have a regular profession, which supports my house,
and enables me to promote peace and justice; I have leisure to chat
with my wife, and sport with my children; I have hours for devotion,
and hours for philosophie and ye
liberall arts, which are absolutelie
medicinall to me, as antidotes to ye
sharpe but contracted habitts of
mind engendered by ye
law. If there be aniething in a court life
which can compensate for ye
losse of anie of these blessings, deare
Desiderius, pray tell me what it is, for I confesse I know not."
"You are a comicall genius," says Erasmus.
"As for you," retorted father, "you are at your olde trick of arguing
on ye
wrong side, as you did ye
firste time we mett. Nay, don't we
know you can declaime backward and forwarde on the same
argument, as you did on ye
Venetian war?"
24. Erasmus smiled quietlie, and sayd, "What coulde I do? The pope
changed his holy mind." Whereat father smiled too.
"What nonsense you learned men sometimes talk!" pursues father. "I
—wanted at court, quotha! Fancy a dozen starving men with one
roasted pig betweene them;—do you think they would be really glad
to see a thirteenth come up, with an eye to a small piece of ye
crackling? No; believe me, there is none that courtiers are more
sincerelie respectfull to than the man who avows he hath no
intention of attempting to go shares; and e'en him they care mighty
little about, for they love none with true tendernesse save
themselves."
"We shall see you at court yet," says Erasmus.
Sayth father, "Then I will tell you in what guise. With a fool-cap and
bells. Pish! I won't aggravate you, churchman as you are, by alluding
to the blessings I have which you have not; and I trow there is as
much danger in taking you for serious when you are onlie playful
and ironicall as if you were Plato himself."
Sayth Erasmus, after some minutes' silence, "I know full well that
you holde Plato, in manie instances, to be sporting when I accept
him in very deed and truth. Speculating he often was; as a brighte,
pure flame must needs be struggling up, and, if it findeth no direct
vent, come forthe of ye
oven's mouth. He was like a man shut into a
vault, running hither and thither, with his poor, flickering taper,
agonizing to get forthe, and holding himself in readinesse to make a
spring forward the moment a door sd
open. But it never did. 'Not
manie wise are called.' He had clomb a hill in ye
darke, and stoode
calling to his companions below, 'Come on, come on! this way lies ye
east; I am advised we shall see the sun rise anon.' But they never
did. What a Christian he woulde have made! Ah! he is one now. He
and Socrates—the veil long removed from their eyes—are sitting at
Jesus' feet. Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis!"
25. Bessie and I exchanged glances at this so strange ejaculation; but ye
subjeckt was of such interest, that we listened with deep attention
to what followed.
Sayth father, "Whether Socrates were what Plato painted him in his
dialogues, is with me a great matter of doubte; but it is not of
moment. When so many contemporaries coulde distinguishe ye
fancifulle from ye
fictitious, Plato's object coulde never have beene to
deceive. There is something higher in art than gross imitation. He
who attempteth it is always the leaste successfull; and his failure
hath the odium of a discovered lie; whereas, to give an avowedlie
fabulous narrative a consistence within itselfe which permitts ye
reader to be, for ye
time, voluntarilie deceived, is as artfulle as it is
allowable. Were I to construct a tale, I woulde, as you sayd to Cecy,
lie with a circumstance, but shoulde consider it noe compliment to
have my unicorns and hippogriffs taken for live animals. Amicus
Plato, amicus Socrates, magis tamen amica veritas. Now, Plato had a
much higher aim than to give a very pattern of Socrates his snub
nose. He wanted a peg to hang his thoughts upon—"
"A peg? A statue of Phidias," interrupts Erasmus.
"A statue by Phidias, to clothe in ye
most beautiful drapery," sayth
father; "no matter that ye
drapery was his own, he wanted to show
it to the best advantage, and to ye
honour rather than prejudice of
the statue. And, having clothed ye
same, he got a spark of
Prometheus his fire, and made the aforesayd statue walk and talk to
the glory of gods and men, and sate himself quietlie down in a
corner. By the way, Desiderius, why shouldst thou not submitt thy
subtletie to the rules of a colloquy? Set Eckius and Martin Luther by
the ears! Ha! man, what sport! Heavens! if I were to compound a
tale or a dialogue, what crotches and quips of mine own woulde I
not putt into my puppets' mouths! and then have out my laugh
behind my vizard, as when we used to act burlesques before
Cardinall Morton. What rare sporte we had, one Christmas, with a
26. mummery we called the 'Triall of Feasting!' Dinner and Supper were
broughte up before my Lord Chief Justice, charged with murder.
Theire accomplices were Plum-pudding, Mince-pye, Surfeit,
Drunkenness, and suchlike. Being condemned to hang by ye
neck, I,
who was Supper, stuft out with I cannot tell you how manie pillows,
began to call lustilie for a confessor; and, on his stepping forthe,
commenct a list of all ye
fitts, convulsions, spasms, payns in ye
head,
and so forthe, I had inflicted on this one and t'other. 'Alas! good
father,' says I, 'King John layd his death at my door; indeede, there's
scarce a royall or noble house that hath not a charge agaynst me;
and I'm sorelie afrayd' (giving a poke at a fat priest that sate at my
lord cardinall's elbow) 'I shall have the death of that holy man to
answer for.'"
Erasmus laughed, and sayd, "Did I ever tell you of the retort of
Willibald Pirkheimer. A monk, hearing him praise me somewhat
lavishly to another, could not avoid expressing by his looks great
disgust and dissatisfaction; and, on being askt whence they arose,
confest he cd
not, with patience, hear ye
commendation of a man
soe notoriously fond of eating fowls. 'Does he steal them?' says
Pirkheimer. 'Surely no,' says ye
monk. 'Why, then,' quoth Willibald, 'I
know of a fox who is ten times the greater rogue; for, look you, he
helps himself to many a fat hen from my roost without ever offering
to pay me. But tell me now, dear father, is it then a sin to eat fowls?'
'Most assuredlie it is,' says the monk, 'if you indulge in them to
gluttony.' 'Ah! if, if!' quoth Pirkheimer. 'If stands stiff, as the
Lacedemonians told Philip of Macedon; and 'tis not by eating bread
alone, my dear father, you have acquired that huge paunch of yours.
I fancy, if all the fat fowls that have gone into it coulde raise their
voices and cackle at once, they woulde make noise enow to drown
ye
drums and trumpets of an army.' Well may Luther say," continued
Erasmus, laughing, "that theire fasting is easier to them than our
eating to us; seeing that every man Jack of them hath to his evening
meal two quarts of beer, a quart of wine, and as manie as he can
eat of spice cakes, the better to relish his drink. While I—'tis true my
27. stomach is Lutheran, but my heart is Catholic; that's as heaven
made me, and I'll be judged by you alle, whether I am not as thin as
a weasel."
'Twas now growing dusk, and Cecy's tame hares were just beginning
to be on ye
alert, skipping across our path, as we returned towards
the house, jumping over one another, and raysing 'emselves on
theire hind legs to solicitt our notice. Erasmus was amused at theire
gambols, and at our making them beg for vine-tendrils; and father
told him there was hardlie a member of ye
householde who had not
a dumb pet of some sort. "I encourage the taste in them," he sayd,
"not onlie because it fosters humanitie and affords harmless
recreation, but because it promotes habitts of forethought and
regularitie. No child or servant of mine hath liberty to adopt a pet
which he is too lazy or nice to attend to himself. A little management
may enable even a young gentlewoman to do this, without soyling
her hands; and to neglect giving them proper food at proper times
entayls a disgrace of which everie one of 'em wd
be ashamed. But,
hark! there is the vesper-bell."
As we passed under a pear-tree, Erasmus told us, with much
drollerie, of a piece of boyish mischief of his—the theft of some
pears off a particular tree, the fruit of which the superior of his
convent had meant to reserve to himself. One morning, Erasmus had
climbed the tree, and was feasting to his great content, when he
was aware of the superior approaching to catch him in ye
fact; soe,
quicklie slid down to the ground, and made off in ye
opposite
direction, limping as he went. The malice of this act consisted in its
being the counterfeit of the gait of a poor lame lay brother, who
was, in fact, smartlie punisht for Erasmus his misdeede. Our friend
mentioned this with a kinde of remorse, and observed to my father,
"Men laugh at the sins of young people and little children, as if they
were little sins; albeit, the robbery of an apple or cherry-orchard is
as much a breaking of the eighth commandment as the stealing of a
leg of mutton from a butcher's stall, and ofttimes with far less
28. excuse. Our Church tells us, indeede, of venial sins, such as the theft
of an apple or a pin; but, I think" (looking hard at Cecilie and Jack),
"even the youngest among us could tell how much sin and sorrow
was brought into the world by stealing an apple."
At bedtime, Bess and I did agree in wishing that alle learned men
were as apt to unite pleasure with profit in theire talk as Erasmus.
There be some that can write after ye
fashion of Paul, and others
preach like unto Apollos; but this, methinketh, is scattering seed by
the wayside, like the great Sower.
'Tis singular, the love that Jack and Cecy have for one another; it
resembleth that of twins. Jack is not forward at his booke; on ye
other hand, he hath a resolution of character which Cecy altogether
wants. Last night, when Erasmus spake of children's sins, I observed
her squeeze Jack's hand with alle her mighte. I know what she was
thinking of. Having bothe beene forbidden to approach a favorite
part of ye
river bank which had given way from too much use, one
or ye
other of em transgressed, as was proven by ye
smalle
footprints in ye
mud, as well as by a nosegay of flowers, that grow
not, save by the river; to wit, purple loose-strife, cream-and-codlins,
scorpion-grass, water plantain, and the like. Neither of them would
confesse, and Jack was, therefore, sentenced to be whipt. As he
walked off with Mr. Drew, I observed Cecy turn soe pale, that I
whispered father I was certayn she was guilty. He made answer,
"Never mind, we cannot beat a girl, and 'twill answer ye
same
purpose; in flogging him we flog both." Jack bore the first stripe or
two, I suppose, well enow, but at lengthe we hearde him cry out, on
which Cecy coulde not forbeare to do ye
same, and then stopt bothe
her ears. I expected everie moment to hear her say, "Father, 'twas
I;" but no, she had not courage for that; onlie, when Jack came
forthe all smirked with tears, she put her arm aboute his neck, and
29. they walked off together into the nuttery. Since that hour, she hath
beene more devoted to him than ever, if possible; and he, boy-like,
finds satisfaction in making her his little slave. But the beauty lay in
my father's improvement of ye
circumstance. Taking Cecy on his
knee that evening (for she was not ostensiblie in disgrace), he
beganne to talk of atonement and mediation for sin, and who it was
that bare our sins for us on the tree. 'Tis thus he turns ye
daylie
accidents of our quiet lives into lessons of deepe import, not
pedanticallie delivered, ex cathedrâ, but welling forthe from a full
and fresh mind.
This morn I had risen before dawn, being minded to meditate on
sundrie matters before Bess was up and doing, she being given to
much talk during her dressing, and made my way to ye
pavillion,
where, methought, I sd
be quiet enow; but beholde! father and
Erasmus were there before me, in fluent and earneste discourse. I
wd
have withdrawne, but father, without interrupting his sentence,
puts his arm rounde me and draweth me to him, soe there I sit, my
head on 's shoulder, and mine eyes on Erasmus his face.
From much they spake, and other much I guessed, they had beene
conversing ye
present state of ye
Church, and how much it needed
renovation.
Erasmus sayd, ye
vices of ye
Clergy and ignorance of ye
vulgar had
now come to a poynt, at the which, a remedie must be founde, or ye
whole fabric wd
falle to pieces.
—Sayd, the revival of learning seemed appoynted by heaven for
some greate purpose, 'twas difficulte to say how greate.
—Spake of ye
new art of printing, and its possible consequents.
—Of ye
active and fertile minds at present turning up new ground
and ferreting out old abuses.
30. —Of the abuse of monachism, and of ye
evil lives of conventualls. In
special, of ye
fanaticism and hypocrisie of ye
Dominicans.
Considered ye
evills of ye
times such, as that societie must shortlie,
by a vigorous effort, shake 'em off.
Wondered at ye
patience of the laitie for soe manie generations, but
thoughte 'em now waking from theire sleepe. The people had of late
beganne to know theire physickall power, and to chafe at ye
weighte
of theire yoke.
Thoughte the doctrine of indulgences altogether bad and false.
Father sayd, that ye
graduallie increast severitie of Church discipline
concerning minor offences had become such as to render
indulgences ye
needfulle remedie for burdens too heavie to be
borne.—Condemned a Draconic code, that visitted even sins of
discipline with ye
extream penaltie.—Quoted how ill such excessive
severitie answered in our owne land, with regard to ye
civill law;
twenty thieves oft hanging together on ye
same gibbet, yet robberie
noe whit abated.
Othermuch to same purport, ye
which, if alle set downe, woulde too
soone fill my libellus. At length, unwillinglie brake off, when the bell
rang us to matins.
At breakfaste, William and Rupert were earneste with my father to
let 'em row him to Westminster, which he was disinclined to, as he
was for more speede, and had promised Erasmus an earlie caste to
Lambeth; howbeit, he consented that they sd
pull us up to Putney in
ye
evening, and William sd
have ye
stroke-oar. Erasmus sayd, he
must thank ye
archbishop for his present of a horse; "tho' I'm full
faine," he observed, "to believe it a changeling. He is idle and
gluttonish, as thin as a wasp, and as ugly as sin. Such a horse, and
such a rider!"
31. In the evening, Will and Rupert made 'emselves spruce enow, with
nosegays and ribbons and we tooke water bravelie—John Harris in
ye
stern, playing the recorder. We had the six-oared barge; and
when Rupert Allington was tired of pulling, Mr. Clement tooke his
oar; and when he wearied, John Harris gave over playing ye
pipe;
but William and Mr. Gunnel never flagged.
Erasmus was full of his visitt to ye
archbishop, who, as usuall, I
think, had given him some money.
"We sate down two hundred to table," sayth he; "there was fish,
flesh, and fowl; but Wareham onlie played with his knife, and drank
noe wine. He was very cheerfulle and accessible; he knows not what
pride is; and yet, of how much mighte he be proude! What genius!
what erudition! what kindnesse and modesty! From Wareham, who
ever departed in sorrow?"
Landing at Fulham, we had a brave ramble thro' ye
meadows.
Erasmus noting ye
poor children a gathering ye
dandelion and milk-
thistle for the herb-market, was avised to speak of forayn herbes
and theire uses, bothe for food and medicine.
"For me," says father "there is manie a plant I entertayn in my
garden and paddock which ye
fastidious woulde cast forthe. I like to
teache my children ye
uses of common things—to know, for
instance, ye
uses of ye
flowers and weeds that grow in our fields and
hedges. Manie a poor knave's pottage woulde be improved, if he
were skilled in ye
properties of ye
burdock and purple orchis, lady's-
smock, brook-lime, and old man's pepper. The roots of wild succory
and water arrow-head mighte agreeablie change his Lenten diet;
and glasswort afford him a pickle for his mouthfulle of salt-meat.
Then, there are cresses and wood-sorrel to his breakfast, and salep
for his hot evening mess. For his medicine, there is herb-twopence,
that will cure a hundred ills; camomile, to lull a raging tooth; and the
juice of buttercup to cleare his head by sneezing. Vervain cureth
32. ague; and crowfoot affords ye
leaste painfulle of blisters. St.
Anthony's turnip is an emetic; goosegrass sweetens the blood;
woodruffe is good for the liver; and bind-weed hath nigh as much
virtue as ye
forayn scammony. Pimpernel promoteth laughter; and
poppy sleep: thyme giveth pleasant dreams; and an ashen branch
drives evil spirits from ye
pillow. As for rosemarie, I lett it run alle
over my garden walls, not onlie because my bees love it, but
because 'tis the herb sacred to remembrance, and, therefore, to
friendship, whence a sprig of it hath a dumb language that maketh
ye
chosen emblem at our funeral wakes, and in our buriall grounds.
Howbeit, I am a schoolboy prating in presence of his master, for
here is John Clement at my elbow, who is the best botanist and
herbalist of us all."
—Returning home, ye
youths being warmed with rowing, and in high
spiritts, did entertayn themselves and us with manie jests and
playings upon words, some of 'em forced enow, yet provocative of
laughing. Afterwards, Mr. Gunnel proposed enigmas and curious
questions. Among others, he woulde know which of ye
famous
women of Greece or Rome we maidens wd
resemble. Bess was for
Cornelia, Daisy for Clelia, but I for Damo, daughter of Pythagoras,
which William Roper deemed stupid enow, and thoughte I mighte
have found as good a daughter, that had not died a maid. Sayth
Erasmus, with his sweet, inexpressible smile, "Now I will tell you,
lads and lassies, what manner of man I wd
be, if I were not
Erasmus. I woulde step back some few years of my life, and be half-
way 'twixt thirty and forty; I would be pious and profounde enow for
ye
church, albeit noe churchman; I woulde have a blythe, stirring,
English wife, and half-a-dozen merrie girls and boys, an English
homestead, neither hall nor farm, but betweene both; but neare
enow to ye
citie for convenience, but away from its noise. I woulde
have a profession, that gave me some hours daylie of regular
businesse, that sd
let men know my parts, and court me into publick
station, for which my taste made me rather withdrawe. I woulde
33. have such a private independence, as sd
enable me to give and lend,
rather than beg and borrow. I woulde encourage mirthe without
buffoonerie, ease without negligence; my habitt and table shoulde
be simple, and for my looks I woulde be neither tall nor short, fat
nor lean, rubicund nor sallow, but of a fayr skin with blue eyes,
brownish beard, and a countenance engaging and attractive, soe
that alle of my companie coulde not choose but love me."
"Why, then, you woulde be father himselfe," cried Cecy, clasping his
arm in bothe her hands with a kind of rapture, and, indeede, ye
portraiture was soe like, we coulde not but smile at ye
resemblance.
Arrived at ye
landing, father protested he was wearie with his
ramble, and, his foot slipping, he wrenched his ankle, and sate for
an instante on a barrow, the which one of ye
men had left with his
garden tools, and before he cd
rise or cry out, William, laughing,
rolled him up to ye
house-door; which, considering father's weight,
was much for a stripling to doe. Father sayd the same, and, laying
his hand on Will's shoulder with kindnesse, cried, "Bless thee, my
boy, but I woulde not have thee overstrayned, like Biton and
Clitobus."
(To be continued.)
34. J
SKETCH OF A MISER.
ohn Overs was a miser, living in the old days when popery
flourished, and friars abounded in England. Some of his vices
and eccentricities have been chronicled in a little tract of great rarity,
entitled "The True History of the Life and Death of John Overs, and
of his Daughter Mary, who caused the Church of St. Mary Overs to
be built." But in giving the particulars of his life, we do not vouch for
their authenticity: the tract resembles too strongly a chap book to
bear the marks of honest truth; yet the anecdotes are amusing, and
the tradition of the miser's pretty daughter reads somewhat
romantic.
John Overs was a Southwark ferryman, and he obtained, by paying
an annual sum to the city authorities, a monopoly in the trade of
conveying passengers across the river. He soon grew rich, and
became the master of numerous servants and apprentices. From his
first increase of wealth, he put his money out to use on such
profitable terms, that he rapidly amassed a fortune almost equal to
that of the first nobleman in the land; yet, notwithstanding this
speedy accumulation of wealth, in his habits, housekeeping, and
expenses, he bore the appearance of the most abject poverty, and
was so eager after gain, that even in his old age, and when his body
had become weak by unnecessary deprivations, he would labor
incessantly, and allow himself no rest or repose. This most miserly
wretch, it is said, had a daughter, remarkable both for her piety and
beauty; the old man, in spite of his parsimonious habits, retained
some affection for his child, and bestowed upon her a somewhat
liberal education.
Mary Overs had no sympathy with the avarice and selfishness of her
parent: she grew up endowed with amiability, and with a true
35. maiden's heart to love. As she approached womanhood, her dazzling
charms attracted numerous suitors; but the miser refused all
matrimonial offers, and even declined to negociate the matter on
any terms, although some of wealth and rank were willing to wed
with the ferryman's daughter. Mary was kept a close prisoner, and
forbidden to bestow her smiles upon any of her admirers, nor were
any allowed to speak with her; but love and nature will conquer
bolts and bars, as well as fear; and one of her suitors took the
opportunity, while the miser was busy picking up his penny fares, to
get admitted to her company. The first interview pleased well;
another was granted and arranged, which pleased still better; and a
third ended in a mutual plighting of their troths. During all these
transactions at home, the silly old ferryman was still busy with his
avocation, not dreaming but that things were as secure on land as
they were on water.
John Overs was of a disposition so wretched and miserly, that he
even begrudged his servants their necessary food. He used to buy
black puddings, which were then sold in London at a penny a yard;
and whenever he gave them their allowance, he used to say, "There,
you hungry dogs, you will undo me with eating." He would scarcely
allow a neighbor to obtain a light from his candle, lest he should in
some way impoverish him by taking some of its light. He used to go
to market to search for bargains: he bought the siftings of the
coarsest meal, looked out eagerly for marrow-bones that could be
purchased for a trifle, and scrupled not to convert them into soup if
they were mouldy. He bought the stalest bread, and he used to cut
it into slices, "that, taking the air, it might become the harder to be
eaten." Sometimes he would buy meat so tainted, that even his dog
would refuse it; upon which occasions, he used to say that it was a
dainty cur, and better fed than taught, and then eat it himself. He
needed no cats, for all the rats and mice voluntarily left the house,
as nothing was cast aside from which they could obtain a picking.
It is said that this sordid old man resorted one day to a most
singular stratagem, for the purpose of saving a day's provision in his
36. establishment. He counterfeited illness, and pretended to die; he
compelled his daughter to assist in the deception, much against her
inclination. Overs imagined that, like good Catholics, his servants
would not be so unnatural as to partake of food while his body was
above ground, but would lament his loss, and observe a rigid fast;
when the day was over, he intended to feign a sudden recovery. He
was laid out as dead, and wrapt in a sheet; a candle was placed at
his head, in accordance with the popish custom of the age. His
apprentices were informed of their master's death; but, instead of
manifesting grief, they gave vent to the most unbounded joy;
hoping, at last, to be released from their hard and penurious
servitude. They hastened to satisfy themselves of the truth of this
joyful news, and seeing him laid out as dead, could not even restrain
their feelings in the presence of death, but actually danced and
skipped around the corpse; tears or lamentations they had none;
and as to fasting, an empty belly admits of no delay. In the ebullition
of their joy, one ran into the kitchen, and breaking open the
cupboard, brought out the bread; another ran for the cheese, and
brought it forth in triumph; and the third drew a flagon of ale. They
all sat down in high glee, congratulating and rejoicing among
themselves, at having been so unexpectedly released from their
bonds of servitude. Hard as it was, the bread rapidly disappeared;
they indulged in huge slices of cheese, even ventured to cast aside
the parings, and to take copious draughts of the miser's ale. The old
man lay all this time struck with horror at this awful prodigality, and
enraged at their mutinous disrespect: flesh and blood—at least, the
flesh and blood of a miser—could endure it no longer; and starting
up he caught hold of the funeral taper, determined to chastise them
for their waste. One of them seeing the old man struggling in the
sheet, and thinking it was the devil or a ghost, and becoming
alarmed, caught hold of the butt end of a broken oar, and at one
blow struck out his brains! "Thus," says the tradition, "he who
thought only to counterfeit death, occasioned it in earnest; and the
law acquitted the fellow of the act, as he was the prime cause of his
own death." The daughter's lover, hearing of the death of old Overs,
hastened up to London with all possible speed; but riding fast, his
37. horse unfortunately threw him, just as he was entering the city, and
broke his neck. This, with her father's death, had such an effect on
the spirits of Mary Overs, that she was almost frantic, and being
troubled with a numerous train of suitors, she resolved to retire into
a nunnery, and to devote the whole of her wealth, which was
enormous, to purposes of charity and religion. She laid the
foundation of "a famous church, which at her own charge was
finished, and by her dedicated to the Virgin Mary." This, tradition
says, was the origin of St. Mary Overs, Southwark, a name which it
received in memory of its beautiful, but unfortunate foundress.
On an old sepulchre, in St. Saviour's church, may be seen to this
day, reclining in no very easy posture, the figure of a poor,
emaciated-looking being; which rumor has declared to be the figure
of John Overs, the ferryman. There is not much to warrant the
conclusion, except, perhaps, the similarity which the mind might
discover in the stone effigy and the aspect with which, in idea, we
instinctively endow all such objects of penury. The figure looks thin
enough for a man who lived on the pickings of stale bones, and
musty bread, it must be allowed; and the countenance certainly
looks miserly enough for any miser; but then the marble tablet
above merely tells the passer by that the body of one William
Emerson lyeth there, "who departed out of this life," one day in
June, in the year 1575.
The curious little tract from which we have gleaned many of the
above particulars, gives a very different account of the miser's
burying-place. On account, it is said, of his usury, extortion, and the
general sordidness of his life, he had been excommunicated, and
refused Christian burial; but the daughter, by large sums of money,
endeavored to bribe the friars of Bermondsey Abbey to get him
buried. As my lord abbot happened to be away from home, the holy
brothers took the money, and buried him within the cloister. The
abbot on his return seeing a new grave, inquired who, in his
absence, had been buried there; and on being informed, he ordered
it to be immediately disinterred, and be laid on the back of an ass;
38. then muttering some benediction, or, perhaps, an anathema, he
turned the beast from the abbey gates. "The ass went with a solemn
pace, unguided by any, through Kent Street, till it came to St.
Thomas-a-Watering, which was then the common execution place;
and then shook him off, just under the gallows, where a grave was
instantly made, and, without any ceremony, he was tumbled in, and
covered with earth."
While we abhor the abuse, and think it well to guard others by
hideous examples of its folly and vice, we can appreciate and
participate in its general use. We look upon it as a solemn duty in
men, whether regarded as citizens or fathers of families, to practice
a prudent economy; and the man who is frugal without being
avaricious—who is parsimonious without being sordid—we regard as
fulfilling one of his greatest social duties. If economy is a virtue,
wastefulness is a sin; and yet how many weekly glory in being
thought extravagant! Ruined spendthrifts will boast of their meanless
prodigality and their wasteful dissipation, as if in their past liberal
selfishness they could claim some forbearance for their present
disrepute, or some compassion for the misfortunes into which their
own heedlessness has thrown them. The learned, too, will disdain all
knowledge of the dull routine of economy, and proclaim their
ignorance of the affairs of life, as if the confession endowed them
with a virtue; but perfection is not the privilege of any order of men,
and many who ought to have been the monitors of mankind, whose
talents have made their names immortal, embittered their lives, and
impaired the vigor of their intellects by their thoughtless and wanton
extravagance.
39. I
AN INCIDENT OF THE FIRST
FRENCH REVOLUTION.
n the winter of the year 1792, Paris was agitated to the very core,
by the most important public question which had yet arisen
during the course of the Revolution. The people had hitherto been
completely triumphant in their attack on established things. They
had overturned the throne, and sent its supporters by thousands to
the scaffold or to exile. They had subverted the ancient constitution;
and, though no new form of government had yet been arranged, all
power lay for the time in the hands of their leaders, of one or
another denomination of republicans. The Jacobins, ultimately the
dominant faction, had not yet obtained full sway, but had to contend
for supremacy in the convention (or senate) of the nation, with the
Girondists, a section numbering in its ranks many of the most able
and more moderate republicans of France. Daily and bitterly did
these two parties struggle at this time against one another—
Robespierre, Danton, and Marat being the virtual chiefs, whether
acting in unison or otherwise, of the Jacobins or violent republicans;
while Vergniaud, Guadet, Louvet, Salle, Petion, and others, headed
the Girondists or moderates. Matters stood thus before the
commencement of the trial of Louis XVI., the question already
alluded to as exceeding in importance and interest any to which the
Revolution had yet given birth. On the results of the process hung
the life of the king; and men speculated as to the issue with anxiety,
mingled with fear and wonderment. Doubts existed as to what might
be that issue—doubts excited chiefly by the condition of parties just
described. On the whole, the chances seemed in favor of the king
before the commencement of his trial, seeing that the Girondists had
then a decided ascendency over their rivals in the convention, and
that many of them had strong leanings to the side of mercy. But the
40. unfortunate Louis XVI., whose very mildness made him the scape-
goat for the errors of his predecessors, stood in mortal peril in the
best view of the case. So felt his friends throughout France, and
they were yet numerous, though constrained to look on in silence,
and bury their feelings in their own bosoms.
One evening, in the winter mentioned, before the trial of the king
had opened, the convention broke up after a stormy sitting, and its
members separated for their clubs or their homes, to intrigue or to
recreate, as they felt inclined. The Girondist leaders, Vergniaud,
Guadet, Fonfrene, and others, might then have been seen, as they
left the place of sitting, to surround a young man who was speaking
loudly and vehemently. His theme was Robespierre; and bitter were
the recriminations which he poured on that too famous individual.
Vergniaud and the rest attempted to check the outbursts of wrath,
but, at the same time, with peals of laughter at their young
colleague's angry violence.
"Come home with me, my good Barbaroux," said Vergniaud; "we
shall hear you more comfortably before a good fire. It is piercingly
cold, and I promise you, that, if the vines of Medoc have to sustain
such a season, we need not expect to drink Bordeaux at a
reasonable price for fifteen years to come."
"Fifteen years!" said Guadet, in a melancholy voice; "and do you
then count upon living for another fifteen years, Vergniaud?"
"Why not?" was the answer; "am I a king that I should fear the
anger of the Republic?"
At this moment, a little Savoyard, with his stool at his back, threw
himself almost betwixt the legs of Vergniaud, and, holding out a
letter, exclaimed, "Which of you, citizens, is the representative
Barbaroux?"
"Here," said Vergniaud, taking the letter from the lad, and handing it
to his companion, the irritated young deputy above mentioned,
41. "here is a billet for you, Barbaroux. I should guess that it comes
from some ex-marchioness, who wishes to know if the judges of the
king are formed like other men, or if you have got horns on your
head, and a cloven foot."
Barbaroux, at this time little more than twenty-seven years of age,
was one of the most handsome, as well as beautiful men of his time.
Madame Roland, in one phrase, has given us a singular idea of his
personal attractions. "He had," she says, "the head of Antinous upon
the frame of a Hercules." The young representative of Marseilles (for
such was his station) took the note of the Savoyard, and, advancing
to a lamp, opened it, and read therein the following words:
"Citizen, if you fear not to accede to an invitation which can not be
signed, repair this evening, at nine o'clock, to the street St. Honore,
where you will find a coach standing in front of the house, No. 56.
Enter the vehicle without fear, and it will conduct you among old
friends."
Turning to his companions, after reading this mystic note, Barbaroux
observed, "You are right, Vergniaud; it is a communication from an
ex-marchioness."
"Ah! I thought so," replied the other; "and will you accept the
invitation?"
"I know not," was the careless response.
Barbaroux was young, and, without being exactly weary of the
agitated public life which he habitually led, felt any circumstance
calculated to take him out of it for a time as a piece of good fortune
not to be contemned. He deceived Vergniaud, therefore, when he
affected to treat the matter of the billet lightly. In fact, it seized upon
his thoughts exclusively; and he not only spoke no more of
Robespierre to his friends, but quitted them upon some slight
pretext soon afterward. He then returned directly to his own home;
and, when there, delivered himself up to conjectures respecting the
42. mysterious epistle which he had received. Barbaroux was young, be
it again observed, and of a temperament not indisposed to gallantry,
though the softer concerns of life had been all but banished from his
thoughts more lately. However, the anonymous billet, which came,
he felt assured, from a female, directed his reflections into a train
once not so unfamiliar to them, and the more so as it spoke of his
meeting "old friends." With impatience, therefore, he watched the
movements of his time-piece, as it indicated the gradual approach of
the hour of appointment. The Marseillaise representative felt no
personal alarm respecting the coming adventure. He had never been
an advocate of bloodshed in his public character, and knew of none
likely to entertain against him sentiments of hostility, or to project
snares for his life. No; he confidently assumed the object of the
unknown correspondent to be friendly.
Enough, however, about the anticipations of Barbaroux. The hour of
nine came, and he hastily left his own residence, to proceed to the
Rue St. Honore. There, opposite to No. 56, he found a coach in
waiting. Without a word, he opened the door, leaped inside, and
shut himself up with his own hands. In a moment the coachman
lashed his horses, and Barbaroux felt himself whirled along for an
hour with such rapidity, as, together with the obscurity of the
evening, to prevent him completely from discerning the route taken.
At length the vehicle stopped abruptly, in a petty street, and before
a house of sufficiently mediocre appearance. The gate opened
instantly, and the driver, descending from his seat, silently showed
Barbaroux into the house, after which the door was closed behind.
The young man now found himself in a passage of some length, as
was shown by a distant light. That light speedily increased, and the
visitor perceived a young girl approaching him with a lamp in her
hand—one of those old iron lamps in which the oil floats openly, and
which have the wick at one of the sides. Barbaroux was instantly
reminded of the fisher-cots of Marseilles—his own well-known
Marseilles—where such articles are used constantly by the fishing
community. Casting his eyes attentively on the girl, he saw more to
remind him of the same ancient sea-port—her cap, colored kerchief,
43. and dress generally, being such as its young women always wore.
Her face, too, was not a strange one. Moreover the odor of tar, or
that smell peculiar to well-used cordage and sails, struck forcibly on
his senses, and strengthened the same associative recollections.
Astonished already, Barbaroux felt still more so, when a once familiar
voice addressed him in accents strongly provincial, or Marseillaise.
"Charles," said the girl with the lamp, "you have made us wait. You
promised this morning to be earlier here."
"I promised!" cried Barbaroux, with amazement, heightened by a
sort of impression that he was speaking to a person who ought at
the moment to be at two hundred leagues' distance.
"Yes! promised," continued the girl; "but no doubt, you have been at
the office, or have forgotten yourself with the curate of La Major,
who makes you study such beautiful plants. Never mind; come with
me. Melanie is with her uncle Jean, and I, as I tell you, have been
waiting for you more than an hour. Come, then!"
Barbaroux scarcely comprehended what was said to him. He found
all his senses deceiving him at once, as it were, sight, hearing, and
smell; and his imagination transported from the present to the past,
had some difficulty in overcoming the first shock of stupefied
surprise. Thereafter, he felt a kind of wish to yield himself up
voluntarily to what seemed a sweet illusion. He followed the young
girl as desired, but soon found new causes for astonishment. Before
him appeared the old screw-stair of a well-known fisher dwelling,
with the narrow landing-place, chalky walls, and plastered chimney,
with its tint of yellow, to him most familiar of old. He even noted on
the plaster an acanthus leaf, where such a thing had been once
rudely charcoaled by his own hand. In the chimney grate, he beheld
an enormous log, the Christmas log, sparkling above the red
embers; and he then called to mind that the day was the 24th of
December, and the evening Christmas Eve.
44. "Ah! you see," said the young girl, rousing him by her voice, "we are
going to hold the Christmas feast. Come, Charles, enter, and sit
down opposite to uncle Jean, and by the side of Melanie. I will take
my place on your other hand."
As the girl spoke, she had opened the door of an inner apartment,
and led forward Barbaroux. The latter did indeed see before him
uncle Jean; he clasped in his own the hands of Melanie. He beheld
all that he had been once wont to see, in short, in the home of uncle
Jean, the old seaman of Marseilles. The same veteran weather-glass
hung on the wall; the compass was there, too, pointing still, as it
pointed of yore. On the table Barbaroux observed the green glasses
of Provence; the bottles were the peculiar bottles of uncle Jean; and,
amid others, he saw the yellow seals marking the prized Cyprus wine
of the ancient mariner of Marseilles. Brown dishes were there of the
pottery of Saint Jacquerie—articles to Paris unknown. Edibles lay
upon them too, such as Marseilles draws from sunny Afric: almonds
and dates, with figs and raisins, alone, or compounded into cakes,
after the mode of southern France. All these things confounded the
young member of convention. Had he made in a few hours a journey
of eight days? Had he retrograded in the way of existence? Had he
dreamt of a busy life of three years, since the time when, under the
shade of the church of St. Laurent of Marseilles, he had courted the
fair niece of uncle Jean, amid scenes and sights such as now
surrounded him? The deputy of Marseilles, the popular
conventionist, closed his eyes in doubt. Dreamed he at that moment
or had he dreamed for years?
Barbaroux was no weak-minded man, and yet it is not too much to
say, that he felt positive difficulty in determining what he saw to be
unreal, or, at most but an illusory revival of a former reality; and this
difficulty he felt, even though he had in his pocket, and touched with
his fingers, a note from Madame Roland, received in the convention
on that very afternoon. On the other hand, the two Provençal girls
were assuredly by his side; and, at the sight of Melanie, upsprung
anew that fresh young love which politics had stifled in his heart in
45. its very bud. Was not uncle Jean there, moreover, with his robust
form and open features, his kindly smile, and his strong Marseillaise
accents? If all was a delusion, as the reason of Barbaroux ever and
anon told him, and if a purposed delusion, as seemed more than
likely, what could that purpose be? Had uncle Jean and Melanie thus
mysteriously encompassed him with souvenirs of former and happy
hours, to rekindle the love from which politics had detached him,
and to lead him yet into that union once all but arranged? Such
might possibly be the case, and the thought tended to check the
questions which rose naturally to the young man's lip. He could not,
would not, bring a blush to the cheek of Melanie, by asking her
explanations so delicate. These would be voluntarily given,
doubtless, in due time. Besides, to speak the truth, he felt so happy
to be again by her side, as to shrink from the idea of breaking the
spell, and was contented to yield himself up to the soft intoxication
of the moment. He spoke of Marseilles, as if he was actually there,
and as if he had no thought save of its passing interests and affairs.
On these matters, uncle Jean and the two girls conversed with him
freely, never leaving it to be supposed for an instant, however, that
they were at all conscious of being elsewhere, or that Barbaroux had
ever been absent from their sides. Only now and then did Barbaroux
catch the glance of Melanie, fixed on him with an unusual
expression, made up of mingled tenderness and thoughtful anxiety.
His observation, however, made her instantly recur to the same
manner displayed by her sister and uncle, who treated him as if they
had seen him but a few hours previously. The deputy, after being
enlivened by the little supper and the good wine, even smiled
internally to see the extent to which they carried this caution,
though it mystified him the more. The window of the chamber in
which they sat at their singular Christmas feast, opened suddenly of
its own accord.
"Shut that window, Melanie," said uncle Jean; "the air of the sea is
unwholesome by night." The window was closed accordingly; but
Barbaroux fancied that he had actually heard through it the roll of
the waves, and felt on his cheek the freshness of the ocean breeze.
46. At length the hour of midnight sounded—the hour at which, once
only in the year, the priest ascends the high altar to say mass—the
hour of the Saviour's birth.
"It is midnight," cried the two girls; "let us proceed to mass."
As they spoke, the girls rose from table, and, in doing so,
overturned, by accident or intention, the two candles by which the
room was lighted. Barbaroux found himself a second time in the
dark; but speedily his arms were seized by the girls, one on each
side, and he was noiselessly led down into the dark passage by
which he had entered. Barbaroux had often stolen an embrace from
Melanie in such circumstances as the present, and he here found
himself repaid by a voluntary one from herself. For a moment her
arm lingered around him, and was then withdrawn in silence. The
door was then opened for him, and, in another second of time, he
stood alone in the street, with the coach in waiting which had
brought him thither. Confusedly and mechanically he entered the
vehicle, and was ere long set down in the Rue St. Honore, at liberty
to regain his own home.
Deeply as he was impressed by this remarkable incident, Barbaroux
did not think it necessary to disclose the particulars to Vergniaud and
his other political companions; but he made a confidant of Madame
Roland.
"It is plain," said he, concludingly to that lady, "that the whole was a
purposed plan of deception or illusion. It is the story of Aline put in
action for my especial benefit, but surely without end, without
sufficing grounds. Wherefore employ such chicanery with a man like
me? It would have been better to have addressed me frankly, and so
have reminded me of the past, than to have resorted to a scheme
which, though impressive at the time, can only move me now to a
smile. Yes, madame, I would say—that the issue might possibly have
been more agreeable to their wishes, had they dealt with me less
mysteriously. But what inducement can have made uncle Jean go in
47. with such a step, really puzzles me. He is a man who dies of ennui
when out of sight of the sea for a day. Besides, though he did love
me once, I believe that he at heart hates the convention, with all
belonging to it, and favors the Bourbons."
"Even if the intention," replied Madame Roland, "was only to recall
your old love to your recollection, Barbaroux, there is something
pretty in the idea. It is as if your Melanie, in putting her home, her
friends, and herself, before you in their perfect reality, had said
—'This is all I can offer—all save my love.' But there is something
more under it than all this, Barbaroux,' pursued the lady, after
reflecting gravely for some time. 'They gave you no verbal
explanation, you say; but did they leave you no clew otherwise? Did
you wear your present dress yesterday?"
"I did, madame."
"Have you examined its pockets?"
"No," said Barbaroux, "but I shall do so immediately."
The young member of convention accordingly put his hands into his
pockets, and was not slow to discover there, as Madame Roland had
acutely conjectured, a complete solution of his whole enigma. He
found a paper bearing his address, in which an offer was made to
him of the hand of the woman he (once, at least, had) loved, with a
dowry of five hundred thousand francs, and the prospect of enjoying
anew all the pleasures of his happy youth, provided that he
supported the Appeal to the People on behalf of Louis XVI.—
provided, in short, that he lent his influence to save the life, at all
events, of the king. That such an appeal would have saved Louis
from the scaffold, all men at the time believed. The Jacobins
obviously thought so, since they obstinately denied him any such
chance of escape.
It is probable that the monetary clause in this proposal would alone
have prevented its entertainment by the young deputy for Marseilles.
48. Be this as it may, the romantic scheme which the friendship of uncle
Jean, and the love of Melanie, had led them to enter upon, at the
instance, doubtless of the other friends of Louis, for inducing
Barbaroux to befriend the king, and for wiling himself from the
dangerous vortex of political turmoil, ended in nothing. Within a few
weeks—nay, a few days afterward—began that life-and-death
struggle between the Girondists and Jacobins, which only terminated
with the total fall of the former party, and the condemnation to the
scaffold of all its leaders. To the honor of Barbaroux, be it told that,
without a bribe, he supported the Appeal to the People, and had he
had the power would have saved the ill-fated king from the extreme
and bloody penalty of the guillotine. But the infuriate councils of
Robespierre and Marat prevailed; and Barbaroux, with five
companions, fled for safety to the Gironde, that southern portion of
France, of which Bordeaux is the capital, and whence they had
derived their party name. They found there, however, no safety;
they were hunted down like wild beasts by the dominant faction,
and every man of them was taken and beheaded, or otherwise
perished miserably, with the exception of Louvet, who subsequently
recorded their perils and their sufferings. Barbaroux, the young, gay,
handsome and brave Barbaroux, died on the scaffold, while Petion
met the death of a wild beast in the fields—starved while in life, and
mangled by wolves when no more. Well had it been for Barbaroux,
had he yielded timeously to the loving call of Melanie, made so
romantically and mysteriously. It was not so destined to be.[2]
49. M
"JUDGE NOT!"
any years since, two pupils of the University at Warsaw were
passing through the street in which stands the column of King
Sigismund, round whose pedestal may generally be seen seated a
number of women selling fruit, cakes, and a variety of eatables, to
the passers-by. The young men paused to look at a figure whose
oddity attracted their attention. This was a man apparently between
fifty and sixty years of age; his coat, once black, was worn
threadbare; his broad hat overshadowed a thin wrinkled face; his
form was greatly emaciated, yet he walked with a firm and rapid
step. He stopped at one of the stalls beneath the column, purchased
a halfpenny worth of bread, ate part of it, put the remainder into his
pocket, and pursued his way toward the palace of General
Zaionczek, lieutenant of the kingdom, who, in the absence of the
czar, Alexander, exercised royal authority in Poland.
"Do you know that man?" asked one student of the other.
"I do not; but judging by his lugubrious costume, and no less
mournful countenance, I should guess him to be an undertaker."
"Wrong, my friend; he is Stanislas Staszic."
"Staszic!" exclaimed the student, looking after the man, who was
then entering the palace. "How can a mean, wretched-looking man,
who stops in the middle of the street to buy a morsel of bread, be
rich and powerful?"
"Yet, so it is," replied his companion. "Under this unpromising
exterior is hidden one of our most influential ministers, and one of
the most illustrious savans of Europe."
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