Chapter VIII

When fell the vast and overgrown machineOf that poetic insolent array,Whose like for numbers never yet was seen,

A poet, fresh from school, was heard to say:"Have patience, comrades, trust my valour fine,The time will come when we shall have our day!

Anew I'll sharpen up this blade of mine,My pen, I mean, and slash to such degreeWill make our cause with novel lustre shine;

For Comedy doth offer, one can see,Large scope for genius, such as may sufficeTo keep its name from death and darkness free;

'Twas thus that TIMONEDA won the prize,Who put to press, to his undying fame,Great LOPE DE RUEDA'S Comedies;

Five skips I'd give, and in the nether flame,To get recited one that I have here,"Salerno's mighty Bastard" is its name;

Phœbus beware, from me thou hast to fearA sharp back-stroke, the finest and the firstThat Time hath seen in all his long career!"

On this a bomb with mighty clatter burst,Which urged the flight of that defeated race,In all the world the laziest and the worst.

No hope had they to wipe out their disgrace,They fled the spot with swift and smoking feet,And life, not honour, held the foremost place.

A certain one, from high Parnassus' seat,Reached Guadarrama with one leap in air,A new, unheard of, ay, and genuine feat.

With equal speed did babbling rumour bearThe news of triumph to the listening land,From clear Caïstro to Jarama fair;

Dark Esguëva mourned the victory grand,Pisuerga smiled, old Tagus laughing rolledDown to the sea his grains of golden sand.

With weariness, and dust, and toil untold,Apollo's locks, that erst were ruby bright,Were dashed with colour of the dullest gold;

But well content that all had ended right,While gay Mercurius thrummed the light guitar,He danced a galliard with supreme delight;

And in Castalia's stream, the coolest far,He laved his face, which shone as brightly nowAs polished steel of Turkish scimitar;

He rubbed him deftly down, and decked his browWith blended majesty and sweetest grace,Clear tokens of the joy he felt, I trow.

The Queens of human beauty left the place,Where they in sure and safe retreat had been,While raged the battle and the furious chase;

With wreaths plucked from the tree, the evergreen,They stood encircling god-like Poesy,All dressed in newest robes of brightest sheen;

Thalia, Terpsichoré, Melpomene,Erato, Urania, Polyhymnia fine,Euterpe, Clio, and Calliope;

Proud of their lithesome step, the tuneful NineTripped lightly through a new and mazy dance,To the sweet sound of instrument of mine,

Mine, did I say, I do but lie perchance,Like him who calls another's rhymes his own,If they be fit his honour to advance!

The meadows and the plain immense are strownWith the battalions of the conquering powers,That swell and ever swell to force unknown;

All eager to receive the welcome showersOf crowning honours, due to toil unbated,Through all the sweat and anguish of six hours;

The "called" as "chosen" fain would be instated,All look for highest places on the roll,And rate themselves far higher than they're rated;

Not rank, nor riches, but the wealth of soulIs all their claim, they make no other, none:For four that hit, a thousand miss the goal.

But Phœbus, who would fain all quarrel shun,Gave mandate, and forthwith Aurora hiesTo gather, at a season opportune,

From wealth of flowers on Flora's lap that lies,Four baskets-full of roses purpurine,And six of pearls dropped from her tearful eyes.

He begged the crowns, the fairest ever seen,The tuneful Nine upon their temples wear,Who gave them up with sweet and cheerful mien;

Three, to my mind, the fairest of the fair,To Naples went, I'm certain of the same;For Mercury himself conveyed them there;

Three other poets gained three crowns of fame,Who then were pilgrims at the sacred shrine,With deathless honour to their land and name;

Three came to Spain; and lo! three bards divineEntwined them round their brows; and verilyUpon their heads with fitting grace they shine!

But now did Envy, Nature's prodigy,Cursèd, corroding, stung with rage insane,Against the sacred gift raise murmuring cry:

"And is it possible," she said, "that SpainShould have and boast nine poets laureate?Great is Apollo, but his judgment's vain!"

The remnant of the crowd, with looks irate,Defrauded of their long expected prize,Took up the jarring strain of envious hate;

Before the fight began, their dazzled eyesBeheld them hailed as laureates of song,And now to heaven their shouts for "justice" rise.

But certain poets of the vulgar tongueHope still, and soon, to wrest that honour rare,In spite of Phœbus and his tuneful throng;

Others, though worthy latinists, despairTo pluck one leaflet from the laurel down,Though till their dying day they urge their prayer.

Those least avenge themselves who most do frown;And one was seen to press his throbbing brow,As if he fancied he might touch the crown.

This most unseemly strife Apollo nowCooled down at once, and gave rewards galoreTo every poet in the band, I vow;

Flora brought out five baskets from her store,Of Jasmines, Amarynths, and Roses fair,Aurora of her pearls as many more.

These were, sweet reader mine, the guerdons rareWhich Phœbus scattered with a lavish handAmongst the most poetic poets there;

They were, in sooth, a proud and happy band;A string of pearls, and eke a single rose,Were in their eyes a gift divinely grand.

And that the joyous festival might closeWith one more great and yet more marvellous thing,In honour of that triumph grandiose,

Sweet Poesy, the radiant, bade them bringThe wondrous brute whose hoof-prints brought to light,And made to gush Castalia's limpid spring;

A lackey brought him in an instant quite,With finest scarlet covered o'er and o'er,Champing his silver bit of gleaming white;

Sooth, Rozinante might have envied soreThe mighty Pegasus his matchless breed,And eke my lord D'Anglante's Brilliadore.

I do not know how many wings indeedBedecked his feet, proof positive and sound,That he could top the very wind in speed;

To show how quick and agile was his bound,He sprung four pike-lengths from the earth upright,With towering vigour and a calm profound.

Thou, who art listening, if thou heed arightThe sweet recital of this Journey grand,Shalt hear new things of exquisite delight.

This trotter's trappings, every plate and band,Were sparkling silver, hard as could be found,And fit the utmost tear and wear to stand;

His tail in sling of satin fine was bound,Of colour that is known as columbine,But let it loose 'twould sweep the very ground;

With hair of poppy-red or dark carmineWas decked his mane, and eke his massy tail,In all the world was nothing half so fine.

At times he moveth swift, then slow as snail,Sometimes he curvets, sometimes cleaves the air,At times he neighs, and then is still and stale.

New poet's luxury! Enjoyment rare!For some, in two big bags of leather dry,Collect his droppings with the utmost care!

"What are they doing?" I enquired, "and why?"Mercurius answered me right brusque enough,And yet with humorous gleamings in his eye:

"That which they gather is Tobacco snuff,Which for a poet with a weakly brain,To cure its giddiness, is rare good stuff!

Urania makes it, in such happy vein,That when the sufferer's nostrils sniff the scent,He gains his health and is himself again!"

I knit my brows, and with a shrug gave ventTo my disgust at such peculiar cure,From those in common use so different.

"Thou art in error, friend, this stuff, be sure,"Apollo said, to whom my thoughts lay bare,"Cures all head-swimmings, and makes health secure!

This charger is not fed on such coarse fareAs soldiers at some direful siege do eat,When death or hunger they are doomed to bear;

His rations are of daintiness complete,Amber and musk enwrapped in cotton wool,His drink the dew-drops of the meadow sweet;

At times of starch he hath a basket full,Or else of carobs, which his hunger stay,And do not puff him up, but keep him cool!"

I answered sharp: "Let that be as it may,My brain till now is good and sound withal,Head-swimmings cause me not the least dismay!"

On this our Sovereign lady, whom we callTrue Poesy, the bosom friend by rightOf great Apollo and the Muses all,

With kilted garments, and with speed of light,Coursed o'er the mountain, and in merry veinEmbraced each one, and said with great delight:

"O conquering blood, of purest Gothic strain,Now do I hope, and better than before,A wise and generous treatment to obtain,

And be respected ever more and moreBy the dull crowd, who cannot understandThat though I'm poor I'm honest to the core!

I leave you wealth in hope, and not in hand;A guerdon rich, full of the highest cheerThat all the realm of Fancy can command!

Now do I swear, and by this mountain dear,That were it mine, I'd give the meanest e'enAn income of a hundred thousand clear;

But in our vales no mines are to be seen,We've only waters limpid, good, and sane,And apes that take the form of swans, I ween!

Return, O friends, to see the sands againOf golden Tagus, and may peace secureBe yours, and happy hours that know no pain;

For now to you these matchless feats assureEternal fame, while Phœbus holds his reign,To flood the world with light serene and pure!"

O marvel new! O novelty most plain!Worthy of wonder dashed with horror too,Whose strangeness makes me marvel yet again!

Morpheus, the god of slumber, came to viewAs if by magic; on his head was wornA wreath of henbane leaves, of saintly hue;

He had a long-drawn stride, a look forlorn,And in his wake came Sloth, that sluggish eft,Who leaves him not at even-song or morn;

At his right side stood Silence, at his leftWas Negligence; his loosely flowing dressWas woven of softest wool, both woof and weft.

Full of the waters of ForgetfulnessHe bore a cauldron, and from bed to bedHe came with sprinkler wherewithal to bless;

Right by the scruff he seized each poet's head,And, though their faces changed into the hueOf pyrop stone, a bright and fiery red,

With water cool he laved us, and there grewOver each sense a drowsiness so longWe slept that day and eke another too.

Such is its strength, such virtues strange belongTo that rare liquor, that in very deedThe rights of death itself are not more strong!

Full many things there be that far exceedThe common faith, which genius stamps as true:The vulgar pass them by, and do not heed!

Waking from that sound sleep there met my viewNo hill nor hillock, god nor goddess round,Nor any poet of the countless crew.

Strange matter truly, passing every bound!I rubbed mine eyes, and seemed transported thenceInto the centre of some town renowned;

With some disgust, with wonder most intense,I turned to look, lest some deluding fearHad gained the vantage o'er my better sense:

And inly said: "There's no deception here,'Tis Naples' self, that city of great fame,Whose streets I paced for better than a year.

Italia's pride, that sets the world aflame,For of all famous cities near and farNot one possesses such a glorious name!

Soft in the time of peace, and strong in war,Mother of all abundance and noblesse,Elysian fields, and sweetest hills that are!

If giddy thoughts do not my brain distress,It seems that she hath changed her site in part,But to the increase of her loveliness.

What theatre is this, within whose heartSuch wondrous stores of beauty seem to rest,Such splendour, grandeur, industry and art?

Doubtless my eyelids still with sleep are pressed,For such a structure only Fancy rears,Not human science even at its best!

On this up-gliding at my side appearsA friend of mine, one PROMONTORIO hight,A right good soldier, though a youth in years;

My wonder grew, and to its greatest height,To see him verily in Naples here—To the past marvels fit companion quite.

My friend embraced me with a hug full dear,And, holding me, to question he begunWhether 'twas I myself he held so near;

He called me "father," and I called him "son,"And so the truth was placed in sudden light,Or sunny light, to use a homely pun;

Said PROMONTORIO: "Tell me if I'm rightThat some misfortune, father, brings thee here,With hairs so grey, and in this half-dead plight?"

"My son," I said, "I trod this country dearIn happier hours, and in a merrier vein,While yet my powers were fresh, my vision clear;

But that same will, that doth all wills constrain,I mean the will of heaven, hath held me boundTo seek it now with greater joy than pain;"

More had I said, when lo! a mighty soundThe fifes and horns and kettledrums did raise,My ear to gladden and my soul confound!

I turned me, and I saw more grand displaysOf festive jubilee than Rome could showE'en in her grandest and her happiest days!

Quoth he, my friend: "He whom thou seest goWith ardour to ascend that tortuous hill,Whose vigour gives to Mars himself a blow,

A soaring spirit is, who treads with skillThe clear straight path that leads to Virtue's goal,And sends through Envy's heart a furious thrill;

Of grave demeanour, yet of sweetest soul,He fills each heart with wonder and delight,And by his wit doth wisdom's self control!

But ere thou passest on to see the sightThat now awaits thee, if thou so incline,On this great show I fain would shed some light:

I give DON JUAN DE TASIS foremost lineIn this my tale, that it may better ring,And that my words may square with my design.

This gentleman, of gifts a living spring,Whom VILLAMEDIANA made a Count,Although already by his works a King;

He who, of goods and wealth a very fount,Likes not to hoard, but scatters them with glee,Hither or thither, 'tis of no account;

He, to whom Fame hath given, in such degree,To his clear name a loftiness serene,That he is styled the prodigal and free,

Hath so decreed, for honour ever keen,To be the first defender in the plainOf a grand Tourney—grandest ever seen!

His lofty greatness makes the passage plainTo his desire, with joy to celebrateThe regal nuptials that bind France and Spain.

The sound thou hearest is the sign we wait,That the grand Tourney will commence amain,That well may stun thee with its pomp and state;

Great Archimedes' self would writhe in painTo see how this miraculous displayBeggars his plans, mak es his inventions vain.

Observe the youth, the generous and the gay,Who lighteth down, in vigour reaching highAbove the rest, in crimson bright array;

The COUNT DE LEMOS he, whose deeds do flyOn wings of fame through all the world we see,Making fleet commerce 'twixt the earth and sky;

Though first he comes, the second champion he,Which place he takes, if I do err not far,To suit the just demands of courtesy.

El DUQUE DE NOCERA, guiding starIn military art, holds the third placeAs champion in this glorious festive war;

The fourth, who might be first in point of grace,Is Fort St. Elmo's mighty Castellan,Who Mars himself might vanquish in the race;

The fifth is ARROCIOLO, valiant manWho equals great Æneas, him of Troy,And e'en o'ertops him by a goodly span!"

The mighty numbers, which did there deploy,Brought to a speedy end his tale of grace,Whose grave recital filled my heart with joy.

On this I begged him he would find a place,Where undisturbed, as on some vantage tower,I might survey the wondrous festive race;

For it had struck me, in a happy hour,That I might put it into sounding verse,If Phœbus would but kindly give me power.

This did he; and I saw what to rehearseI do not dare, for thought and language fail,And keenest wit must suffer a reverse;

'Tis needful then that Silence tell the tale,For, sooth, it was a magnifique affair,And Fancy can supply each rich detail.

Since then I've heard that, with a curious care,With elegance supreme and grandiose,That heightened nothing and left nothing bare,

DON JUAN DE OQUINA told it all in prose,And gave it to the press to grace our age,In this most lucky we may well suppose;

For, not in story fabulous nor sage,Hath such like festival been ever found,None worthier of a place in History's page.

From this I reached, I know not how, the groundWhere I could see received, with welcome grand,El DUQUE DE PASTRANA the renowned;

Fame, winged with truth, did publish o'er the landHow much he charmed with wondrous courtesy,And stately bearing fitted to command;

How, like a second Alexander, heWith regal hand, where meanness left no taint,Did carry splendour to the last degree.

O'erwhelmed with awe, and eke with wonder faint,I reached Madrid in pilgrim's dress severe,For much it profiteth to seem a saint;

There doffed his hat to me, as he came near,The famous ACEVEDO and did cry:"A Dio, you are the well-come, Cavalier,

I speak ze Zenoese, the Tuscan I!""Padron, you are the well-found!" I did say;And as I turned I met, and eye to eye,

With LUIS VELEZ, model fine and gayOf courtly polished wit, and kissed his faceIn open street, and in the blaze of day;

My heart and hand I gave, and warm embraceTo PEDRO DE MORALES, and with rightJUSTINIANO claimed like friendly place.

At turning of a street there grasped me tightAround my neck an arm—I wondered whose;And, more to my confusion than delight,

(To speak right out I cannot well refuse,)He was a renegado of the band,Who did the coward's work in coward's shoes.

Two others of these LAICS came to hand,And with a grinning, hypocritic smile,And much salaaming, spoke me fair and bland.

I, an old poet, with sardonic wileReturned their bows, with courtesy in chief,Nor showed my pique, nor raised my brows the while.

Let it not, tender reader, give thee grief,Dissimulation hath at times its placeTo set the other virtues in relief;

O David, tell us, was not this thy case,When thou, in power of Achish, play'dst the fool,And feignèd folly showed thy wisdom's grace?

I left them, biding fitting time and coolTo brand their folly and their cowardice,And fill their cup of chastisement right full;

If in the high street poets met mine eyes,I stopped to think if they were runaways,And without speech I passed them in a trice;

My hair stood up on end, in homely phrase,Lest I should meet some poet by the wayOf those I did not know, or did not praise;

Who, with a poignard, or with secret playOf some sharp dirk, might stab me from behind,And take my life without a moment's stay.

Such meed of fame, sooth, fear I not to find,Who have received so many in my day,With guileless soul and with a grateful mind.

A certain stiff-necked stripling stopped the way,A bard to trade, with dress that's all the rage,And stamps him Goth a thousand leagues away;

Who said with all the pertness of his age:"Hark'ee, Señor Cervantes, well I knowI can a poet be, though I'm a page;

With loads of witless poets didst thou go,And left me out, who fain would see, I vow,The dainty springs that in Parnassus flow!

I do believe thou art a dotard, thou;Believe! I said not well, l'd better say,I've hit the very mark, and see it now!"

Another there, whose verses made displayOf silver, mother-o'-pearl, and crystal too,Of pearls and gold, in wildering array,

Like baited bull, came fiercely to my view;"With gauds like these, can any tell me whyThey gave me not a place among the crew?"

So cried he; and to both I gave reply:"It was the wise Apollo's wish," I said,"No malice, nay, nor ignorance had I!"

On this, with smothered ire, I turned and fled,And to my old and sombre home retired,And flung me worn and shattered on my bed;

For when a journey's long one feels so tired.