Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Hous of Fame

Book I

GOD turne us every dreem to gode!For hit is wonder, by the rode,To my wit, what causeth swevenesEither on morwes, or on evenes;And why the effect folweth of somme,And of somme hit shal never come;Why that is an avisioun,And this a revelacioun;Why this a dreem, why that a sweven,And nat to every man liche even;Why this a fantom, these oracles,I noot; but who-so of these miraclesThe causes knoweth bet than I,Devyne he; for I certeinlyNe can hem noght, ne never thinkeTo besily my wit to swinke,To knowe of hir signifiaunceThe gendres, neither the distaunceOf tymes of hem, ne the causesFor-why this more than that cause is;As if folkes complexiounsMake hem dreme of reflexiouns;Or elles thus, as other sayn,For to greet feblenesse of brayn,By abstinence, or by seeknesse,Prison, stewe, or greet distresse;Or elles by disordinaunceOf naturel acustomaunce,That som man is to curiousIn studie, or melancolious,Or thus, so inly ful of drede,That no man may him bote bede;Or elles, that devociounOf somme, and contemplaciounCauseth swiche dremes ofte;Or that the cruel lyf unsofteWhich these ilke lovers ledenThat hopen over muche or dreden,That purely hir impressiounsCauseth hem avisiouns;Or if that spirits have the mightTo make folk to dreme a-nightOr if the soule, of propre kinde,Be so parfit, as men finde,That hit forwot that is to come,And that hit warneth alle and sommeOf everiche of hir aventuresBy avisiouns, or by figures,But that our flesh ne hath no mightTo understonden hit aright,For hit is warned to derkly;—But why the cause is, noght wot I.Wel worthe, of this thing, grete clerkes,That trete of this and other werkes;For I of noon opiniounNil as now make mencioun,But only that the holy rodeTurne us every dreem to gode!For never, sith that I was born,Ne no man elles, me biforn,Mette, I trowe stedfastly,So wonderful a dreem as IThe tenthe day [dide] of Decembre,The which, as I can now remembre,I wol yow tellen every del.
But at my ginning, trusteth wel,I wol make invocacioun,With special devocioun,Unto the god of slepe anoon,That dwelleth in a cave of stoonUpon a streem that comth fro Lete,That is a flood of helle unswete;Besyde a folk men clepe Cimerie,Ther slepeth ay this god unmerieWith his slepy thousand sonesThat alway for to slepe hir wone is—And to this god, that I of rede,Preye I, that he wol me spedeMy sweven for to telle aright,If every dreem stonde in his might.And he, that mover is of alThat is and was, and ever shal,So yive hem Ioye that hit hereOf alle that they dreme to-yere,And for to stonden alle in graceOf hir loves, or in what placeThat hem wer levest for to stonde,And shelde hem fro povert and shonde,And fro unhappe and ech disese,And sende hem al that may hem plese,That take hit wel, and scorne hit noght,Ne hit misdemen in her thoghtThrough malicious entencioun.And who-so, through presumpcioun,Or hate or scorne, or through envye,Dispyt, or Iape, or vilanye,Misdeme hit, preye I Iesus godThat (dreme he barfoot, dreme he shod),That every harm that any manHath had, sith [that] the world began,Befalle him therof, or he sterve,And graunte he mote hit ful deserve,Lo! with swich a conclusiounAs had of his avisiounCresus, that was king of Lyde,That high upon a gebet dyde!This prayer shal he have of me;I am no bet in charite!Now herkneth, as I have you seyd,What that I mette, or I abreyd.
Of Decembre the tenthe day,Whan hit was night, to slepe I layRight ther as I was wont to done,And fil on slepe wonder sone,As he that wery was for-goOn pilgrimage myles twoTo the corseynt Leonard,To make lythe of that was hard.But as I sleep, me mette I wasWithin a temple y-mad of glas;In whiche ther were mo imagesOf gold, stondinge in sondry stages,And mo riche tabernacles,And with perre mo pinacles,And mo curious portreytures,And queynte maner of figuresOf olde werke, then I saw ever.For certeynly, I niste neverWher that I was, but wel wiste I,Hit was of Venus redely,The temple; for, in portreyture,I saw anoon-right hir figureNaked fletinge in a see.And also on hir heed, parde,Hir rose-garlond whyt and reed,And hir comb to kembe hir heed,Hir dowves, and daun Cupido,Hir blinde sone, and Vulcano,That in his face was ful broun.But as I romed up and doun,I fond that on a wal ther wasThus writen, on a table of bras:‘I wol now singe, if that I can,The armes, and al-so the man,That first cam, through his destinee,Fugitif of Troye contree,In Itaile, with ful moche pyne,Unto the strondes of Lavyne.’And tho began the story anoon,As I shal telle yow echoon.First saw I the destrucciounOf Troye, through the Greek Sinoun,[That] with his false forsweringe,And his chere and his lesingeMade the hors broght into Troye,Thorgh which Troyens loste al hir Ioye.And after this was grave, allas!How Ilioun assailed wasAnd wonne, and king Priam y-slayn,And Polites his sone, certayn,Dispitously, of dan Pirrus.And next that saw I how Venus,Whan that she saw the castel brende,Doun fro the hevene gan descende,And bad hir sone Eneas flee;And how he fledde, and how that heEscaped was from al the pres,And took his fader, Anchises,And bar him on his bakke away,Cryinge, ‘Allas, and welaway!’The whiche Anchises in his hondeBar the goddes of the londe,Thilke that unbrende were.And I saw next, in alle this fere,How Creusa, daun Eneas wyf,Which that he lovede as his lyf,And hir yonge sone Iulo,And eek Ascanius also,Fledden eek with drery chere,That hit was pitee for to here;And in a forest, as they wente,At a turninge of a wente,How Creusa was y-lost, allas!That deed, [but] noot I how, she was;How he hir soughte, and how hir gostBad him to flee the Grekes ost,And seyde, he moste unto Itaile,As was his destinee, sauns faille;That hit was pitee for to here,Whan hir spirit gan appere,The wordes that she to him seyde,And for to kepe hir sone him preyde.Ther saw I graven eek how he,His fader eek, and his meynee,With his shippes gan to sayleToward the contree of Itaile,As streight as that they mighte go.Ther saw I thee, cruel Iuno,That art daun Iupiteres wyf,That hast y-hated, al thy lyf,Al the Troyanisshe blood,Renne and crye, as thou were wood,On Eolus, the god of windes,To blowen out, of alle kindes,So loude, that he shulde drencheLord and lady, grome and wencheOf al the Troyan nacioun,Withoute any savacioun.Ther saw I swich tempeste aryse,That every herte mighte agryse,To see hit peynted on the walle.Ther saw I graven eek withalle,Venus, how ye, my lady dere,Wepinge with ful woful chere,Prayen Iupiter an hyeTo save and kepe that navyeOf the Troyan Eneas,Sith that he hir sone was.Ther saw I Ioves Venus kisse,And graunted of the tempest lisse.Ther saw I how the tempest stente,And how with alle pyne he wente,And prevely took arrivageIn the contree of Cartage;And on the morwe, how that heAnd a knight, hight Achatee,Metten with Venus that day,Goinge in a queynt array,As she had ben an hunteresse,With wind blowinge upon hir tresse;How Eneas gan him to pleyne,Whan that he knew hir, of his peyne;And how his shippes dreynte were,Or elles lost, he niste where;How she gan him comforte tho,And bad him to Cartage go,And ther he shuldë his folk finde,That in the see were left behinde.And, shortly of this thing to pace,She made Eneas so in graceOf Dido, quene of that contree,That, shortly for to tellen, sheBecam his love, and leet him doThat that wedding longeth to.What shulde I speke more queynte,Or peyne me my wordes peynte,To speke of love? hit wol not be;I can not of that facultee.And eek to telle the manereHow they aqueynteden in-fere,Hit were a long proces to telle,And over long for yow to dwelle.Ther saw I grave, how EneasTolde Dido every cas,That him was tid upon the see.And after grave was, how sheMade of him, shortly, at oo word,Hir lyf, hir love, hir lust, hir lord;And dide him al the reverence,And leyde on him al the dispence,That any woman mighte do,Weninge hit had al be so,As he hir swoor; and her-by demedThat he was good, for he swich semed.Allas! what harm doth apparence,Whan hit is fals in existence!For he to hir a traitour was;Wherfor she slow hir-self, allas!Lo, how a woman doth amis,To love him that unknowen is!For, by Crist, lo! thus hit fareth;‘Hit is not al gold, that glareth.’For, al-so brouke I wel myn heed,Ther may be under goodliheedKevered many a shrewed vyce;Therfor be no wight so nyce,To take a love only for chere,For speche, or for frendly manere;For this shal every woman findeThat som man, of his pure kinde,Wol shewen outward the faireste,Til he have caught that what him leste;And thanne wol he causes finde,And swere how that she is unkinde,Or fals, or prevy, or double was.Al this seye I by EneasAnd Dido, and hir nyce lest,That lovede al to sone a gest;Therfor I wol seye a proverbe,That ‘he that fully knoweth therbeMay saufly leye hit to his yë’;Withoute dreed, this is no lye.But let us speke of Eneas,How he betrayed hir, allas!And lefte hir ful unkindely.So whan she saw al-utterly,That he wolde hir of trouthe faile,And wende fro hir to Itaile,She gan to wringe hir hondes two.‘Allas!’ quod she, ‘what me is wo!Allas! is every man thus trewe,That every yere wolde have a newe,If hit so longe tyme dure,Or elles three, peraventure?As thus: of oon he wolde have fameIn magnifying of his name;Another for frendship, seith he;And yet ther shal the thridde be,That shal be taken for delyt,Lo, or for singular profyt.’In swiche wordes gan to pleyneDido of hir grete peyne,As me mette redely;Non other auctour alegge I.‘Allas!’ quod she, ‘my swete herte,Have pitee on my sorwes smerte,And slee me not! go noght away!O woful Dido, wel away!’Quod she to hir-selve tho.‘O Eneas! what wil ye do?O, that your love, ne your bonde,That ye han sworn with your right honde,Ne my cruel deeth,’ quod she,‘May holde yow still heer with me!O, haveth of my deeth pitee!Y-wis, my dere herte, yeKnowen ful wel that never yit,As fer-forth as I hadde wit,Agilte [I] yow in thoght ne deed.O, have ye men swich goodliheedIn speche, and never a deel of trouthe?Allas, that ever hadde routheAny woman on any man!Now see I wel, and telle can,We wrecched wimmen conne non art;For certeyn, for the more part,Thus we be served everichone.How sore that ye men conne grone,Anoon as we have yow receyved!Certeinly we ben deceyved;For, though your love laste a sesoun,Wayte upon the conclusioun,And eek how that ye determynen,And for the more part diffynen.‘O, welawey that I was born!For through yow is my name lorn,And alle myn actes red and songeOver al this lond, on every tonge.O wikke Fame! for ther nisNothing so swift, lo, as she is!O, sooth is, every thing is wist,Though hit be kevered with the mist.Eek, thogh I mighte duren ever,That I have doon, rekever I never,That I ne shal be seyd, allas,Y-shamed be through Eneas,And that I shal thus Iuged be—“Lo, right as she hath doon, now sheWol do eftsones, hardily;”Thus seyth the peple prevely.’—But that is doon, nis not to done;Al hir compleynt ne al hir mone,Certeyn, availeth hir not a stre.And whan she wiste sothly heWas forth unto his shippes goon,She in hir chambre wente anoon,And called on hir suster Anne,And gan hir to compleyne thanne;And seyde, that she cause wasThat she first lovede [Eneas],And thus counseilled hir therto.But what! when this was seyd and do,She roof hir-selve to the herte,And deyde through the wounde smerte.But al the maner how she deyde,And al the wordes that she seyde,Who-so to knowe hit hath purpos,Reed Virgile in EneidosOr the Epistle of Ovyde,What that she wroot or that she dyde;And nere hit to long to endyte,By god, I woldë hit here wryte.But, welaway! the harm, the routhe,That hath betid for swich untrouthe,As men may ofte in bokes rede,And al day seen hit yet in dede,That for to thenken hit, a tene is.Lo, Demophon, duk of Athenis,How he forswor him ful falsly,And trayed Phillis wikkedly,That kinges doghter was of Trace,And falsly gan his terme pace;And when she wiste that he was fals,She heng hir-self right by the hals,For he had do hir swich untrouthe;Lo! was not this a wo and routhe?Eek lo! how fals and recchelesWas to Briseida Achilles,And Paris to Enone;And Iason to Isiphile;And eft Iason to Medea;And Ercules to Dyanira;For he lefte hir for Iöle,That made him cacche his deeth, parde.How fals eek was he, Theseus;That, as the story telleth us,How he betrayed Adriane;The devel be his soules bane!For had he laughed, had he loured,He mostë have be al devoured,If Adriane ne had y-be!And, for she had of him pitee,She made him fro the dethe escape,And he made hir a ful fals Iape;For after this, within a whyleHe lefte hir slepinge in an yle,Deserte alone, right in the see,And stal away, and leet hir be;And took hir suster Phedra thoWith him, and gan to shippe go.And yet he had y-sworn to here,On al that ever he mighte swere,That, so she saved him his lyf,He wolde have take hir to his wyf;For she desired nothing elles,In certein, as the book us telles.But to excusen EneasFulliche of al his greet trespas,The book seyth, Mercurie, sauns faile,Bad him go into Itaile,And leve Auffrykes regioun,And Dido and hir faire toun.Tho saw I grave, how to ItaileDaun Eneas is go to saile;And how the tempest al began,And how he loste his steresman,Which that the stere, or he took keep,Smot over-bord, lo! as he sleep.And also saw I how SibyleAnd Eneas, besyde an yle,To helle wente, for to seeHis fader, Anchises the free.How he ther fond Palinurus,And Dido, and eek Deiphebus;And every tourment eek in helleSaw he, which is long to telle.Which who-so willeth for to knowe,He moste rede many a roweOn Virgile or on Claudian,Or Daunte, that hit telle can.Tho saw I grave al tharivaileThat Eneas had in Itaile;And with king Latine his tretee,And alle the batailles that heWas at him-self, and eek his knightes,Or he had al y-wonne his rightes;And how he Turnus refte his lyf,And wan Lavyna to his wyf;And al the mervelous signalsOf the goddes celestials;How, maugre Iuno, Eneas,For al hir sleighte and hir compas,Acheved al his aventure;For Iupiter took of him cureAt the prayere of Venus;The whiche I preye alway save us,And us ay of our sorwes lighte!Whan I had seyen al this sighteIn this noble temple thus,‘A, Lord!’ thoughte I, ‘that madest us,Yet saw I never swich noblesseOf images, ne swich richesse,As I saw graven in this chirche;But not woot I who dide hem wirche,Ne wher I am, ne in what contree.But now wol I go out and see,Right at the wiket, if I canSee o-wher stering any man,That may me telle wher I am.’When I out at the dores cam,I faste aboute me beheld.Then saw I but a large feld,As fer as that I mighte see,Withouten toun, or hous, or tree,Or bush, or gras, or ered lond;For al the feld nas but of sondAs smal as man may see yet lyeIn the desert of Libye;Ne I no maner creature,That is y-formed by nature,Ne saw, me [for] to rede or wisse.‘O Crist,’ thoughte I, ‘that art in blisse,Fro fantom and illusiounMe save!’ and with devociounMyn yën to the heven I caste.Tho was I war, lo! at the laste,That faste by the sonne, as hyëAs kenne mighte I with myn yë,Me thoughte I saw an egle sore,But that hit semed moche moreThen I had any egle seyn.But this as sooth as deeth, certeyn,Hit was of golde, and shoon so bright,That never saw men such a sighte,But-if the heven hadde y-wonneAl newe of golde another sonne;So shoon the egles fethres brighte,And somwhat dounward gan hit lighte.