Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Hous of Fame

Book II

NOW herkneth, every maner manThat English understonde can,And listeth of my dreem to lere;For now at erste shul ye hereSo selly an avisioun,That Isaye, ne Scipioun,Ne king Nabugodonosor,Pharo, Turnus, ne Elcanor,Ne mette swich a dreem as this!Now faire blisful, O Cipris,So be my favour at this tyme!And ye, me to endyte and rymeHelpeth, that on Parnaso dwelleBy Elicon the clere welle.O Thought, that wroot al that I mette,And in the tresorie hit shetteOf my brayn! now shal men seeIf any vertu in thee be,To tellen al my dreem aright;Now kythe thyn engyn and might!
This egle, of which I have yow told,That shoon with fethres as of gold,Which that so hyë gan to sore,I gan beholde more and more,To see hir beautee and the wonder;But never was ther dint of thonder,Ne that thing that men calle foudre,That smoot somtyme a tour to poudre,And in his swifte coming brende,That so swythe gan descende,As this foul, whan hit beheldeThat I a-roume was in the felde;And with his grimme pawes stronge,Within his sharpe nayles longe,Me, fleinge, at a swappe he hente,And with his sours agayn up wente,Me caryinge in his clawes starkeAs lightly as I were a larke,How high, I can not telle yow,For I cam up, I niste how.For so astonied and a-swevedWas every vertu in my heved,What with his sours and with my drede,That al my feling gan to dede;For-why hit was to greet affray.Thus I longe in his clawes lay,Til at the laste he to me spakIn mannes vois, and seyde, ‘Awak!And be not so a-gast, for shame!’And called me tho by my name.And, for I sholde the bet abreyde—Me mette—‘Awak,’ to me he seyde,Right in the same vois and steveneThat useth oon I coude nevene;And with that vois, soth for to sayn,My minde cam to me agayn;For hit was goodly seyd to me,So nas hit never wont to be.And herwithal I gan to stere,And he me in his feet to bere,Til that he felte that I had hete,And felte eek tho myn herte bete.And tho gan he me to disporte,And with wordes to comforte,And sayde twyës, ‘Seynte Marie!Thou art noyous for to carie,And nothing nedeth hit, parde!For al-so wis god helpe meAs thou non harm shalt have of this;And this cas, that betid thee is,Is for thy lore and for thy prow;—Let see! darst thou yet loke now?Be ful assured, boldely,I am thy frend.’ And therwith IGan for to wondren in my minde.‘O god,’ thoughte I, ‘that madest kinde,Shal I non other weyes dye?Wher Ioves wol me stellifye,Or what thing may this signifye?I neither am Enok, ne Elye,Ne Romulus, ne GanymedeThat was y-bore up, as men rede,To hevene with dan Iupiter,And maad the goddes boteler.’Lo! this was tho my fantasye!But he that bar me gan espyeThat I so thoghte, and seyde this:—‘Thou demest of thy-self amis;For Ioves is not ther-aboute—I dar wel putte thee out of doute—To make of thee as yet a sterre.But er I bere thee moche ferre,I wol thee telle what I am,And whider thou shalt, and why I camTo done this, so that thou takeGood herte, and not for fere quake.’‘Gladly,’ quod I. ‘Now wel,’ quod he:—‘First I, that in my feet have thee,Of which thou hast a feer and wonder,Am dwelling with the god of thonder,Which that men callen Iupiter,That dooth me flee ful ofte ferTo do al his comaundement.And for this cause he hath me sentTo thee: now herke, by thy trouthe!Certeyn, he hath of thee routhe,That thou so longe trewelyHast served so ententiflyHis blinde nevew Cupido,And fair Venus [goddesse] also,Withoute guerdoun ever yit,And nevertheles hast set thy wit—Although that in thy hede ful lyte is—To make bokes, songes, dytees,In ryme, or elles in cadence,As thou best canst, in reverenceOf Love, and of his servants eke,That have his servise soght, and seke;And peynest thee to preyse his art,Althogh thou haddest never part;Wherfor, al-so god me blesse,Ioves halt hit greet humblesseAnd vertu eek, that thou wolt makeA-night ful ofte thyn heed to ake,In thy studie so thou wrytest,And ever-mo of love endytest,In honour of him and preysinges,And in his folkes furtheringes,And in hir matere al devysest,And noght him nor his folk despysest,Although thou mayst go in the daunceOf hem that him list not avaunce.‘Wherfor, as I seyde, y-wis,Iupiter considereth this,And also, beau sir, other thinges;That is, that thou hast no tydingesOf Loves folk, if they be glade,Ne of noght elles that god made;And noght only fro fer contreeThat ther no tyding comth to thee,But of thy verray neyghebores,That dwellen almost at thy dores,Thou herest neither that ne this;For whan thy labour doon al is,And hast y-maad thy rekeninges,In stede of reste and newe thinges,Thou gost hoom to thy hous anoon;And, also domb as any stoon,Thou sittest at another boke,Til fully daswed is thy loke,And livest thus as an hermyte,Although thyn abstinence is lyte.‘And therfor Ioves, through his grace,Wol that I bere thee to a place,Which that hight THE HOUS OF FAME,To do thee som disport and game,In som recompensaciounOf labour and devociounThat thou hast had, lo! causeles,To Cupido, the reccheles!And thus this god, thorgh his meryte,Wol with som maner thing thee quyte,So that thou wolt be of good chere.For truste wel, that thou shalt here,When we be comen ther I seye,Mo wonder thinges, dar I leye,Of Loves folke mo tydinges,Bothe soth-sawes and lesinges;And mo loves newe begonne,And longe y-served loves wonne,And mo loves casuellyThat been betid, no man wot why,But as a blind man stert an hare;And more Iolytee and fare,Whyl that they finde love of stele,As thinketh hem, and over-al wele;Mo discords, and mo Ielousyes,Mo murmurs, and mo novelryes,And mo dissimulaciouns,And feyned reparaciouns;And mo berdes in two houresWithoute rasour or sisouresY-maad, then greynes be of sondes;And eke mo holdinge in hondes,And also mo renovelauncesOf olde forleten aqueyntaunces;Mo love-dayes and acordesThen on instruments ben cordes;And eke of loves mo eschaungesThan ever cornes were in graunges;Unethe maistow trowen this?’—Quod he. ‘No, helpe me god so wis!’—Quod I. ‘No? why?’ quod he. ‘For hitWere impossible, to my wit,Though that Fame hadde al the pyesIn al a realme, and al the spyes,How that yet she shulde here al this,Or they espye hit.’ ‘O yis, yis!’Quod he to me, ‘that can I preveBy resoun, worthy for to leve,So that thou yeve thyn advertenceTo understonde my sentence.‘First shalt thou heren wher she dwelleth,And so thyn owne book hit telleth;Hir paleys stant, as I shal seye,Right even in middes of the weyeBetwixen hevene, erthe, and see;That, what-so-ever in al these threeIs spoken, in privee or aperte,The wey therto is so overte,And stant eek in so Iuste a place,That every soun mot to hit pace,Or what so comth fro any tonge,Be hit rouned, red, or songe,Or spoke in seurtee or drede,Certein, hit moste thider nede.‘Now herkne wel; for-why I willeTellen thee a propre skile,And worthy demonstraciounIn myn imagynacioun.‘Geffrey, thou wost right wel this,That every kindly thing that is,Hath a kindly stede ther heMay best in hit conserved be;Unto which place every thing,Through his kindly enclyning,Moveth for to come to,Whan that hit is awey therfro;As thus; lo, thou mayst al day seeThat any thing that hevy be,As stoon or leed, or thing of wighte,And ber hit never so hye on highte,Lat go thyn hand, hit falleth doun.‘Right so seye I by fyre or soun,Or smoke, or other thinges lighte,Alwey they seke upward on highte;Whyl ech of hem is at his large,Light thing up, and dounward charge.‘And for this cause mayst thou see,That every river to the seeEnclyned is to go, by kinde.And by these skilles, as I finde,Hath fish dwellinge in floode and see,And treës eek in erthe be.Thus every thing, by this resoun,Hath his propre mansioun,To which hit seketh to repaire,As ther hit shulde not apaire.Lo, this sentence is knowen coutheOf every philosophres mouthe,As Aristotle and dan Platon,And other clerkes many oon;And to confirme my resoun,Thou wost wel this, that speche is soun,Or elles no man mighte hit here;Now herkne what I wol thee lere.‘Soun is noght but air y-broken,And every speche that is spoken,Loud or privee, foul or fair,In his substaunce is but air;For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke,Right so soun is air y-broke.But this may be in many wyse,Of which I wil thee two devyse,As soun that comth of pype or harpe.For whan a pype is blowen sharpe,The air is twist with violence,And rent; lo, this is my sentence;Eek, whan men harpe-stringes smyte,Whether hit be moche or lyte,Lo, with the strook the air to-breketh;Right so hit breketh whan men speketh.Thus wost thou wel what thing is speche.‘Now hennesforth I wol thee teche,How every speche, or noise, or soun,Through his multiplicacioun,Thogh hit were pyped of a mouse,Moot nede come to Fames House.I preve hit thus—tak hede now—By experience; for if that thouThrowe on water now a stoon,Wel wost thou, hit wol make anoonA litel roundel as a cercle,Paraventure brood as a covercle;And right anoon thou shalt see weel,That wheel wol cause another wheel,And that the thridde, and so forth, brother,Every cercle causing other,Wyder than himselve was;And thus, fro roundel to compas,Ech aboute other goinge,Caused of othres steringe,And multiplying ever-mo,Til that hit be so fer y-goThat hit at bothe brinkes be.Al-thogh thou mowe hit not y-seeAbove, hit goth yet alway under,Although thou thenke hit a gret wonder.And who-so seith of trouthe I varie,Bid him proven the contrarie.And right thus every word, y-wis,That loude or privee spoken is,Moveth first an air aboute,And of this moving, out of doute,Another air anoon is meved,As I have of the water preved,That every cercle causeth other.Right so of air, my leve brother;Everich air in other sterethMore and more, and speche up bereth,Or vois, or noise, or word, or soun,Ay through multiplicacioun,Til hit be atte House of Fame;—Tak hit in ernest or in game.‘Now have I told, if thou have minde,How speche or soun, of pure kinde,Enclyned is upward to meve;This, mayst thou fele, wel I preve.And that [the mansioun], y-wis,That every thing enclyned to is,Hath his kindeliche stede:That sheweth hit, withouten drede,That kindely the mansiounOf every speche, of every soun,Be hit either foul or fair,Hath his kinde place in air.And sin that every thing, that isOut of his kinde place, y-wis,Moveth thider for to goIf hit a-weye be therfro,As I before have preved thee,Hit seweth, every soun, pardee,Moveth kindely to paceAl up into his kindely place.And this place of which I telle,Ther as Fame list to dwelle,Is set amiddes of these three,Heven, erthe, and eek the see,As most conservatif the soun.Than is this the conclusioun,That every speche of every man,As I thee telle first began,Moveth up on high to paceKindely to Fames place.‘Telle me this feithfully,Have I not preved thus simply,Withouten any subtilteeOf speche, or gret prolixiteeOf termes of philosophye,Of figures of poetrye,Or colours of rethoryke?Pardee, hit oghte thee to lyke;For hard langage and hard matereIs encombrous for to hereAt ones; wost thou not wel this?’And I answerde, and seyde, ‘Yis.’‘A ha!’ quod he, ‘lo, so I canLewedly to a lewed manSpeke, and shewe him swiche skiles,That he may shake hem by the biles,So palpable they shulden be.But tel me this, now pray I thee,How thinkth thee my conclusioun?’[Quod he]. ‘A good persuasioun,’Quod I, ‘hit is; and lyk to beRight so as thou hast preved me.’‘By god,’ quod he, ‘and as I leve,Thou shalt have yit, or hit be eve,Of every word of this sentenceA preve, by experience;And with thyn eres heren welTop and tail, and everydel,That every word that spoken isComth into Fames Hous, y-wis,As I have seyd; what wilt thou more?’And with this word upper to soreHe gan, and seyde, ‘By Seynt Iame!Now wil we speken al of game.’—‘How farest thou?’ quod he to me.‘Wel,’ quod I. ‘Now see,’ quod he,‘By thy trouthe, yond adoun,Wher that thou knowest any toun,Or hous, or any other thing.And whan thou hast of ought knowing,Loke that thou warne me,And I anoon shal telle theeHow fer that thou art now therfro.’And I adoun gan loken tho,And beheld feldes and plaines,And now hilles, and now mountaines,Now valeys, and now forestes,And now, unethes, grete bestes;Now riveres, now citees,Now tounes, and now grete trees,Now shippes sailinge in the see.But thus sone in a whyle heWas flowen fro the grounde so hyë,That al the world, as to myn yë,No more semed than a prikke;Or elles was the air so thikkeThat I ne mighte not discerne.With that he spak to me as yerne,And seyde: ‘Seestow any [toun]Or ought thou knowest yonder doun?’I seyde, ‘Nay.’ ‘No wonder nis,’Quod he, ‘for half so high as thisNas Alexander Macedo;Ne the king, dan Scipio,That saw in dreme, at point devys,Helle and erthe, and paradys;Ne eek the wrecche Dedalus,Ne his child, nyce Icarus,That fleigh so highe that the heteHis winges malt, and he fel weteIn-mid the see, and ther he dreynte,For whom was maked moch compleynte.‘Now turn upward,’ quod he, ‘thy face,And behold this large place,This air; but loke thou ne beAdrad of hem that thou shalt see;For in this regioun, certein,Dwelleth many a citezein,Of which that speketh dan Plato.These ben the eyrish bestes, lo!’And so saw I al that meyneeBothe goon and also flee.‘Now,’ quod he tho, ‘cast up thyn yë;See yonder, lo, the Galaxyë,Which men clepeth the Milky Wey,For hit is whyt: and somme, parfey,Callen hit Watlinge Strete:That ones was y-brent with hete,Whan the sonnes sone, the rede,That highte Pheton, wolde ledeAlgate his fader cart, and gye.The cart-hors gonne wel espyeThat he ne coude no governaunce,And gonne for to lepe and launce,And beren him now up, now doun,Til that he saw the Scorpioun,Which that in heven a signe is yit.And he, for ferde, loste his wit,Of that, and leet the reynes goonOf his hors; and they anoonGonne up to mounte, and doun descendeTil bothe the eyr and erthe brende;Til Iupiter, lo, atte laste,Him slow, and fro the carte caste.Lo, is it not a greet mischaunce,To lete a fole han governaunceOf thing that he can not demeine?’And with this word, soth for to seyne,He gan alway upper to sore,And gladded me ay more and more,So feithfully to me spak he.Tho gan I loken under me,And beheld the eyrish bestes,Cloudes, mistes, and tempestes,Snowes, hailes, reines, windes,And thengendring in hir kindes,And al the wey through whiche I cam;‘O god,’ quod I, ‘that made Adam,Moche is thy might and thy noblesse!’And tho thoughte I upon Boëce,That writ, ‘a thought may flee so hyë,With fetheres of Philosophye,To passen everich element;And whan he hath so fer y-went,Than may be seen, behind his bak,Cloud, and al that I of spak.’Tho gan I wexen in a were,And seyde, ‘I woot wel I am here;But wher in body or in gostI noot, y-wis; but god, thou wost!’For more cleer entendementNadde he me never yit y-sent.And than thoughte I on Marcian,And eek on Anteclaudian,That sooth was hir descripciounOf al the hevenes regioun,As fer as that I saw the preve;Therfor I can hem now beleve.With that this egle gan to crye:‘Lat be,’ quod he, ‘thy fantasye;Wilt thou lere of sterres aught?’‘Nay, certeinly,’ quod I, ‘right naught;And why? for I am now to old.’‘Elles I wolde thee have told,’Quod he, ‘the sterres names, lo,And al the hevenes signes to,And which they been.’ ‘No fors,’ quod I.‘Yis, pardee,’ quod he; ‘wostow why?For whan thou redest poetrye,How goddes gonne stellifyeBrid, fish, beste, or him or here,As the Raven, or either Bere,Or Ariones harpe fyn,Castor, Pollux, or Delphyn,Or Atlantes doughtres sevene,How alle these arn set in hevene;For though thou have hem ofte on honde,Yet nostow not wher that they stonde.’‘No fors,’ quod I, ‘hit is no nede;I leve as wel, so god me spede,Hem that wryte of this matere,As though I knew hir places here;And eek they shynen here so brighte,Hit shulde shenden al my sighte,To loke on hem.’ ‘That may wel be,’Quod he. And so forth bar he meA whyl, and than he gan to crye,That never herde I thing so hye,‘Now up the heed; for al is wel;Seynt Iulyan, lo, bon hostel!See here the House of Fame, lo!Maistow not heren that I do?’‘What?’ quod I. ‘The grete soun,’Quod he, ‘that rumbleth up and dounIn Fames Hous, ful of tydinges,Bothe of fair speche and chydinges,And of fals and soth compouned.Herkne wel; hit is not rouned.Herestow not the grete swogh?’‘Yis, pardee,’ quod I, ‘wel y-nogh.’‘And what soun is it lyk?’ quod he.‘Peter! lyk beting of the see,’Quod I, ‘again the roches holowe,Whan tempest doth the shippes swalowe;And lat a man stonde, out of doute,A myle thens, and here hit route;Or elles lyk the last humblingeAfter the clappe of a thundringe,When Ioves hath the air y-bete;But hit doth me for fere swete.’‘Nay, dred thee not therof,’ quod he,‘Hit is nothing wil byten thee;Thou shalt non harm have, trewely.’And with this word bothe he and IAs nigh the place arryved wereAs men may casten with a spere.I nistë how, but in a streteHe sette me faire on my fete,And seyde, ‘Walke forth a pas,And tak thyn aventure or cas,That thou shalt finde in Fames place.’‘Now,’ quod I, ‘whyl we han spaceTo speke, or that I go fro thee,For the love of god, tel me,In sooth, that wil I of thee lere,If this noise that I hereBe, as I have herd thee tellen,Of folk that doun in erthe dwellen,And comth here in the same wyseAs I thee herde or this devyse;And that ther lyves body nisIn al that hous that yonder is,That maketh al this loude fare?’‘No,’ quod he, ‘by Seynte Clare,And also wis god rede me!But o thinge I wil warne theeOf the which thou wolt have wonder.Lo, to the House of Fame yonderThou wost how cometh every speche,Hit nedeth noght thee eft to teche.But understond now right wel this;Whan any speche y-comen isUp to the paleys, anon-rightHit wexeth lyk the same wight,Which that the word in erthe spak,Be hit clothed reed or blak;And hath so verray his lyknesseThat spak the word, that thou wilt gesseThat hit the same body be,Man or woman, he or she.And is not this a wonder thing?’‘Yis,’ quod I tho, ‘by hevene king!’And with this worde, ‘Farwel,’ quod he,‘And here I wol abyden thee;And god of hevene sende thee grace,Som good to lernen in this place.’And I of him took leve anoon,And gan forth to the paleys goon.