XIII.
The first song which concerns the Order of Wandering Students in general has been attributed to the Archipoeta or head-bard of the guild. Whoever this poet may have been, it is to him that we owe the _Confession of Golias_, by far the most spirited composition of the whole Goliardic species. I do not think the style of the poem on the Order, though it belongs to a good period, justifies our ascribing it to so inspired and genial a lyrist.
The argument runs as follows. Just as commission was given to the Apostles to go forth and preach in the whole world, so have the Wandering Students a vocation to travel, and to test the hearts of men wherever they may sojourn. A burlesque turn is given to this function of the _Vagi_. Yet their consciousness of a satiric mission, their willingness to pose as critics of society from the independent vantage-ground of vagabondage, seems seriously hinted at.
The chief part of the song is devoted to a description of the comprehensive nature of the Order, which receives all sorts and conditions of men, and makes no distinction of nationality. The habitual poverty of its members, their favourite pastimes and vices, their love of gaming and hatred of early rising, are set forth with some humour.
ON THE ORDER OF WANDERING STUDENTS.
No. 1.
At the mandate, Go ye forth, Through the whole world hurry! Priests tramp out toward south and north, Monks and hermits skurry, Levites smooth the gospel leave, Bent on ambulation; Each and all to our sect cleave, Which is life's salvation.
In this sect of ours 'tis writ: Prove all things in season; Weigh this life and judge of it By your riper reason; 'Gainst all evil clerks be you Steadfast in resistance, Who refuse large tithe and due Unto your subsistence.
Marquesses, Bavarians, Austrians and Saxons, Noblemen and chiefs of clans, Glorious by your actions! Listen, comrades all, I pray, To these new decretals: Misers they must meet decay, Niggardly gold-beetles.
We the laws of charity Found, nor let them crumble; For into our order we Take both high and humble; Rich and poor men we receive, In our bosom cherish; Welcome those the shavelings leave At their doors to perish.
We receive the tonsured monk, Let him take his pittance; And the parson with his punk, If he craves admittance; Masters with their bands of boys, Priests with high dominion; But the scholar who enjoys Just one coat's our minion!
This our sect doth entertain Just men and unjust ones; Halt, lame, weak of limb or brain, Strong men and robust ones; Those who flourish in their pride, Those whom age makes stupid; Frigid folk and hot folk fried In the fires of Cupid.
Tranquil souls and bellicose, Peacemaker and foeman; Czech and Hun, and mixed with those German, Slav, and Roman; Men of middling size and weight, Dwarfs and giants mighty; Men of modest heart and state, Vain men, proud and flighty.
Of the Wanderers' order I Tell the Legislature-- They whose life is free and high, Gentle too their nature-- They who'd rather scrape a fat Dish in gravy swimming, Than in sooth to marvel at Barns with barley brimming.
Now this order, as I ken, Is called sect or section, Since its sectaries are men Divers in complexion; Therefore _hic_ and _haec_ and _hoc_ Suit it in declension, Since so multiform a flock Here finds comprehension.
This our order hath decried Matins with a warning; For that certain phantoms glide In the early morning, Whereby pass into man's brain Visions of vain folly; Early risers are insane, Racked by melancholy.
This our order doth proscribe All the year round matins; When they've left their beds, our tribe In the tap sing latins; There they call for wine for all, Roasted fowl and chicken; Hazard's threats no hearts appal, Though his strokes still thicken.
This our order doth forbid Double clothes with loathing: He whose nakedness is hid With one vest hath clothing: Soon one throws his cloak aside At the dice-box calling; Next his girdle is untied, While the cards are falling.
What I've said of upper clothes To the nether reaches; They who own a shirt, let those Think no more of breeches; If one boasts big boots to use, Let him leave his gaiters; They who this firm law refuse Shall be counted traitors.
No one, none shall wander forth Fasting from the table; If thou'rt poor, from south and north Beg as thou art able! Hath it not been often seen That one coin brings many, When a gamester on the green Stakes his lucky penny?
No one on the road should walk 'Gainst the wind--'tis madness; Nor in poverty shall stalk With a face of sadness; Let him bear him bravely then, Hope sustain his spirit; After heavy trials men Better luck inherit!
While throughout the world you rove, Thus uphold your banners; Give these reasons why you prove Hearts of men and manners: "To reprove the reprobate, Probity approving, Improbate from approbate To remove, I'm moving."
The next song is a lament for the decay of the Order and the suppression of its privileges. It was written, to all appearances, at a later date, and is inferior in style. The Goliardi had already, we learn from it, exchanged poverty for luxury. Instead of tramping on the hard hoof, they moved with a retinue of mounted servants. We seem to trace in the lament a change from habits of simple vagabondage to professional dependence, as minstrels and secretaries, upon men of rank in Church and State, which came over the Goliardic class. This poem, it may be mentioned, does not occur in the _Carmina Burana_, nor is it included among those which bear the name of Walter Mapes or Map.
ON THE DECAY OF THE ORDER.
No. 2.
Once (it was in days of yore) This our order flourished; Popes, whom Cardinals adore, It with honours nourished; Licences desirable They gave, nought desiring; While our prayers, the beads we tell, Served us for our hiring.
Now this order (so time runs) Is made tributary; With the ruck of Adam's sons We must draw and carry; Ground by common serfdom down, By our debts confounded, Debts to market-place and town With the Jews compounded.
Once ('twas when the simple state Of our order lasted) All men praised us, no man's hate Harried us or wasted; Rates and taxes on our crew There was none to levy; But the sect, douce men and true, Served God in a bevy.
Now some envious folks, who spy Sumptuous equipages, Horses, litters passing by, And a host of pages, Say, "Unless their purses were Quite with wealth o'erflowing, They could never thus, I swear, Round about be going!"
Such men do not think nor own How with toil we bend us, Not to feed ourselves alone, But the folk who tend us: On all comers, all who come, We our substance lavish, Therefore 'tis a trifling sum For ourselves we ravish.
On this subject, at this time, What we've said suffices: Let us leave it, lead the rhyme Back to our devices: We the miseries of this life Bear with cheerful spirit, That Heaven's bounty after strife We may duly merit.
'Tis a sign that God the Lord Will not let us perish, Since with scourge and rod and sword He our souls doth cherish; He amid this vale of woes Makes us bear the burden, That true joys in heaven's repose May be ours for guerdon.
Next in order to these poems, which display the Wandering Students as a class, I will produce two that exhibit their mode of life in detail. The first is a begging petition, addressed by a scholar on the tramp to the great man of the place where he is staying. The name of the place, as I have already noticed, is only indicated by an N. The nasal whine of a suppliant for alms, begging, as Erasmus begged, not in the name of charity, but of learning, makes itself heard both in the rhyme and rhythm of the original Latin. I have tried to follow the sing-song doggerel.
A WANDERING STUDENT'S PETITION.
No. 3.
I, a wandering scholar lad, Born for toil and sadness, Oftentimes am driven by Poverty to madness.
Literature and knowledge I Fain would still be earning, Were it not that want of pelf Makes me cease from learning.
These torn clothes that cover me Are too thin and rotten; Oft I have to suffer cold, By the warmth forgotten.
Scarce I can attend at church, Sing God's praises duly; Mass and vespers both I miss, Though I love them truly.
Oh, thou pride of N----, By thy worth I pray thee Give the suppliant help in need, Heaven will sure repay thee.
Take a mind unto thee now Like unto St. Martin; Clothe the pilgrim's nakedness, Wish him well at parting.
So may God translate your soul Into peace eternal, And the bliss of saints be yours In His realm supernal.
The second is a jovial _Song of the Open Road_, throbbing with the exhilaration of young life and madcap impudence. We must imagine that two vagabond students are drinking together before they part upon their several ways. One addresses the other as _frater catholice, vir apostolice_, vows to befriend him, and expounds the laws of loyalty which bind the brotherhood together. To the rest of the world they are a terror and a nuisance. Honest folk are jeeringly forbidden to beware of the _quadrivium_, which is apt to form a fourfold rogue instead of a scholar in four branches of knowledge.
The Latin metre is so light, careless, and airy, that I must admit an almost complete failure to do it justice in my English version. The refrain appears intended to imitate a bugle-call.
A SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD.
No. 4.
We in our wandering, Blithesome and squandering, Tara, tantara, teino!
Eat to satiety, Drink with propriety; Tara, tantara, teino!
Laugh till our sides we split, Rags on our hides we fit; Tara, tantara, teino!
Jesting eternally, Quaffing infernally: Tara, tantara, teino!
Craft's in the bone of us, Fear 'tis unknown of us: Tara, tantara, teino!
When we're in neediness, Thieve we with greediness: Tara, tantara, teino!
Brother catholical, Man apostolical, Tara, tantara, teino!
Say what you will have done, What you ask 'twill be done! Tara, tantara, teino!
Folk, fear the toss of the Horns of philosophy! Tara, tantara, teino!
Here comes a quadruple Spoiler and prodigal! Tara, tantara, teino!
License and vanity Pamper insanity: Tara, tantara, teino!
As the Pope bade us do, Brother to brother's true: Tara, tantara, teino!
Brother, best friend, adieu! Now, I must part from you! Tara, tantara, teino!
When will our meeting be? Glad shall our greeting be! Tara, tantara, teino!
Vows valedictory Now have the victory; Tara, tantara, teino!
Clasped on each other's breast, Brother to brother pressed, Tara, tantara, teino!
In the fourth place I insert the _Confession of Golias_. This important composition lays bare the inner nature of a Wandering Student, describing his vagrant habits, his volatile and indiscriminate amours, his passion for the dice-box, his devotion to wine, and the poetic inspiration he was wont to draw from it.
In England this _Confession_ was attributed to Walter Map; and the famous drinking-song, on which the Archdeacon of Oxford's reputation principally rests in modern times, was extracted from the stanzas II _et seq._[29] But, though Wright is unwilling to refuse Map such honour as may accrue to his fame from the composition, we have little reason to regard it as his work. The song was clearly written at Pavia--a point inexplicably overlooked by Wright in the note appended to stanza 9--and the Archbishop-elect of Cologne, who is appealed to by name in stanza 24, was Reinald von Dassel, a minister of Frederick Barbarossa. This circumstance enables us to determine the date of the poem between 1162 and 1165. When the _Confession_ was manipulated for English readers, _Praesul Coventrensium, Praesul mibi cognite_, and _O pastor ecclesiae_ were in several MS. redactions substituted for _Electe Coloniae_. Instead of _Papiae_, in stanza 8, we read _in mundo_; but in stanza 9, where the rhyme required it, _Papiae_ was left standing--a sufficient indication of literary rehandling by a clumsy scribe. In the text of the _Carmina Burana_, the _Confession_ winds up with a petition that Reinald von Dassel should employ the poet as a secretary, or should bestow some mark of his bounty upon him.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 29: Wright's _Walter Mapes_, p. xlv.]
THE CONFESSION OF GOLIAS.
No. 5.
Boiling in my spirit's veins With fierce indignation, From my bitterness of soul Springs self-revelation: Framed am I of flimsy stuff, Fit for levitation, Like a thin leaf which the wind Scatters from its station.
While it is the wise man's part With deliberation On a rock to base his heart's Permanent foundation, With a running river I Find my just equation, Which beneath the self-same sky Hath no habitation.
Carried am I like a ship Left without a sailor, Like a bird that through the air Flies where tempests hale her; Chains and fetters hold me not, Naught avails a jailer; Still I find my fellows out, Toper, gamester, railer.
To my mind all gravity Is a grave subjection; Sweeter far than honey are Jokes and free affection. All that Venus bids me do, Do I with erection, For she ne'er in heart of man Dwelt with dull dejection.
Down the broad road do I run, As the way of youth is; Snare myself in sin, and ne'er Think where faith and truth is; Eager far for pleasure more Than soul's health, the sooth is, For this flesh of mine I care, Seek not ruth where ruth is.
Prelate, most discreet of priests, Grant me absolution! Dear's the death whereof I die, Sweet my dissolution; For my heart is wounded by Beauty's soft suffusion; All the girls I come not nigh, Mine are in illusion.
'Tis most arduous to make Nature's self surrender; Seeing girls, to blush and be Purity's defender! We young men our longings ne'er Shall to stern law render, Or preserve our fancies from Bodies smooth and tender.
Who, when into fire he falls, Keeps himself from burning? Who within Pavia's walls Fame of chaste is earning? Venus with her finger calls Youths at every turning, Snares them with her eyes, and thralls With her amorous yearning.
If you brought Hippolitus To Pavia Sunday, He'd not be Hippolitus On the following Monday; Venus there keeps holiday Every day as one day; 'Mid these towers in no tower dwells Venus Verecunda.
In the second place I own To the vice of gaming: Cold indeed outside I seem, Yet my soul is flaming: But when once the dice-box hath Stripped me to my shaming, Make I songs and verses fit For the world's acclaiming.
In the third place, I will speak Of the tavern's pleasure; For I never found nor find There the least displeasure; Nor shall find it till I greet Angels without measure, Singing requiems for the souls In eternal leisure.
In the public-house to die Is my resolution; Let wine to my lips be nigh At life's dissolution: That will make the angels cry, With glad elocution, "Grant this toper, God on high, Grace and absolution!"
With the cup the soul lights up, Inspirations flicker; Nectar lifts the soul on high With its heavenly ichor: To my lips a sounder taste Hath the tavern's liquor Than the wine a village clerk Waters for the vicar.
Nature gives to every man Some gift serviceable; Write I never could nor can Hungry at the table; Fasting, any stripling to Vanquish me is able; Hunger, thirst, I liken to Death that ends the fable.
Nature gives to every man Gifts as she is willing; I compose my verses when Good wine I am swilling, Wine the best for jolly guest Jolly hosts are filling; From such wine rare fancies fine Flow like dews distilling.
Such my verse is wont to be As the wine I swallow; No ripe thoughts enliven me While my stomach's hollow; Hungry wits on hungry lips Like a shadow follow, But when once I'm in my cups, I can beat Apollo.
Never to my spirit yet Flew poetic vision Until first my belly had Plentiful provision; Let but Bacchus in the brain Take a strong position, Then comes Phoebus flowing in With a fine precision.
There are poets, worthy men, Shrink from public places, And in lurking-hole or den Hide their pallid faces; There they study, sweat, and woo Pallas and the Graces, But bring nothing forth to view Worth the girls' embraces.
Fasting, thirsting, toil the bards, Swift years flying o'er them; Shun the strife of open life, Tumults of the forum; They, to sing some deathless thing, Lest the world ignore them, Die the death, expend their breath, Drowned in dull decorum.
Lo! my frailties I've betrayed, Shown you every token, Told you what your servitors Have against me spoken; But of those men each and all Leave their sins unspoken, Though they play, enjoy to-day, Scorn their pledges broken.
Now within the audience-room Of this blessed prelate, Sent to hunt out vice, and from Hearts of men expel it; Let him rise, nor spare the bard, Cast at him a pellet; He whose heart knows not crime's smart, Show my sin and tell it!
I have uttered openly All I knew that shamed me, And have spued the poison forth That so long defamed me; Of my old ways I repent, New life hath reclaimed me; God beholds the heart--'twas man Viewed the face and blamed me.
Goodness now hath won my love, I am wroth with vices; Made a new man in my mind, Lo, my soul arises! Like a babe new milk I drink-- Milk for me suffices, Lest my heart should longer be Filled with vain devices.
Thou Elect of fair Cologne, Listen to my pleading! Spurn not thou the penitent; See, his heart is bleeding! Give me penance! what is due For my faults exceeding I will bear with willing cheer, All thy precepts heeding.
Lo, the lion, king of beasts, Spares the meek and lowly; Toward submissive creatures he Tames his anger wholly. Do the like, ye powers of earth, Temporal and holy! Bitterness is more than's right When 'tis bitter solely.