The Native Literature of Bohemia in the Fourteenth Century

Front matter

THE NATIVE LITERATURE OF BOHEMIA

IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

THE

Preface

PREFACE.

T interest expressed in the subject of the following Lectures (which were delivered in the Taylorian Institution in April and May, 1877, according to the terms of Lord Ilchester’s bequest) by several of the audience, and the absolute absence of information upon it in the English language, have induced me to lay them before the British public. May I hope that the countrymen of Wickliffe will welcome an account, with specimens, of the Bohemian literature of the century which formed the dauntless hero and martyr of the next, Magister John Huss?

A. H. WRATISLAW.

Lecture 1

THE NATIVE LITERATURE OF BOHEMIA IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

I.

A SCENE laid on the sea coast of Bohemia proves that Shakespeare had no very exact knowledge of the geographical position of that country, although it had given a queen, the good Queen Anne, to his own nation. And at the present time the people of Great Britain are for the most part in a similar state of ignorance with regard to the literature of Bohemia, scarcely believing indeed that it has any literature at all, and utterly unable to account for that great intellectual and religious revolution, which, in the beginning of the fifteenth century, shook the power of Rome to its foundations, and animated a Slavonic people of only four millions to maintain successfully a single-handed conflict against the Papacy and the German Empire for full two hundred years. And if it yielded at length to overwhelming numbers and weight, it was not until it had been undermined for nearly a century by the crafty and cruel policy of scions of the Hapsburg dynasty upon its throne.

It is a very unfortunate circumstance that so much of Bohemian literature has been lost, or rather ruthlessly destroyed by the emissaries and agents of the Church of Rome. So that we are really ignorant whether comparatively good or average or inferior works, especially in poetry, have reached our times; the selection not having been made by the deliberate judgment of posterity, but by the mere fact of escape from the fangs of Jesuit and other “missionaries,” whose exact period is given by Dr. Palacky as ranging from 1620 to 1760, and afterwards from the more sporadic ravages of later destroyers. It mattered little to such barbarians whether any work that fell into their clutches was of Catholic or Protestant tendency, if it were but in the detested Bohemian tongue; and one Jesuit boasted on his death-bed that he had destroyed with his own hands no less than 60,000 volumes in that language.

Education reached a high pitch in Bohemia in the fourteenth century, and it is simply due to hostile calumny and its ignorant reception that the Bohemians in general and the Hussites in particular are commonly represented as a set of rude and ferocious barbarians, little, if at all, better than the Huns of Attila. The University of Prague itself was not founded till 1348, but efforts had previously been made in the same direction; and we are assured by Dr. Palacky (“History of Bohemia,” vol. iii. pt. i. pp. 185, 186), that before the end of the fourteenth century every market town had its grammar school, and at least one-third of the country parishes their respective parish schools, and this over and above the schools attached to various monasteries and convents. Indeed such a state of general education was an absolutely necessary condition of such a movement as that inaugurated by Huss and his precursors, and carried on by a succession of statesmen and warriors with an ability and power which has only to be known to be appreciated, but which in this country is very little known and consequently very little appreciated.

I am not about to discuss the question of the genuineness of the Queen’s Court Manuscript, which is commonly ascribed to the thirteenth, whereas I am confining myself to the undoubted remains of the literature of the fourteenth century. I will only remark, that every argument that has been brought against it, save one, admits of easy and victorious refutation. And that one is the absolute excellence of the unrhymed poems contained in it, which are decidedly superior to anything else in extant Bohemian poetical literature. Of one thing I am quite certain, namely, that the Queen’s Court Manuscript was not forged either by the discoverer, Hanka, or by any one to whom he had access—to such an extent did he both misread and misunderstand it. But the fourteenth century is especially interesting as exhibiting the preparation for the great Hussite movement, and also as being the epoch of the rise of Bohemian prose, which only needs to be known to occupy a high place in the literature of the world.

I cannot forbear commencing with an account of a discovery made in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge, only two years ago. A manuscript had lain there unnoticed for 140 years, when the Rev. R. Sinker, the present librarian, observed it, and thought I might possibly be able to say in what language it was written. He asked me to examine it, and I recognized it at once as what is commonly called “Dalimil’s Chronika Czeská,” a rhymed chronicle of the second decade of the fourteenth century, tracing the Bohemians, or rather Czechs, from the Tower of Babel to the writer’s own day. The author appears to have been a Bohemian knight, name unknown, who flourished between 1281 and 1314. The Cambridge Manuscript turns out to be the oldest complete (or nearly complete) manuscript of the work, and is ascribed to the year 1350 or thereabouts, only two fragments being of older date. I obtained the loan of the manuscript from Trinity College, and copied the whole, above 230 pages, for the Bohemian Museum. The writer gives his reasons for composing his work as follows—my translation being line for line with, and only varying from, the original by the substitution of an iambic for a trochaic rhythm of the same number of syllables:—

Many in histories delight, Save that their own land they do slight; Courtly therein their dead and wise, Simple their own race in their eyes; For had they look’d for honour there, Books of their own lam sure there were. Whence they might know all their own race, And whence they came might rightly trace. I’ve sought such books for many a day, And this hath been my wish alway, That some one this to pass would bring— Bohemia’s deels together string. So long this end I wish’d to gain, Till I the fact did ascertain, That none therein would venture make— Myself 1 will it undertake. “Tis hard a chronicle to write, From various sources to indite, For what men say is all too true, That nowhere is the whole in view. The scribes did little zeal affect, And therefore much they did neglect: Each on his own small district thought, Cared little for the rest or nought; Did oft by brevity confuse, And thus the sequence trne did lose. In Boleslaw a book I found, Which above others did abound; In wars it gave me special lore, And taught me much unknown before. Read’st thou of Prague the chronicle,

I do assure thec true and well, Far fewer facts set down there are, Though words are more abundant there; The Opatovian oft doth stray, Deludes thee, though it more doth say; The Vyssegradlian pleases least, But that of Boleslaw is best. Let all men, therefore, mark and know, To this I bold, by this I go. Find’st thou aught otherwise display’d, Not by my will the change was made, But as it written there we see, So is it here set down by me. Vain words t’ abridge is my intent, But give in full the sentiment, That ev’ry man may learn from me, And for his nation zealous be. Hearing, the wise will wiser be, The sad be set from sadness free. I’ll set things down as best I can, And then entreat a better man, Both for the honour of our land, And craft of foemen to withstand, My speech with rhyme to beautify, And deck with graceful brilliancy; Nor words of jeering will he say: E’en the unlearned chatter may. In one thing I have conscience fair, That I for my own tongue do care, This has awoke the thought in me, And urged me on to energy.

As a specimen of Dalimil’s narrative style I give the death of St. Wenceslas, or, as the Bohemians call him, Vaceslaw or Vaclaw—c being pronounced as ts. He was murdered by his brother Boleslaw in A.D. 928.

His brother envy ’gan to pain, He wished the crown and land to gain. But only this could show his spite: Hin to a feast he did invite, Made for his son a christ’ning glad, But evil in his mind he had. While with his brother he did bide, A godly squire who dwelt beside, Brought him a saddled steed to ride: “Mount and be off with speed,” said he; “For evil here awaiteth thee. Thy brother plans thy death, that he In the whole land sole prince may be.” To whom the prince: “What thou dost tell, Brother, I know myself full well. All thank for thy fidelity, But life’s been long enough for me; If I for God can suffer nought, Thus to my death will I be brought: In honour of St. Michael I will drink this cup, That he my soul may bear unto heav’n’s kingdom up.” It was that cup in mind he bore, Whereof God’s Son did say of yore: “If ye can drink that cup of pain, Which to the dregs I now must drain”—

When he began to bid farewell— “Here ye no more will see me dwell.” To church, to prayer he took his way, There Boleslaw did for him stay. When Vaclaw saw his brother there, He thank’d him for the banquet fair. Said Boleslaw his brother to, As from the sheath his sword he drew: “Brother, I’m glad to serve thy will, And now will likewise serve thee still; An end shall to thy speeches be”— Down on his head his sword brought he; Yet was he ta’en with such affright, The sword the skin could scarcely bite, Yet off was smitten Vaclaw’s ear; Down fell the murd’rous sword for fear. The prince the sword doth raise and say: “Brother, I might thee now repay; But so my God I love and dread, Not for the world thy blood I’d shed.” This said, the sword he gives him back: “Thy deed to finish be not slack:” The church’s threshold kneeleth on; Him Boleslaw doth rush upon, Doth summon people to his aid, While of him loud complaint he made. Styrsa, Hnevisa with their brethren come, And part the soul the body from.

An edition of Dalimil is now being prepared by Dr. Josef Jireczek, which will give the text from the Cambridge Manuscript, as far as it goes, evident gaps and mutilations being supplied from a manuscript lately discovered at Vienna of about twenty years later date. This edition would have appeared long ago, had not the discovery of the Cambridge Manuscript furnished the means of approaching far more closely to the original text than had ever been expected. It will also contain two ancient German translations of the Chronicle, so that it will be partially accessible to persons not acquainted with Bohemian.

In 1850 a manuscript of a long poetical Legend of St. Catherine was discovered by Dr. Josef Peczirka in the Royal Library at Stockholm, which uses words previously only found in the Queen’s Court and Grünberg Manuscripts, approaches very closely in its language and style to the “Alexandreis,” of which more anon, and is certainly a poem which would be considered graceful and elegant in any language. This legend places the martyrdom of St. Catherine on the 27th of December, whereas the Roman Church commemorates her on the 25th and the Greek on the 24th of November. The manuscript belonged to the Library of Peter Vok Ursinus of Rosenberg (ob. 1611), and was carried off by the Swedes in 1648, thus perhaps escaping destruction in its own country.

The extract of which I am about to give a translation requires a slight preface. Catherine, still a heathen, has received from a hermit a picture of the Virgin and child, which has wrought powerfully upon her imagination, and that the more as the face of the child is concealed from sight:—

When people all were fast asleep, All fires gone out and darkness deep, It enters then into her mind, That her own bower she will find, That she a taper clear will light, And, taking out that picture bright, Will set it down before her there. Then with both hands she did not spare, But did her gentle bosom smite, While streaming from her eyes so bright Tears, bitter tears, run down her checks, As she to that fair virgin seeks, To save her from despair and be Pleased to allow her eyes to see The face of her beloved son. With feelings sensitive o’erdone, With heart opprest, she sad doth sue, Saith, “Not as spouse, but handmaid true, Let him accept me, hapless maid!”

Down her white checks, as this she said, The tears dit as a torrent stream; Bloodshot her eyes with anxions gleam, Through longing great and earnestness, When thus, in manifold distress, Much had she wept in sore dismay, Down sinking on the grand she lay, And slept from after misery, Then, then it was her hap t’ espy A vision full of high intent And beauty and encouragement. Her seemèd, as she slumber’d there, She stood upon a meadow fair, A meadow large, a meadow wide, Full of delight on ev’ry side: With early summer grass ’twas bright, So youthful blooming in her sight, With ev’rything that’s rich and fair, As she lay slumb’ring dreaming there, That as the things of this world go, Pastures and meadows here below, She’d never fairer, brighter seen, Since she a living wight had heen. From these fair sights she turns her eyes, And sitting on a throne espies Mary, that gentle maiden bright, Whose mother holy Anna hight; In arms she holds her only one, The Christ, her own belovèd Son, Embracing her with loving cheer; Above his little shoulder dear

His white neck glitters fair and bright, E’en as a lily glitters white, When fairest white its petals gleam; And bright his lovely ringlets beam, All pure and spotless to behold, As beameth pure and precious gold, Than other gold more precious still; Upon his shoulders at their will The curling ringlets waving roll’d, In fashion like as rings of gold, Of purpose made and with intent. Sad sorrow to her heart was sent, And in her thoughts was grievous woe; For round and round though she did go, Still of her wish was she beguiled— To see the face of that fair child.

I will also give the scene on the way to martyrdom:—

They led her past the city’s wall And sadly gazed the people all, That follow’d her upon her way; And many a pagan lady gay Was weeping there to be espied, As she her lovely form descried, And look’d upon her beauty bright, Wailing the woeful time and sight, That such a beauteous maiden fair, So noble and of wisdom rare, Must pass by shameful death away. Then to her one and all cried they,

With flatt’ring words and blandishment, And counselling with one intent, That she herself therefrom should free, And not allow unworthily Her youth before its time t’ expire, But, as the Emperor did desire, Should be a mighty Empress made, And thus that grievous death evade. Meanwhile their steps the plain have found, And holy Cath’rine, looking round Upon them, unto them doth cry: “O all ye foolish people, why Look ye on me in mournful guise, And on me gaze with longing eyes? Ye men, and eke ye women, weep For your own grief and take no keep Of woes unreal, nor pity me, Nor loudly wail my death to see, Wherein small loss is mine to fear; But O! if any standing near Good will and kind compassion share, Because my outward form is fair, Me and my fate bewailing sore; These one and all I do implore, To leave their wailing and their woe, And in my glory joy to know, All who stand sympathizing nigh. And therefore this to you say I, My heart this prayer doth urge, I ween, For I with mine own eyes have seen Christ Jesus’ gracious self in sight,

Who is my very heart’s delight, Whose mighty power doth conquer all, Who me unto himself doth call. He is my energy and might, He is my love and dear delight, He is my King and Emp’ror great, He my soul’s aid in woeful state, His is my bridegroom wise and dear, He is my beauteous husband near, Towards whom upsprings both mind and sense, For he is perfect recompense, In whom his saints full comfort know, Elect in pure faith here below.”

It is uncertain whether the translations of the “Alexandreida” current in Bohemia were made from the original poem in Latin hexameters, or from the German versions which were popular during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. At any rate, the various fragments existing in Bohemian indicate that there were more versions than one current in the fourteenth century in the Bohemian language. As the original Latin is very scarce I give a couple of brief specimens, which will exhibit the style and sentiment of the poem—

“Tis strange, O man, how thou dost toil, And how thou dost thyself beguile,

For pelf thy life adventuring, And e’en, a still more precious thing, Thy soul thou riskest day by day; For pelf’s dear sake with death dost play, Through water and through fire dost go, Not dreading aught ofharm or woe, But always seeking pelf t’ attain, Which yet thou must resign again, For brief and short thy little life. See, how this world in change is rife! To-day thou’rt sound and glad withal, To-morrow thou may’st breathless fall. Know, what from others thou dost gain, At death thou canst no more retain, Thou wilt not as the hills remain.

Alexander, encouraging his followers to enter upon the great campaign against Persia, relates a vision which had appeared to him shortly after his father’s assassination:—

But if a while ye will but wait, There’s something that I would relate, Where-through I feel a certain hope, That with the foe we soon shall cope. ’Twas when my father dead was laid, A dream itself at night display’d: Methought, as there alone I lay, And none beside did watching stay, What counsel for myself to make;

I knew not what to undertake, Whether against my foes to rise, Or lowly stand in slavish guise. This did my mind distracted keep, But all around were fast asleep. I thought, as doth some wand’ring bird, With confidence and trust deferr’d, When she some quiet place doth seek, Safely to keep her children weak, Nor dares her nest with speed commence, Lest sad misfortune drive her thence; The wind may chance the nest t’ o’erthrow, A snake may bring her young ones woe; Through field and woodland long she flies, Till some choice place her eye descries. E’en so it was my hap to gaze, Till a clear light itself displays, As from a storm-cloud lighting bright: Whereat I was in dire affright, Who, where I was no more I knew; Sudden from heaven’s height in view A man right beauteous to espy Descended, and to me drew nigh. All honour on himself he bore, So wondrous was the garb he wore, That verily my mind did ween, That never man the like had seen. Thus much for sure mine eyes did see, A crown upon his head wore he, That was of bright and burnish’d gold And jewels precious to behold.

His name I could not learn at all, And this alone to mind recall, A name was on his forehead writ, But I might not decipher it, When I to him would question make, First of himself his speech he spake: “Go forth from thine own land,” quoth he, “All this world’s fame I give to thee; If I hereafter meet thine eyes, No evil think, no ill devise.” Thus briefly did he speak, and lo! Whither he went no man doth know, But as he turn’d himself away, Vanish’d that light, nor more did stay; And thereupon my hope I build, That what he said will be fulfill’d.

Of the chivalrous literature of the fourteenth century I shall not give any specimens. So far as yet published it appears to be of British origin, and to consist of translations from the cycle of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The battle between Tristram and Morolt is almost identical with the prose description of the same combat in the “Morte d’Arthur,” neither is there any national or particular interest in the story of Tandarias and Floribella. Let me pass on to one or two hymns and religious pieces, which are of consider- able beauty and elevation of sentiment. The following hymn appears to have been written in a time of famine subsequently to the year 1378, when the great schism commenced in the Church of Rome.

Our God Almighty rose From death, to save his foes: Then praise we him on earth, As Scripture bids, with mirth. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Three days he buried lay, He might no longer stay; Pierced were his hands and feet For man’s salvation sweet. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Jesus, thou didst arise, Ensample to our eyes, That we shall live again, And aye with God remain. >>Kyrie Eleison.

O Mary, Virgin dear, Bright rose from heaven’s sphere, For us thy Son entreat, Whom as our Lord we greet. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Jesus, our Lord most dear, Thy realm and subjects hear,

Us sinful Christian men, By all thou suffer‍d’st then! >>Kyrie Eleison.

O holy Mary’s Son, Forgive each sinful one, Lord Jesus, in our need, Thou who art ris’n indeed. >>Kyrie Eleison.

O heav’nly King most dear, Thy Czeskish people hear, Relieve us from this dearth, And plenty give on earth. >>Kyrie Eleison.

In answer to our cry, Peace and tranquillity Grant, Jesu, glorious King, That all thy praise may sing. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Forgive our sinful state, From error liberate, And grant us bounteously Thy Church’s unity! >>Kyrie Eleison.

O, all ye saints, entreat! Aid us herein, as meet, That we with you may dwell, And Jesu’s praises swell. >>Kyrie Eleison.

The other hymn to which I shall invite attention possesses a peculiar historical interest of its own. It is alluded to by Huss himself in his sermon on Palm Sunday, where he says that the masters, priests, and scribes of his day cursed in the name of Jesus all those who went to Bethlehem (his chapel) to hear the sermon; all those who sang—

God rose from death by his own might;

and, again, those who sang—

O bounteous priest, Christ Jesu, Son, With Father and with Spirit one!

and, again, those who sang—

Come, visit us, dear Christ, adored Of the whole world almighty Lord! Grant us in heart to know thee here, And to expect thee without fear!

The “Jesus Christus nostra salus” was discovered by W. Hanka on the back of a bond, dated 1398, in the binding of a book in the library of St. Vitus, at Prague, and runs as follows:—

O bounteous Priest, Christ Jesu, Son, With Father and with Spirit one, Our all thy bounty is alone. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Thou now before us dost appear; By all thy wounds and torments drear, Have mercy, Maker, on us here. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Thy blood for us did freely stream, From endless death did us redeem; Let bright forgiveness on us beam. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Angels, with chant and hymn, before Their Maker kneeling low, adore, And give him praise for evermore. >>Kyrie Eleison.

God’s Mother, holy Mary dear! Be thou well pleased to aid us here, Grant us thy Son to know and fear. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Unto the Lord now let us cry, Our guilt to pardon graciously, And grant us heritage on high. >>Kyrie Eleison,

His Will alone our life doth give, Then let us deeds of darkness leave, And him no more to anger grieve. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Count not our souls among the lost, Complete the tenth choir of thy host. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Of soul, of body Saviour free, From deeds of ill our Guardian be, And grant the soul thyself to see. >>Kyrie Eleison.

O Holy Mary, aid our woe! Ye Saints, your people help below, Ere their souls perish evermoe! >>Kyrie Eleison.

O Maker, feel not wrath severe For sorrows of thy Mother dear, For all thy pain and tortures here. >>Kyrie Eleison.

We know that thou wast wounded sore, Hands, feet, and side their anguish bore, The scourge thy holy body tore. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Thy blood and body, of thy grace, As tokens of thy sacred face, Thou here hast left us in thy place. >>Kyrie Eleison.

By all thy pain and anguish sore, By the five woes thy Mother bore, For grief give joys for evermore. >>Kyrie Eleison.

God is before us; let us go, And be his friends on earth below, That he from heav’n may mercy show. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Before us, holy Mary, go, Entreat thy Son for us below, For sinful Christians here in woe. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Who chant this hymn in lowly state, And on God’s tortures meditate, And duly them commemorate, >>Kyrie Eleison.

Let all a blessing here to-day Receive, our sins to drive away, Our sinful souls to save for aye. >>Kyrie Eleison.

Seek we that fount unclosed for men, That endless flames may spare us then; Answer we, one and all, Amen!

Amen, amen, amen!

The allegorical poem—the contest or dispute between the soul and body—demands rather a description than a specimen, especially as it is corrupt and defective in several places. The body is addicted to pleasure; the soul sets its mortal nature before it, and complains that it will have to be punished for its sins. The body dies, and the devil seizes upon the soul, which entreats the Mother of God for aid. Mary rescues the soul from the devil, and intercedes with her son for it, and he assigns it over to his judges—Truth, Peace, Righteousness, and Mercy—for judgment. The devil complains of injustice, but Mary defends the soul, and the judges also take its part. Peace promises to obtain grace for it from Jesus. The part of Mercy appears to be lost, as well as the conclusion of the poem. But the poem entitled “Truth” is both meritorious and entire, and I have translated the whole of it. It is found, with several other poems, in a manuscript written in the year 1426, at the Castle of Hasenstein. The metre is complicated, the stanzas running in pairs, and the last line of every even stanza rhyming with that of its predecessor, thus evidently exhibiting considerable practice in poetical composition.

In musings strange full oft I stray, My heart to anguish sore a prey, Thinking on life’s unsteadfast way; To each and all, How things befall, The selfsame tale ’tis mine to tell.

Hear it, young son of honour’d age! Hear it, thou old and hoary sage! Deels of th unsteadfast world my page, Alas! must fill; This tale of ill Full many know, few heed it well.

The world doth still God’s anger earn, The young the ways of virtue spurn, The old with hate and discord burn, For without shame To paths of blame The whole community doth tend.

Truth hath her dowry due no more, Light is her value, as her store, Crafty the change that Falsehood bore Into her stead, Where now as head She rules, and Faith astray doth wend.

Alas, poor wretches, turn’d aside! Your Truth is but a wand’ring wide, And Falsehood judges you in pride Of place. Who gives, Victorious strives, Guilty is he whose gift is naught.

Thus Truth rust suffer sorrow great, Worse, ever worse, is her estate; The dawn arises dark as fate

With mists that fall; ’Tis doubtful all, If sunshine e’er will back be brought.

Men heeded not, in haste t’ acquire, That silver, gold, their heart’s desire, Would some day loathsome be as mire— Do sinners know, Why thus they go, Piling up wealth with toil and pain?

Without a thought those lived their day, Who honour own’d and wealth, that they Like fools must die, and pass away All nakedly In poverty, Knowing that we their place must gain.

Hear this, thou layer up of store! Bethink thyself, I thee implore, Thy bed must be beside the poor, Where thou thyself For all thy pelf Betak’st, for death before thee lies.

Do worldly pleasures lead aside? A gloomy cavern yawneth wide, Where thou for ages must abide; There the great day, That brings dismay, Thou must await in poorest guise.

When stands that banquet thee before, Little the worth of all thy store, Superfluous it for evermore. ’Tis then that friends For selfish ends Let envy step between and late.

Thy pelf thy friends doth disunite, Worms in thy body take delight, Sin hath thy spirit in its might; Each act and deed, Each thought of greed, ’Gainst thy poor soul it doth relate.

The godly man is sore afraid, Whom times of error have dismay’d, For Truth they have commingled made With Falsehood still At their foul will, As wore the world another dress.