 | VASCO NUNEZ. The book of my lady |  |
86
VASCO NUNEZ.
For the interesting adventures of this truly great warrior, the
reader is referred to that pleasant volume of Washington Irving,
“The Companions of Columbus,” where the chief features of this
sketch will be found narrated. The writer owes little of it to his
own imagination.
Triumphant, on a peak of Darien,
Perch'd on the narrow isthmus, there, he stood
A moment, ere he cast his eyes below,
And trembled in his awe. Beneath him roll'd
The broad Pacific, never yet before
Unveiled to European. What were then
The feelings of Balboa? Who shall tell
The struggling, deep, emotions of the soul,
So high aspiring, when—to crown at last
The hope so fruitful in great enterprise,
And noble consummation—on his eyes
Burst forth that mighty prospect—that deep sea,
In the virginity of its pure waves,
Unrifled of a charm, for the first time
Won to a mortal's arms—or, who conceive,
When on the summit of that isthmus throned,
Higher than sovereign, and on either hand
Ranged the two sister seas, for the first time
Given to each other; he, that gallant chief,
Most noble and most valiant of the sons
Spain sent on this great service, stood alone,
And look'd upon his conquest? Who shall tell
The melancholy pride of his great soul,
Perch'd on the narrow isthmus, there, he stood
A moment, ere he cast his eyes below,
And trembled in his awe. Beneath him roll'd
The broad Pacific, never yet before
Unveiled to European. What were then
The feelings of Balboa? Who shall tell
The struggling, deep, emotions of the soul,
So high aspiring, when—to crown at last
The hope so fruitful in great enterprise,
And noble consummation—on his eyes
Burst forth that mighty prospect—that deep sea,
In the virginity of its pure waves,
Unrifled of a charm, for the first time
Won to a mortal's arms—or, who conceive,
When on the summit of that isthmus throned,
Higher than sovereign, and on either hand
Ranged the two sister seas, for the first time
Given to each other; he, that gallant chief,
Most noble and most valiant of the sons
Spain sent on this great service, stood alone,
And look'd upon his conquest? Who shall tell
The melancholy pride of his great soul,
87
When the achievement, long withheld, and won
Only by toil at last—the fearless toil
Of true adventure and achievement great,
That greater grew from trial—was his own;
And, to a spirit as aspiring, he
Added a name and triumph, scarce below
That of the “Admiral,” who led the way,
First, in this path of glory. With glad eye,
And soaring sense, and spirit almost drunk,
In its excess of rapture, dumb he stood,
And gazed upon the waters. Were these, then,
The billows of that Indian sea, which clasps
In its capacious bosom, those broad isles
Of boundless, unimaginable wealth,
In gold and gems o'erflowing, locking in
The spices and the perfumes of the east,
The world of spoil, the field of enterprise,
Meet for that ocean chivalry, to whom
The sea and land, the wild, and wilder yet
The savages that sway them, have no bar!
Was this that glorious sea—or, prouder still,
Had fortune yielded to his daring aim
Some lonely, lock'd-up ocean of the wild,
Some savage realm of water, undisturb'd,
Save by the Indian's bark, when, at the dawn,
He plunges through its silvery depths, unscared,
For the pearl oyster, and at eve returns,
Laden and glutted with his precious spoils,
To his lone wigwam by the reedy shore.
Such were the conqueror's dreams, yet not forgot
In his own triumph, was the God who gave
That sea, before a waste, untrod, unknown!
Bent knees, glad hearts, spoke audible the prayer,
Of that true band of warriors, as the cross,
Hewn in the tallest tree, was lifted up,
And stationed o'er their heads, whilst every eye
Only by toil at last—the fearless toil
Of true adventure and achievement great,
That greater grew from trial—was his own;
And, to a spirit as aspiring, he
Added a name and triumph, scarce below
That of the “Admiral,” who led the way,
First, in this path of glory. With glad eye,
And soaring sense, and spirit almost drunk,
In its excess of rapture, dumb he stood,
And gazed upon the waters. Were these, then,
The billows of that Indian sea, which clasps
In its capacious bosom, those broad isles
Of boundless, unimaginable wealth,
In gold and gems o'erflowing, locking in
The spices and the perfumes of the east,
The world of spoil, the field of enterprise,
Meet for that ocean chivalry, to whom
The sea and land, the wild, and wilder yet
The savages that sway them, have no bar!
Was this that glorious sea—or, prouder still,
Had fortune yielded to his daring aim
Some lonely, lock'd-up ocean of the wild,
Some savage realm of water, undisturb'd,
Save by the Indian's bark, when, at the dawn,
He plunges through its silvery depths, unscared,
For the pearl oyster, and at eve returns,
Laden and glutted with his precious spoils,
To his lone wigwam by the reedy shore.
Such were the conqueror's dreams, yet not forgot
In his own triumph, was the God who gave
That sea, before a waste, untrod, unknown!
Bent knees, glad hearts, spoke audible the prayer,
Of that true band of warriors, as the cross,
Hewn in the tallest tree, was lifted up,
And stationed o'er their heads, whilst every eye
88
Grew pregnant with its tears—some upward turn'd,
To heaven, in thanks and gladness; many more
To the deep quiet waters at their feet.
Twas midnight, and the stars were in the heavens,
Each in his brightness. Not a single cloud
Dimmed their profusion, and upon that sea,
Curl'd into gentle billows, with a swell
Like the voluptuous heavings of the breast,
Of some fair princess of the burning east,
They show'd their countless and repeated lights,
With a most emulous glory. From the south,
Where it had wander'd the protracted day,
Amidst the profuse gardens of the wild,
And with their odours laden, whence it came—
The gentle breeze, skimming the azure waves,
Rippled them into life, and bore them on,
With an incessant murmur, to the shore.
The reeds bent down to meet them, and gave forth
The tones of their united music—meet,
In its unmeasured beatings, to the sense,
For that broad wilderness of sea and land.
Whilst each, from its ascent, gradual but high,
From hill to hill extending, meeting oft,
Above, and arching o'er the vales between,
The tall and spiry pines, through the still hours
Kept up their solemn chorus, chiming in,
Monotonous but meet, with the deep seas,
And the soft zephyrs floating o'er their breasts.
'Twas midnight—but the chieftain did not sleep—
How could he sleep! The creature of his sleep—
The dreams that so had wrought him for long hours,
And kept him wakeful many a night before—
The vague conceit, the rich expectancy,
Of boundless conquest and unrivalled name,
That wrought his soul's ambition from the time
He first had dream'd of glory, were his own—
The hope of a long life was realised!
To heaven, in thanks and gladness; many more
To the deep quiet waters at their feet.
Twas midnight, and the stars were in the heavens,
Each in his brightness. Not a single cloud
Dimmed their profusion, and upon that sea,
Curl'd into gentle billows, with a swell
Like the voluptuous heavings of the breast,
Of some fair princess of the burning east,
They show'd their countless and repeated lights,
With a most emulous glory. From the south,
Where it had wander'd the protracted day,
Amidst the profuse gardens of the wild,
And with their odours laden, whence it came—
The gentle breeze, skimming the azure waves,
Rippled them into life, and bore them on,
With an incessant murmur, to the shore.
The reeds bent down to meet them, and gave forth
The tones of their united music—meet,
In its unmeasured beatings, to the sense,
For that broad wilderness of sea and land.
Whilst each, from its ascent, gradual but high,
From hill to hill extending, meeting oft,
Above, and arching o'er the vales between,
The tall and spiry pines, through the still hours
Kept up their solemn chorus, chiming in,
Monotonous but meet, with the deep seas,
And the soft zephyrs floating o'er their breasts.
'Twas midnight—but the chieftain did not sleep—
How could he sleep! The creature of his sleep—
The dreams that so had wrought him for long hours,
And kept him wakeful many a night before—
The vague conceit, the rich expectancy,
Of boundless conquest and unrivalled name,
That wrought his soul's ambition from the time
He first had dream'd of glory, were his own—
The hope of a long life was realised!
89
He was no more the creature he had been,
When boyhood was a season of delight,
And hope had many a semblance. When amid
The festive throng, for mirth and music bent,
At evening by the waters, or attuned
To a more fell employment, he was found
Rashly adventurous, daring still the first,
Where all were daring—in the tented field,
Join'd in close combat with the tawny Moor,
A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood,
Indifferent to aught but valorous deed
And bloody retribution—all were gone!
And in their stead a loftier spirit came,
Keeping him watchful. His advent'rous mind
Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last
And soared into the heavens; and, eagle-like,
He brooded 'mong those mountains through the night,
And meditated with the matin chime,
His flight across the waters, where to lead
He knew not; but his dreams, his waking dreams,
Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forms
And empires of the sun. He too would give
To Castile and to Leon a new world,
And more than he, the mighty Genoese,
Another ocean with its tribute wealth,
And uncomplaining waters.
Thus the chief,
As with his sword upon the grass, he made
Unmeaning strokes, unconscious, mused alone—
Not long alone, for on his shoulder fell
The weight of a strong hand, yet not in wrath.
He started from his trance. Beside him stood
One of the wise men of that soaring time—
A spirit which, through abstinence and toil,
Long study, reachings vast and infinite,
And grievous penance, in its age had grown
Familiar with the stars. To him they were
When boyhood was a season of delight,
And hope had many a semblance. When amid
The festive throng, for mirth and music bent,
At evening by the waters, or attuned
To a more fell employment, he was found
Rashly adventurous, daring still the first,
Where all were daring—in the tented field,
Join'd in close combat with the tawny Moor,
A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood,
Indifferent to aught but valorous deed
And bloody retribution—all were gone!
And in their stead a loftier spirit came,
Keeping him watchful. His advent'rous mind
Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last
And soared into the heavens; and, eagle-like,
He brooded 'mong those mountains through the night,
And meditated with the matin chime,
His flight across the waters, where to lead
He knew not; but his dreams, his waking dreams,
Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forms
And empires of the sun. He too would give
To Castile and to Leon a new world,
And more than he, the mighty Genoese,
Another ocean with its tribute wealth,
And uncomplaining waters.
Thus the chief,
As with his sword upon the grass, he made
Unmeaning strokes, unconscious, mused alone—
Not long alone, for on his shoulder fell
The weight of a strong hand, yet not in wrath.
He started from his trance. Beside him stood
One of the wise men of that soaring time—
A spirit which, through abstinence and toil,
Long study, reachings vast and infinite,
And grievous penance, in its age had grown
Familiar with the stars. To him they were
90
Not less than spirits, for they did reveal
The future with the past. Unveil'd to him
They were all present; and in rocky cells,
In ruin'd castles, and secluded caves,
And from the crowd remote, he conn'd the page,
Nightly, of human story; and could read
All fortunes, and could conjure them at will
Into the secker's presence. Such was he,
Who, on the morning watch of that calm night,
Stood by the musing Spaniard on that peak,
The peak of Darien, and looked, with him,
Sad, on the new-found sea that lay below.
To him the chief, who paused awhile, thus spake:
“Triumph, at last, old Cicer! All in vain,
The rocks, the woods, the mountain streams, and worse,
The drooping spirits of our wearied host,
And our own fears opposed us on our way.
These have we overcome, and Balboa now
May vaunt his conquests on the kindred page,
That shines with Colon's glory. Have I not
Given a new ocean to our monarch's crown,
A tributary world, a countless race,
And an unbounded, vast and nameless wealth,
Not to be number'd. Have I not outspread,
Even to the embraces of this foreign breeze,
That blossoms in its odour, come afar,
Doubtless, from gardens of the orient realm,
Hard by to Ophir—his unconquer'd flag;
And on this rock, beheld from either sea,
Planted the sacred standard of our faith,
The hallowed cross; in token that the wild
Is now the care of Christ, henceforth to be
The creature of his people?—and yet more,
For his true honour, have we not outborne
The glory of the Spanish name and arms,
In perilous adventure, crowned at last,
Through heaven's sweet mercy, with complete success?
The future with the past. Unveil'd to him
They were all present; and in rocky cells,
In ruin'd castles, and secluded caves,
And from the crowd remote, he conn'd the page,
Nightly, of human story; and could read
All fortunes, and could conjure them at will
Into the secker's presence. Such was he,
Who, on the morning watch of that calm night,
Stood by the musing Spaniard on that peak,
The peak of Darien, and looked, with him,
Sad, on the new-found sea that lay below.
To him the chief, who paused awhile, thus spake:
“Triumph, at last, old Cicer! All in vain,
The rocks, the woods, the mountain streams, and worse,
The drooping spirits of our wearied host,
And our own fears opposed us on our way.
These have we overcome, and Balboa now
May vaunt his conquests on the kindred page,
That shines with Colon's glory. Have I not
Given a new ocean to our monarch's crown,
A tributary world, a countless race,
And an unbounded, vast and nameless wealth,
Not to be number'd. Have I not outspread,
Even to the embraces of this foreign breeze,
That blossoms in its odour, come afar,
Doubtless, from gardens of the orient realm,
Hard by to Ophir—his unconquer'd flag;
And on this rock, beheld from either sea,
Planted the sacred standard of our faith,
The hallowed cross; in token that the wild
Is now the care of Christ, henceforth to be
The creature of his people?—and yet more,
For his true honour, have we not outborne
The glory of the Spanish name and arms,
In perilous adventure, crowned at last,
Through heaven's sweet mercy, with complete success?
91
These, Cicer, cannot, shall not be forgot;
And Balboa's name, when he shall be no more,
Shall have its chronicler, and spell the ear,
And on the lips of story sound as well,
As any in his record. How will 't read,
With “Vasco Nuncz de Balboa,” to write
“Colon the Admiral”—“world-finders both!”
The Magian paused a space, and in his eye,
Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom,
Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike
Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide—
A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue,
And, it might be, a large but single tear,
Unbidden gather'd. Calmly then he spoke.
“My son, at Palos, by the convent walls
Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells:
I saw her, when we last departed thence,
On this adventure. Not to me unknown,
The future, as you found it. You were then,
Already, known to glory—so men call,
Words from their fellow-men—and 'twas her pride
To speak of you as all the country spoke.
I could not check the current of her speech,
Nor were it kind to do so; but aroused,
And ravished with the subject, when she grew
Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils,
And all the gauds of fortune, in my heart
I sorrow'd for her strange simplicity.
I did not tell her that her eyes in vain
Would, till the sunset, o'er the waves look out
For her son's caravel. I did not say,
What, well persuaded, I might well have said,
That all your triumphs were to end at last
In a wild dungeon, and a bloody grave,
And ignominious scaffold—”
“Nay, start not—
It is my grief, as 'tis thy destiny,
That I should mourn for that I must foresee,
And Balboa's name, when he shall be no more,
Shall have its chronicler, and spell the ear,
And on the lips of story sound as well,
As any in his record. How will 't read,
With “Vasco Nuncz de Balboa,” to write
“Colon the Admiral”—“world-finders both!”
The Magian paused a space, and in his eye,
Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom,
Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike
Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide—
A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue,
And, it might be, a large but single tear,
Unbidden gather'd. Calmly then he spoke.
“My son, at Palos, by the convent walls
Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells:
I saw her, when we last departed thence,
On this adventure. Not to me unknown,
The future, as you found it. You were then,
Already, known to glory—so men call,
Words from their fellow-men—and 'twas her pride
To speak of you as all the country spoke.
I could not check the current of her speech,
Nor were it kind to do so; but aroused,
And ravished with the subject, when she grew
Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils,
And all the gauds of fortune, in my heart
I sorrow'd for her strange simplicity.
I did not tell her that her eyes in vain
Would, till the sunset, o'er the waves look out
For her son's caravel. I did not say,
What, well persuaded, I might well have said,
That all your triumphs were to end at last
In a wild dungeon, and a bloody grave,
And ignominious scaffold—”
“Nay, start not—
It is my grief, as 'tis thy destiny,
That I should mourn for that I must foresee,
92
And thou escape not. Hearken, then, awhile.
Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out
I traced thy fortune. Thou did'st seek of me,
Its features, but thy quest I still withstood,
As aiding not thy service to be known,
And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought,
Too much to dwell upon it. But with me
It grew a settled study. From my art—
Of which in praise I speak not, when I say
It has not fail'd me oft—I linger'd o'er
Thy varying fortunes. Every step thou took'st,
Whether in peace or war, in court or camp,
In ease or peril, I beheld at large.
I saw thee trace thy journey to the wild—
Thy each reverse—thy final, full success,
Until the mighty waters, which now roll
Incessant to our feet, proclaim'd thy fame;
And to the daring soldier gave the praise
Of calm forethought, deliberation wise,
And an intelligent sense, that all confirms
In this thy conquest. Here then are we now—
So far, the fortune I have traced is true!”
“What more, what more?” impatient, then, the chief,
Asked of the aged man. “Let me know all—
I do esteem thy art, and well believe
Thou lovest me as thy son. Thou wilt not speak
What 'twere not well to hear; and, well I know,
Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide,
May guide my wilder'd bark, and bring it safe.
Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech,
Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake,
Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all,
That I may battle boldly with my fate,
However vain the struggle, as becomes
A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild,
A spirit prone to combat with the seas,
And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man;
Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out
I traced thy fortune. Thou did'st seek of me,
Its features, but thy quest I still withstood,
As aiding not thy service to be known,
And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought,
Too much to dwell upon it. But with me
It grew a settled study. From my art—
Of which in praise I speak not, when I say
It has not fail'd me oft—I linger'd o'er
Thy varying fortunes. Every step thou took'st,
Whether in peace or war, in court or camp,
In ease or peril, I beheld at large.
I saw thee trace thy journey to the wild—
Thy each reverse—thy final, full success,
Until the mighty waters, which now roll
Incessant to our feet, proclaim'd thy fame;
And to the daring soldier gave the praise
Of calm forethought, deliberation wise,
And an intelligent sense, that all confirms
In this thy conquest. Here then are we now—
So far, the fortune I have traced is true!”
“What more, what more?” impatient, then, the chief,
Asked of the aged man. “Let me know all—
I do esteem thy art, and well believe
Thou lovest me as thy son. Thou wilt not speak
What 'twere not well to hear; and, well I know,
Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide,
May guide my wilder'd bark, and bring it safe.
Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech,
Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake,
Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all,
That I may battle boldly with my fate,
However vain the struggle, as becomes
A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild,
A spirit prone to combat with the seas,
And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man;
93
Give thy thought words, and let my fortune stand
Before me on the instant.”
The magian spoke:
“When in the gather'd stars thy fate I read,
In one remote and solitary light,
I saw its bane and baleful influence.
A single star thus quartered in the heavens
Teem'd with malicious auguries, and shook
All fires malign upon thee. It was then
I sought its secret power, and early read,
That, while afar, in the extremest east,
It kept its foreign station, thou wert safe;
But when with daring wing it took its way,
And where the evening hangs her golden lamp
O'er the sun's chambers, shook its lurid fires,
That hour to thee was perilously dark,
And death, a bloody, ignominious death,
Was gather'd in its verge. That hour's at hand—
Look forth into the west. Behold, apart,
From all communion with its fellow lights,
Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam,
That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns,
And, as exulting in the near approach
To the destruction of its victim, takes
A subtle halo round it. There are stars,
That to the eye of mortals seem but stars,
Yet are they evil spirits. Such is this.
They are not of the class with which they roam,
Their lights are not like those which burn around,
Nor have they the like genial influence.
They hold a fearful power o'er earthly things,
Man, and the worlds about him. O'er the earth,
And on the waters, they do exercise;
They have their moods, and bitterly at war
With all God's works, they seek for their annoy;
Impede their fortunes, or attend them on,
Even to success, as, with thee, this hath done,
That, when they hurl them down to the abyss,
Before me on the instant.”
The magian spoke:
“When in the gather'd stars thy fate I read,
In one remote and solitary light,
I saw its bane and baleful influence.
A single star thus quartered in the heavens
Teem'd with malicious auguries, and shook
All fires malign upon thee. It was then
I sought its secret power, and early read,
That, while afar, in the extremest east,
It kept its foreign station, thou wert safe;
But when with daring wing it took its way,
And where the evening hangs her golden lamp
O'er the sun's chambers, shook its lurid fires,
That hour to thee was perilously dark,
And death, a bloody, ignominious death,
Was gather'd in its verge. That hour's at hand—
Look forth into the west. Behold, apart,
From all communion with its fellow lights,
Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam,
That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns,
And, as exulting in the near approach
To the destruction of its victim, takes
A subtle halo round it. There are stars,
That to the eye of mortals seem but stars,
Yet are they evil spirits. Such is this.
They are not of the class with which they roam,
Their lights are not like those which burn around,
Nor have they the like genial influence.
They hold a fearful power o'er earthly things,
Man, and the worlds about him. O'er the earth,
And on the waters, they do exercise;
They have their moods, and bitterly at war
With all God's works, they seek for their annoy;
Impede their fortunes, or attend them on,
Even to success, as, with thee, this hath done,
That, when they hurl them down to the abyss,
94
The height shall be a perilous one they leave.
The gentler lights of heavenly providence
Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand
Apart, and from the rest all separate.
Some they precipitate from their high spheres,
Leaping into their place; while the dethroned,
Extinguish'd in the deeps of all their light,
Find there a dwelling-place, to their new case
More apt and fitting. Such pow'rs have these
O'er men and stars, as these do err and shoot,
Out from their proper places. Over thee
Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark'd
Its victim, surely—all thy triumph nought;
Thy spoils for other spoilers, and thy deeds
Nought valued, nothing doing for thy life,
But all against thee. Jesu be thy shield.”
Ere many days, and he, who at that hour
Beheld himself—by all the world beheld,
The hero born for conquest and renown,
Died on the block. The crown had passed away—
The moral was complete, and in the vast,
The utmost height of his unbounded sway,
And glorious triumph, far beyond compare,
Among his human fellows, Balboa died—
A hero's glory and a felon's fate,
Closing a perilous life of many toils
And true adventure. The magician's dream
Was sooth—and he, whom worlds could not contain,
So vast his spirit—whose far-darting soul
Saw from its skyey pinnacle, the new
And boundless shores he conquer'd—he, the brave,
The gallant in renown, where all were brave,
Perish'd, unheard, unheeded—not an eye
To weep his fortunes; not a single arm
To do his nature justice, and redress
The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died—
The world he conquered yielding him—a grave!
The gentler lights of heavenly providence
Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand
Apart, and from the rest all separate.
Some they precipitate from their high spheres,
Leaping into their place; while the dethroned,
Extinguish'd in the deeps of all their light,
Find there a dwelling-place, to their new case
More apt and fitting. Such pow'rs have these
O'er men and stars, as these do err and shoot,
Out from their proper places. Over thee
Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark'd
Its victim, surely—all thy triumph nought;
Thy spoils for other spoilers, and thy deeds
Nought valued, nothing doing for thy life,
But all against thee. Jesu be thy shield.”
Ere many days, and he, who at that hour
Beheld himself—by all the world beheld,
The hero born for conquest and renown,
Died on the block. The crown had passed away—
The moral was complete, and in the vast,
The utmost height of his unbounded sway,
And glorious triumph, far beyond compare,
Among his human fellows, Balboa died—
A hero's glory and a felon's fate,
Closing a perilous life of many toils
And true adventure. The magician's dream
Was sooth—and he, whom worlds could not contain,
So vast his spirit—whose far-darting soul
Saw from its skyey pinnacle, the new
And boundless shores he conquer'd—he, the brave,
The gallant in renown, where all were brave,
Perish'd, unheard, unheeded—not an eye
To weep his fortunes; not a single arm
To do his nature justice, and redress
The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died—
The world he conquered yielding him—a grave!
| VASCO NUNEZ. The book of my lady | |