Transcribed from the 1899 Elliot Stock edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org

                          [Picture: Book cover]





                                   THE
                           UNPUBLISHED LEGENDS
                                    OF
                                 VIRGIL.


                               COLLECTED BY
                         CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

                                * * * * *

                                 LONDON:
                 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
                                  1899.

                                  TO THE
                          SENATOR AND PROFESSOR
                           DOMENICO COMPARETTI,

                                AUTHOR OF
                       “VIRGIL IN THE MIDDLE AGES,”

                          THIS WORK IS DEDICATED
                                    BY
                          CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

FLORENCE, _September_, 1899.




PREFACE.


All classic scholars are familiar with the Legends of Virgil in the
Middle Ages, in which the poet appears as a magician, the last and best
collection of these being that which forms the second volume of “Virgilio
nel Medio Aevo,” by Senator Professor Domenico Comparetti.  But having
conjectured that Dante must have made Virgil familiar to the people, and
that many legends or traditions still remained to be collected, I applied
myself to this task, with the result that in due time I gathered, or had
gathered for me, about one hundred tales, of which only three or four had
a plot in common with the old Neapolitan Virgilian stories, and even
these contained original and very curious additional lore.  One half of
these traditions will be found in this work.

As these were nearly all taken down by a fortune-teller or witch among
her kind—she being singularly well qualified by years of practice in
finding and recording such recondite lore—they very naturally contain
much more that is occult, strange and heathen, than can be found in the
other tales.  Thus, wherever there is opportunity, magical ceremonies are
described and incantations given; in fact, the story is often only a mere
frame, as it were, in which the picture or true subject is a lesson in
sorcery.

But what is most remarkable and interesting in these traditions, as I
have often had occasion to remark, is the fact that they embody a vast
amount of old Etrusco-Roman minor mythology of the kind chronicled by
Ovid, and incidentally touched on or quoted here and there by gossiping
Latin writers, yet of which no record was ever made.  I am sincerely
persuaded that there was an immense repertory of this fairy, goblin, or
witch religion believed in by the Roman people which was never written
down, but of which a great deal was preserved by sorcerers, who are
mostly at the same time story-tellers among themselves, and of this much
may be found in this work.  And I think no critic, however inclined to
doubt he may be, will deny that there is in the old mythologists
collateral evidence to prove what I have asserted.

It may be observed that in these Northern legends, Virgil is in most
cases spoken of as a poet as well as magician, but that he is before all,
benevolent and genial, a great sage invariably doing good, while always
inspired with humour.  Mr. Robinson Ellis has shrewdly observed that, in
reading the Neapolitan tales of Virgil, “we are painfully struck with the
absence, for the most part, of any imaginative element in them.”  I
would, however, suggest, that in these which I have gathered with no
small pains—having devoted a great part of my time for several years to
the task—there is no want of imagination, romance or humour.

Such are, in brief, the contents of this book.  Sincerely trusting that
the press and public may treat it as kindly as they did the
“Etrusco-Roman Remains,” and “The Legends of Florence,” I await the
verdict, which will probably determine whether I shall publish other
Italian traditions, of which I have still a very large collection.

                                                   CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.

FLORENCE,
      1899.




CONTENTS.

                                                                  PAGE
PREFACE                                                            vii
INTRODUCTION                                                        xi
THE STORY OF ROMOLO AND REMOLO                                       1
HOW VIRGIL WAS BORN                                                  4
VIRGIL, THE EMPEROR, AND THE TWO DOVES                              11
VIRGIL AND THE ROCK OF POSILIPPO                                    14
VIRGIL, THE EMPEROR, AND THE TRUFFLES                               17
BALSÀBO                                                             21
VIRGIL, MINUZZOLO, AND THE SIREN                                    33
LAVERNA                                                             38
VIRGIL AND THE UGLY GIRL                                            43
VIRGIL AND THE GEM                                                  44
II.  THE FLIES IN ROME                                              45
THE COLUMNS OF VIRGIL AND HIS THREE WONDERFUL STATUES               49
VIRGIL AND ADELONE                                                  54
VIRGIL AND DORIONE, OR THE MAGIC VASE                               58
VIRGIL AND THE LADY OF ICE AND WATER                                63
VIRGIL THE MAGICIAN, OR THE FOUR VENUSES                            66
VIRGIL, THE LADY, AND THE CHAIR                                     71
VIRGIL AND THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE                                 75
VIRGIL AND THE SPIRIT OF MIRTH                                      80
NERO AND SENECA                                                     88
VIRGIL AND CICERO                                                   92
VIRGIL AND THE GODDESS VESTA                                        97
THE STONE FISH, AND HOW VIRGIL MADE IT EATABLE                     103
VIRGIL AND THE BRONZE HORSE                                        106
VIRGIL AND THE BALL-PLAYER                                         108
VIRGIL AND THE GENTLEMAN WHO BRAYED                                111
VIRGIL AND THE GIRL WITH GOLDEN LOCKS                              113
VIRGIL AND THE PEASANT OF AREZZO                                   117
THE GIRL AND THE FLAGEOLET                                         123
LA BEGHINA DI AREZZO, OR VIRGIL AND THE SORCERESS                  128
THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW OF COLLE ALTO                               134
THE LEGEND OF LA MADONNA DELLA NEVE                                139
THE MAGICIAN VIRGIL: A LEGEND FROM THE SABINE                      140
VIRGIL, THE WICKED PRINCESS, AND THE IRON MAN                      152
GIOVANNI DI BOLOGNA AND THE GOD MERCURY                            155
THE DOUBLE-FACED STATUE, OR HOW VIRGIL CONJURED JANUS              161
VIRGIL AND HIS COURTIERS                                           163
VIRGIL AND THE THREE SHEPHERDS                                     164
THE GOLDEN PINE-CONE                                               167
VIRGIL’S MAGIC LOOM                                                172
VIRGIL AND THE PRIEST                                              180
IL GIGLIO DI FIRENZE, OR THE STORY OF VIRGIL AND THE LILIES        182
II.  VIRGIL AND THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF THE LILY                     185
VIRGIL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE EMPEROR OF ROME                     185
PROVERB STORIES OF VIRGIL
I.  VIRGIL AND POLLIONE                                            190
II.  VIRGIL AND MATTEO                                             194
VIRGIL AND THE FATHER OF TWELVE CHILDREN                           197
VIRGIL AS A PHYSICIAN, OR VIRGIL AND THE MOUSE                     199
THE ONION OF CETTARDO                                              203




INTRODUCTION.


    “C’est bien raison que je vous compte des histoires de Virgille de
    Romme lequel en son temps, fis moult de merveilles.”—_Les Faictz
    Merveilleux de Virgille_.  _XVIth Century_.

The reader is probably aware that during the Middle Ages, Virgil, who had
always retained great fame as a poet, and who was kindly regarded as
almost a Christian from a conjectured pious prophecy in his works,
underwent the process of being made romantic and converted into a
magician.  How it all came to pass is admirably set forth by Professor
Domenico Comparetti in his truly great work on “Virgil in the Middle
Ages.” {0a}

During the twelfth century, and for some time after, many learned
pilgrims or tourists from different parts of Europe, while in Italy,
hearing from the people these tales, which had a great charm in an age
when the marvellous formed the basis of nearly all literature, gave them
to the world in different forms.  And as the fame of Virgil as a poet was
almost the first fact learned by those who studied Latin, legends
relating to him spread far and wide.  The Mantuan bard had been well-nigh
deified by the Romans.  “Silius Italicus used to celebrate his birthday
every year, visiting his tomb as if it were a temple, and as a temple the
Neapolitan Statius used to regard it.” {0b}  And this reverence was
preserved by the Christians, who even added to it a peculiar lore.

“These tales,” says Comparetti, “originated in Naples, and thence spread
into European literature, in the first instance, however, outside Italy.
Their origin in Italy was entirely the work of the lower classes, and had
nothing to do with poetry or literature; it was a popular superstition
founded on local records connected with Virgil’s long residence in
Naples, and the celebrity of his tomb in that city.”

This latter is a shrewd observation, for as the tomb is close by the
mysterious grotto of Posilippo, which was always supposed to have been
made by magic, it was natural that Virgil, who was famed for wisdom,
should have been supposed to have wrought the miracle, and it may well be
that this was really the very first, or the beginning of all the legends
in question.  These were “connected with certain localities, statues and
monuments in the neighbourhood of Naples itself, to which Virgil was
supposed to have given a magic power.” . . .  Foreigners who visited
Naples thus learned these legends, and they passed “even into Latin works
of a learned nature.”  So it resulted that from the twelfth century
onward the fame of Virgil as a magician spread all over Europe.  Among
those who thus made of him a wonder-worker were Conrad von Querfurt,
Gervase of Tilbury, Alexander Neckham, and John of Salisbury.

That these marvellous tales were localized in Naples, and there first
applied to Virgil, may be freely admitted, but that they really
originated or were first invented there will be claimed by no one
familiar with older or Oriental legends.  This has not escaped Senator
Comparetti, who observes that wonders attributed long before to
Apollonius of Tyana and others “are practically identical with those
attributed in Naples to Virgil.”  The idea of setting up the image of a
fly to drive away flies, as Virgil did in one legend, is Babylonian, for
in Lenormand’s Chaldæan Magic we are told that demons are driven away by
their own images, and Baalzebub, as chief of flies, was probably the
first honoured in this respect.

That is to say, that little by little and year by year the tales which
had been told of other men in earlier times—magicians, sorcerers, and
wizards wild—were remade and attributed to Virgil.  The very first
specimen of an ancient Italian _novella_, given by Roscoe, is a Virgilian
legend, though the translator makes no mention of it.  So in the
“Pentamerone” of Giambattista Basile of Naples we find that most of the
tales come from the East, and had been of old attributed to Buddha, or
some other great man.

The Neapolitan stories of Virgil were spread far and wide, into almost
every language in Europe; but they had their day, and now rank with
black-letter literature, being republished still, but for scholars only.
I had read most of them in my youth, and when the work of Senator
Comparetti appeared, I was struck by the singular fact that there is next
to nothing in all the vast amount of Virgilianæ which he quotes, which
appears to have been gathered of late among the people at large.  A great
number of classic and mediæval names and characters are very familiar to
the most ignorant Italians.  How came it to pass that nothing is known of
Virgil, who appears in the “Divina Commedia” as the guide, philosopher,
and friend of Dante, whose works are read by all.

Inspired with this idea, I went to work and soon found that, as I had
conjectured, there were still extant among the people a really great
number of what may be called post-Virgilian legends, which possibly owe
their existence, or popularity, to the Virgil of Dante.  A very few of
them are like certain of the old Neapolitan tales, but even these have
been greatly changed in details.  As might have been expected of Northern
Italian narratives, they partake more of the nature of the _novella_ or
short romance, than of the nursery-tale or the mere anecdote, as given by
the earlier writers.  That is to say, there was, after Dante, among the
people a kind of renaissance in the fame of Virgil as a magician.  It is
by a curious coincidence that, as Senator Comparetti admits, all the
earlier legends of the bard were gathered and published by foreigners; so
have these of later time been collected by one not to the country born.

One good reason why I obtained so many of these tales so readily is that
they were gathered, like my “Florentine Legends” and “Etrusco-Roman
Remains,” chiefly among witches or fortune-tellers, who, above all other
people, preserve with very natural interest all that smacks of sorcery.
It is the case in every country—among Red Indians, Hindus or
Italians—that wherever there are families in which witchcraft is handed
down from generation to generation there will be traditional tales in
abundance, and those not of the common fairy-tale kind, but of a
mysterious, marvellous nature.  Now, that the narratives in this book
contain—quite apart from any connection with Virgil—in almost every
instance some curious traces of very ancient tradition, is perhaps to be
admitted by all.  Such is the description of Agamene, the Spirit of the
Diamond, which is one of the oldest of Græco-Roman myths, and Pæonia, who
kills or revives human beings by means of flowers, wherein she is the
very counterpart of Minerva-Pæonia, who taught Esculapius, as mythology
expressly states, “the power of flowers and herbs,” even as the statue
Pæonia teaches Virgil.  These are only two out of scores of instances,
and they are to me, as they will be to every scholar, by far the most
valuable part of my book.

These incidents, which I in many cases did not know, until after
subsequent search in mythologies, were ancient, certainly could not have
been invented by the very ignorant old women from whom they were
gathered.  And this brings me to the important consideration as to
whether these stories are really _authentic_.  A learned Italian
professor very lately asked me how I could be sure that the common people
did not palm off on me their own inventions as legends of Virgil.  To
which I replied that I would not be responsible for the antiquity or
origin of a single tale.  For, in the first place, any story of any
sorcerer is often attributed to Virgil, so that in two or three instances
which I have specially noted “a Virgil” means any magician.  And very
often I have myself told some story as a hint or suggestion, in order to
give some idea as to what I wanted, or to revive the memory.  But in all
cases they have come back to me so changed, and with such strange
fragments of classic lore of the most recondite kind added, that I had no
scruple in giving them just for what they were worth, leaving it for
critics to sift out the ancient from the modern, even as the eagles
described by Sinbad the Sailor, brought back the legs of mutton with
diamonds sticking to them.  “You would not,” I said to the professor of
classical lore, “reject newly-mined gold because it is encumbered with
dross; and that there may be much dross in all which I have gathered I am
sure; but there is gold in it all.”

The nursery peasant tales collected by Grimm and Crane, and many more,
represent surface-diggings.  Those who were first in the field had an
easy time in gathering what thousands knew.  But these finds are becoming
exhausted, and the collector of the future must mine out of the rock, and
seek for deeper traditions which have been sedulously concealed or kept
secret.  There are still many peasants who know this lore, though their
number is very rapidly diminishing, and they are, as a rule, without
exception, extremely averse to communicating it to anyone whom they know
or think is not what I may call a fellow-heathen, or in true sympathy
with them.  I may give in illustration of this an incident which occurred
recently as I write: Miss Roma Lister, who had an old Italian
witch-nurse, still living in Rome (and who has contributed several of
these tales of Virgil), who taught her something of the art “which none
may name,” while walking with a priest near Calmaldoli, met with a man
whom she knew had the reputation of being a _stregone_, or wizard.  She
asked him, _sotto voce_, if he knew the name of _Tinia_, one of the
Etruscan gods, still remembered by a few, and who is described in the
“Etrusco-Roman Remains.”  He hastily replied in a whisper: “Yes, yes; and
I know the incantation to him also—but don’t let the priest hear us.”  At
a subsequent meeting they interchanged confidences freely.  Maddalena,
whom I have chiefly employed to make collections among witches and
others, has often told me how unwilling those who knew any witch-lore are
to confess it, especially to ladies or gentlemen.  One must literally
conjure it out of them.

These tales of Virgil were collected in Florence, Volterra,
Rocca-Casciano, Arezzo, Siena, and several places near it, and Rome.  I
have several not to be published, because they are so trifling, or so
utterly confused and badly written, or “shocking,” that I could make
nothing of them.  In all, however, which I have collected, with one
exception—which is manifestly a mere common fairy-tale arbitrarily
attributed to the subject as a _magus_—Virgil appears as a great and very
benevolent man.  He aids the poor and suffering, has great sympathy for
the weak and lowly, and is ever ready to reprove arrogance and defeat the
plans of evil sorcerers.  But while great and wise and dignified, he is
very fond of a joke.  Sometimes he boldly punishes and reproves the
Emperor of Rome—anon he contrives some merry jest to amuse him.  The
general agreement of so many stories drawn from different sources as to
this character is indeed remarkable.

As regards the general “value” of these Virgilian tales, and a vast
number of others which I have collected, all of them turning on magic or
occult motives, it is well worth mentioning that from one to three
centuries ago a great number of tales very much resembling them were
published by Grosius, Prætorius, and others, as at a later date the
“Histoire des Fantômes et des Demons,” Paris, 1819, which work
unquestionably supplied Washington Irving with the story of the Spectre
Bridegroom, and another tale. {0c}  In Italy, the writers of _novella_,
such as Boccaccio, Bandello, Cinthio, and in fact nearly all of them,
shook off and ridiculed all that was associated with barbarous
superstitions and incantations, and yet in the “Metamorphosi” of Lorenzo
Selva, Florence, 1591, and here and there in similar obscure works by
writers not so painfully afflicted by “culture” and style as the leaders,
there are witch and fairy-tales which might have come from very old
women, and would be certainly recognised by them as familiar traditions.
That these mysterious stories contained an immense amount of valuable old
Latin classic lore and minor mythology, or that they were not altogether
silly and useless, does not seem to have entered the head of any one
Italian from Dante downward.  Men like Straparola and Basile made, it is
true, collections of merry tales to amuse, but that there was anything in
them of solid traditional value never occurred to them.  I mention the
few and far-between witch-tales which are found in certain writers,
because they are marvellously like those which I have given.  Some of
these, especially the later, are so elaborate or dramatic, or inspired
with what seems to be literary culture, that many who are only familiar
with simple fairy-tales might doubt whether the former are really
traditional folklore of the people, or even of fortune-tellers.  There is
a curious fact, unnoted now, which will be deeply dwelt on in a future
age when folklore and phases of culture will be far more broadly and
deeply or genially considered than they are at present.  This is, that
among the masses in Italy there exists an extraordinary amount of a
certain kind of culture allied to gross ignorance, as is amusingly
illustrated in the commonest language, in which, even among the lowest
peasants, one hears in every sentence some transformed or melted Latin
word of three or four syllables, suggesting excess of culture—like unto
which is the universal use of the sonnet and _terzarime_ among the most
ignorant.

If there are any readers who find it strange that in these legends and
traditions there are not only extraordinary but apparently incredible
remains of culture, fragments of mythology and incantations, which pierce
into the most mysterious depths of archæology, they would do well to
remember that the same apparent paradox struck “Vernon Lee,” who treated
it very fully in her “Euphorion,” in the chapters on the Outdoor Poetry
of Italy.  And among other things she thus remarks:

    “Nothing can be too artificial or highflown for the Italian
    peasantry; its tales are all of kings, princesses, fairies, knights,
    winged horses, marvellous jewels . . . its songs, almost without
    exception, about love, constancy, moon, stars, flowers.  Such things
    have not been degraded by familiarity and parody, as in the town;
    they retain for the country-folk the vague charm, like that of music,
    automatic and independent of thorough comprehension, of belonging to
    a sphere of the marvellous—hence they are repeated with almost
    religious servility.”

But it must be remembered that with elaborate poetic forms and fancies,
which would be foreign or unintelligible, and certainly unsympathetic,
even to the fairly well-educated citizen of England or America, there has
been preserved to the very letter, especially in Tuscany, a mass of
literature which, while resembling the romances of chivalry which Chaucer
ridiculed, is far ruder; it even surpasses the Norse prose sagas in
barbarism.  The principal work of this kind is the “Reali di Francia,”
which is reprinted every year, and which is at least a thousand years
old.  This work, and several like it, are the greatest literary
curiosities or anomalies of the age.  In them we are hurried from battle
to battle, from carnage to carnage, with rude interludes of love and
magic, as if even the Middle Age had never existed.  The “Nibelungen
Lied” and “Heldenbuch” are by comparison to them refined and modern.

Can the reader imagine this as existing in combination with the literary
relics of the Renaissance and many strangely-refined forms of speech?
Just so among the youngest children in Florence one sees gestures and
glances and hears phrases which would seem to have been peculiar to
grown-up people in some bygone stage of society.  It is really necessary
to bear all this in mind when reading the legends which I have collected,
for they present the contradictions of barbarism and culture, of old
Latin traditions and crass ignorance, as I have never seen them even
imagined by students of culture.

And here I would remark, as allied to this subject, that folklore is as
yet far from being understood in all its fulness.  In France, for
example, no scholar seems to have got beyond the idea that it consists
entirely of _traditions populaires_, necessarily ancient.  In England we
have advanced further, but we are still far from realizing that with
every day there springs up and grows among the masses that which in days
to come will be deeply interesting, as expressing the spirit of the age.
This accretive folklore is just as valuable as any—or will be so—and it
should be gathered and studied, no matter what its origin may be.  So of
this book of mine, I express the conviction that it contains many tales
which have, since the days of Dante, and many perhaps very recently, been
attached to the name of Virgil, yet do not consider them less interesting
than those collected in the twelfth century by Gervais of Tilbury,
Neckham, and others.  In fact, these here given actually contain far more
ancient and curious traditional matter, because they have not been
abridged or filed down by literary mediæval Latinists into mere plots or
anecdotes as contracted as the “variants” of a modern folklorist.  The
older writers, and many of the modern, regarded as ugly excrescence all
that did not belong, firstly, to scholarship or “style”; secondly, to the
fact or subject in hand.  Thus, Lorenzo Selva gives a witch story with
six incantations, which are far more interesting than all the washy
poetry in his book, but is so ashamed of having done so, that he states
in a marginal note that he has only preserved them to give an idea of
“the silliness of all such iniquitous trash”—the “iniquitous trash” in
question being evidently of Etrusco-Roman origin, to judge from form and
similarity to other ancient spells.  In these later Virgilian tales there
has been no scruple, either as regards literary elegance or piety, to
prevent the chronicler from giving them just as they were told, the
“sinful and silly” incantations, when they occurred, being faithfully
retained, with all that can give an idea of the true spirit of the whole.
The mean fear of appearing to be vulgar, or credulous, or not literally
“genteel,” has caused thousands of such writers to suppress traditions
worth far more than all they ever penned.

I write this in the belief that all my critics will admit that in these,
as in my “Florentine Legends” and “Etrusco-Roman Remains,” I have really
recovered and recorded a great deal of valuable ancient tradition.  Also
that what was preserved to us of ancient Etruscan or Græco-Latin lore
regarding the minor gods and sylvan deities, goblins, etc., by classic
writers is very trifling indeed compared to the _immense_ quantity which
existed, and that a great deal of it may still be found among the
peasantry, especially among wizards and witches, is unquestionable.  That
I have secured some of this in my books is, I trust, true; future critics
will winnow it all out, and separate the wheat from the chaff.

I have entitled this work “The Unpublished Legends of Virgil,” which may
be called a contradiction in terms, since it is now given in type.  But
it is the only succinct title of which I can think which expresses its
real nature, and separates it from the earlier collections of such tales,
the latest of which was issued by Mr. D. Nutt.

And, finally, I would remark with some hesitation in advancing so strange
an idea, that in all the legends which I have gathered, I find
persistence in a very rude and earlier faith, which the Græco-Roman
religion and Christianity itself, instead of destroying, seem to have
simply strengthened.  Indeed, there are remote villages in Italy in which
Catholicism in sober truth has come down to sorcery, or gradually
conformed to it, not only in form, but in spirit; from which I conclude
that, till science _pur et simple_ shall be all-prevalent, the oldest and
lowest cults will exist among those whose minds are adapted to them.  And
as Edward Clodd, the President of the Folklore Society, has clearly
shown, {0d} there are thousands, even among the highly-educated in
Europe, who really belong to these old believers.

There will come a day, and that not very far off, when the last traces of
these strange semi-spiritual-romantic or classic traditions will have
vanished from the _people_, and then what has been recorded will be
sought for and studied with keenest interest, and conclusions drawn from
it of which we have no conception.  To some of us they are even now only
as

    “Departing sunbeams, loth to stop,
    Still smiling on the mountain-top.”

To the vast majority even of the somewhat educated world, collecting such
lore is like sending frigates to watch eclipses and North Pole
explorations, and the digging up old skulls in Neanderthals—that is, a
mere fond waste of money and study to no really useful purpose.  There is
a law of evolution which is so strictly and persistently carried out,
that it would seem as if the mocking devil, who, according to the
Buddhists, is the real head of the Universe, had it in his mind to jeer
mankind thereby—and it is that the work of man in the past shall perish
rapidly, and those who seek _vestigia rerum_ shall have as little
material as possible, even as dreams flit.  So the strife goes ever on,
chiefly aided by the ignorant, who “take no interest” in the past; and so
it will be for some time to come.  I have often observed that in Italy,
as in all countries, children and peasants take pleasure in destroying
old vases and the like, even when they could sell them at a profit; and
there is something of the same spirit among all people regarding things
which they do not understand.  Blessed are they who do something in their
generation to teach to the many the true value of all which conduces to
culture or science!  Blessed be they who save up anything for the future,
“and they shall be blest” by wiser men to come!  The primeval savages who
heaped up vast _koken middens_, or thousands of tons of oyster-shells and
bones, did not know that they were writing history; but they did it.
Perhaps the wisest of us will be as savages to those who are to come, as
they in turn will be to later men.




THE STORY OF ROMOLO AND REMOLO.


    “In quei buon tempi, ne i primi principii del Mondo, dicon li Poeti
    che gli uomini e le Bestie facevano tutti una medesima vita. . . .  E
    che sia il vero ch’ eglino s’ impastassino del feroce, como loro, e
    s’ incorporassino, leggete di Romolo e Remulo i quali si pascevon di
    latte di lupa.  Ecco già che divennero in opera lupi ingordissimi, e
    voraci.”—_La Zucca del Doni Fiorentino_, 1607.

There was of old a King who had a beautiful wife, and also two children,
twins, who were exactly alike.  This King was named Romo and his wife
Roma, and the children were called Romolo and Remolo.

Now, it came to pass that the Queen and her twins, both as yet sucklings
(_ancora poppanti_), were besieged in a castle when the King was far
away.  The enemy had sworn to kill the whole royal family and to
extirpate the kingly race.

Now, when the Queen was in sore distress, seeing death close upon her,
there came to her a wizard, who said:

“There is only one way by which you can save your life and that of your
babes.  I can change you all three into _lupi manari_, or were-wolves,
and thus in the form of wolves you may escape.”

Then the Queen had the power to become a she-wolf or a human being at her
will, and it was the same with the children.  So they fled away, and
lived in the woods for seven years; and the boys grew up like young
giants, as strong as six common children.  And the Queen became more
beautiful than ever, for she lived under a spell.

One day the King was hunting in the forest, when he found himself alone,
and surrounded by such a flock of raging wolves that his life was in
great danger, when all at once there came a very beautiful woman, who
seemed to have great power over the beasts, as if she were their queen,
for they obeyed her and retreated.  Then the King recognised in her his
lost wife.  So they returned with the twins to their castle, but the King
did not know that his wife and children were themselves were-wolves.

One day the same enemy who had sought to kill the Queen seven years
before, of which the King knew nothing, came to the castle pretending to
be a friend, and was kindly treated.  But when the Queen and her two sons
beheld him, they flew at him as if they were mad, and tore him to pieces
before all the Court, and began to devour him like raging wolves.  Yet
still the King did not know the whole truth.

Then a brother of the King who was thus slain gathered an army and
besieged Romo, who found himself in great danger.  One evening he said:

    “There is danger within the walls,
    The sound of enemies without,
    The sun set in blood,
    To-morrow it may rise to death.
    Would that I had more warriors to fight!
    Two hundred fierce and bold;
    Two hundred would save us all,
    Three hundred would give us full victory.”

The Queen said nothing, but that night she stole secretly out of the
castle with her sons, and when alone they began to howl, and soon all the
were-wolves in the country assembled.  So the Queen returned with three
hundred men, so fierce and wild that they looked like devils.

They were strange in every way, and talked or howled among themselves in
a horrible language, which, however, the Queen and her sons seemed to
understand.  And in the first battle Romo gained a great victory.  And it
was observed that the three hundred men ate the dead.  However, the King
was well pleased to conquer.

When Romolo and Remolo were grown up to be men they learned that in a
land not far away were two Princesses named Sabina and Sabinella, who
were the two most beautiful, and also the strongest, maidens in the
world.  And it was also made known that he who would win either must come
and conquer her in fight and carry her away by main strength.

So Romolo and Remolo went to their city, and on an appointed day the two
Princesses appeared in the public place, ready for the combat.  But
Romolo advanced with his brother riding on his shoulders, pick-back,
_sulle spalle_, as boys do, and, catching up Sabina with one hand and
Sabinella with the other, he ran away like the wind—so rapidly that he
soon distanced all pursuers.  And when Romolo was tired, Remolo took his
place, carrying the sisters and bearing his brother.  And Romolo made a
song on it:

    “Up and down the mountain,
    Over the fields and through the rivulets,
    Over gray rocks and green grass,
    I saw a strange beast run;
    It had three bodies and three heads,
    Six arms and six legs,
    Yet did it never run on more than two.
    Read the riddle rightly, if you can.”

The two brothers wished to build a new and great city of their own.  They
went to a certain goddess, who told them:

    “The city which ye hope to build will be
    The greatest ever seen in Italy;
    Above all others it will tower sublime,
    And rule the world in a far future time;
    But know that at the first, ere it can rise,
    It calls for blood and human sacrifice.
    I know not where the choice or fate doth lie,
    But of ye two the one must surely die.”

Now, men were greatly wanting for this city, because in those days there
were but few in the land.  Then the brothers assembled many wolves,
bears, foxes, and all wild beasts, and by their power changed them into
men.  And they did it thus: A sorcerer took an ox and enchanted it, and
slew it, and sang over it a magic song, and left it in an enchanted
place.  Then the wolves and other wild beasts came by night to the great
stone of the sacrifice, by a running stream.  A god beheld it.  They ate
the meat—they became men.  These were the first Romans.

Last of all came a serpent with a gold crown—the Queen of the Serpents.
She ate of the meat and became the most beautiful woman in the world.
She was a great magician.  Thus she became the goddess of the city, and
dwelt in the tower of the temple.  And her name was Venus.  She was like
a star.

Then Romolo and Remolo wished to know which of them was to die to save
the city.  And both desired it.  Then they resolved to take an immense
stone and cast it one at the other.  So Remolo picked it up and cast it
at his brother, and all who beheld it thought he must be slain.  But
Romolo caught it in his hands and threw it back; yet Remolo caught it
easily.  But in that instant his foot slipped, and he fell backward over
the Tarpeian Rock, and so he perished.  This is an old story.

And thus it was that Rome was built.

[Now, it was in this city, or near by, that in after-time Virgil was
born, who in his day did such wonders.  But the first wonder of all was
the manner of his birth.  For Virgil was the glory of Rome, and the
greatest poet and sorcerer ever known therein.]

                                * * * * *

It did not occur to me to include this tale among the Virgilian legends,
but finding that the compiler of “Virgilius the Sorcerer” (1893) has
begun with a legend of Romulus and Remus, I have done the same, having
one by me.  As the giant said to the storytelling ram, “There is nothing
like beginning at the commencement.”




HOW VIRGIL WAS BORN.


    “And truly this _aurum potabile_, or drinkable gold, is a marvellous
    thing, for it worketh wonders to sustain human life, removing all
    disorders, and ’tis said that it will revive the dead.”—PHIL.
    ULSTADT: _Cælum Philosophorum_, _seu Liber de Secretis_.

    “And there be magic mirrors in which we may see the forms of our
    enemies, and the like, battalions for battle, and sieges, and all
    such things.”—PETER GOLDSCHMID: _The Witch and Wizard’s Advocate
    overthrown_ (1705).

There was once in an old temple in Rome a great man, a very learned
Signore.  His name was Virgilio, or Virgil.  He was a magician, but very
good in all things to all men; he had a kind heart, and was ever a friend
to the poor.

Virgil was as brave and fearless as he was good.  And he was a famous
poet—his songs were sung all over Italy.  Some say that he was the son of
a fairy (_fata_), and that his father was a King of the magicians; others
declared that his mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world,
and that her name was _Elena_ (Helen), and his father was a spirit.  And
how it came about was thus:

When all the great lords and princes were in love with the beautiful
Elena, she replied that she would marry no one, having a great dread of
bearing children.  She would not become a mother.  And to avoid further
wooing and pursuing she shut herself up in a tower, and believed herself
to be in safety, because it was far without the walls of Rome.  And the
door to it was walled up, so that no one could enter it.  But the god
Jove (_Giove_) entered; he did so by changing himself into many small
pieces of gilded paper (gold-leaf), which came down into the tower like a
shower.

The beautiful Helen held in her hand a cup of wine, and many of the bits
of gold-leaf fell into it.

“How pretty it looks!” said Helen.  “It would be a pity to throw it away.
The gold does not change the wine.  If I drink the gold I shall enjoy
good health and ever preserve my beauty.”

But hardly had Helen drunk the wine, before she felt a strange thrill in
all her body, a marvellous rapture, a change of her whole being, followed
by complete exhaustion.  And in time she found herself with child, and
cursed the moment when she drank the wine.  And to her in this way was
born Virgil, who had in his forehead a most beautiful star of gold.
Three fairies aided at his birth; the Queen of the Fairies cradled him in
a cradle made of roses.  She made a fire of twigs of laurel; it crackled
loudly.  To the crackling of twigs of laurel he was born.  His mother
felt no pain.  The three each gave him a blessing; the wind as it blew
into the window wished him good fortune; the light of the stars, and the
lamp and the fire, who are all spirits, gave him glory and song.  He was
born fair and strong and beautiful; all who saw him wondered.

Then it happened, when Virgil was fourteen years old, that one day in
summer he went to an old solitary temple, all ruined and deserted, and
therein he laid down to sleep.  But ere he had closed his eyes he heard a
sound as of a voice lamenting, and it said:

    “Alas!  I am a prisoner!
    Will no one set me free?
    If any man can do it,
    Full happy shall he be.”

Then Virgil said:

“Tell me who thou art and where thou art.”

And the voice answered:

    “I am a spirit,
    Imprisoned in a vase
    Under the stone
    Which is beneath thy head.”

Then Virgil lifted the stone and found a vase, which was closed; and he
opened it, and there came forth a beautiful spirit, who told him that
there was also in the vase a book of magic and necromancy (_magia e
gramanzia_).

    “Therein wilt thou find all secrets
    Which thou desirest to obtain,
    To make what thou wilt into gold,
    To make the dead speak,
    To make them come before thee,
    To go invisibly where thou wilt,
    To become a great poet.
    Thou wilt learn the lost secret
    How to become great and beautiful;
    Thou wilt rediscover the mystery
    Of predicting what is to take place;
    Yea, to win fortune in every game.”

By the vase was a magic wand, the most powerful ever known.  And from
that day Virgil, who had been as small as a dwarf, became a tall,
stately, very handsome man.

This was his first great work: he made a mirror wherein one could see all
that was going on in any country in the world, in any city, as well into
any house as anywhere.  Keeping the mirror hidden (beneath his cloak), he
went to the Emperor.  And because he was a very handsome man, well
dressed, and also by the aid of the mirror, he was permitted to go into
the hall where the Emperor sat.  And, conversing with him, the Emperor
was so pleased that he spoke more familiarly and confidentially than he
was wont to do with his best friends; at which the courtiers who were
present were angry with jealousy.

Turning to Virgil, the Emperor said:

“I would give a thousand gold crowns to know just what the Turks are
doing now, and if they mean to make war on me.”

Virgil replied:

“If your Highness will go into another room, I can show in secret what
the Turks are now doing.”

“But how you can make me see what the Turks are doing is more than I can
understand,” replied the Emperor.  “However, let us go, if it be only to
see what fancy thou hast in thy head.”

Then the Emperor rose, and giving his arm to Virgil, went to a room
apart, where the magician showed and explained to him (_per filo e per
segna_) all that the Turks were about.  And the Emperor was amazed at
seeing clearly what Virgil had promised to show.  Then he gave to Virgil
the thousand crowns with his own hand, and was ever from that day his
friend.  And so Virgil rose in the world.

                                * * * * *

In this tale there is as quaint and naïve a mixture of traditions and
ideas as one could desire.  The fair Helen, in her tower of Troy, becomes
Danae visited by Jupiter, and as the narrator had certainly seen Dantzic
Golden Water, or some other cordial with gold-leaf in it, the story of
the shower is changed into aureated wine.  It is evident that the one who
recast the legend endeavoured to make this incident intelligible.  All
the rest is mediæval.  “Gold,” says Helen, “will preserve my beauty.”
Thus the _aurum potabile_ of the alchemists was supposed to do the same
as Paracelsus declared.

We all recognise a great idea when put into elaborate form by a skilled
artist, but to perceive it as a diamond in the rough and recognise its
value is apparently given to few.  It is true that those few may
themselves be neither poets nor geniuses—just as the Hottentot who can
find or discern diamonds may be no lapidary or jeweller.  What I would
say is, that such ideas or motives abound in this Italian witch-lore to a
strange extent.

Thus, the making Virgil a son of Jupiter by a Helen-Danae is a flight of
mythologic invention, far surpassing in boldness anything given in the
Neapolitan legends of the poet.  Thomas Carlyle and Vernon Lee have
expressed with great skill great admiration of the idea that Faust begat
with the fair Helen the Renaissance.  It was indeed a magnificent
conception, but in very truth this fathering of Virgil, the grand type of
poetry and magic, and of all earthly wisdom, by Jupiter on Helen-Danae is
far superior to it in every way.  For Virgil to the legend-maker
represented the Gothic or Middle Ages in all their beauty and exuberance,
their varied learning and splendid adventure, far more perfectly than did
the mere vulgar juggler and thaumaturgist Faust, as the latter appears in
every legend until Goethe transfigured him.  And, strangely enough, the
Virgilian cyclus, as I have given it, is as much of the Renaissance as it
is classic or mediæval.  The Medicis are in it to the life.  In very
truth it was Virgil, and not Faust, who was the typical magician _par
éminence_ after Apollonius, some of whose legends he, in fact, inherited.
And Virgil has come to us with a traditional character as marked and
peculiar as any in Shakespeare—which Faust did not.  He has passed
through the ages not only as a magus and poet, but as a personality, and
a very remarkable one.

There is another very curious, and, indeed, great idea lurking in these
witch-Virgilian legends, especially set forth in this of the birth and
continued in all.  It is that there is in them a cryptic, latent
heathenism, a sincere, lingering love of the old gods, and especially of
the _dii minores_, of _fate_ or fays, and fauns and fairies, of spirits
of the air and of rivers and fountains, an adoration of Diana as the
moon-queen of the witches, and a far greater familiarity with
incantations than prayers, or more love of sorceries than sacraments.
Whenever it can be done, even as a post-scriptum, we have a conjuration
or spell, as if the tale had awakened in the mind of the narrator a
feeling of piety towards “the old religion.”  The romances of Mercury,
and Janus, and Vesta, and Apollo, and Diana all inspire the narrator to
pray to them in all sincerity, just as a Catholic, after telling a legend
of a saint, naturally repeats a prayer to him or a novena.  It is the
last remains of classic faith.

Or we may say, as things fell out, that the
Goethean-Helen-Faust-Renaissance poem represents things as they were, or
as they came to pass, as if it were the acme, while the Virgilian
tradition which I here impart indicates things as they might have
happened, had the stream of evolution been allowed to run on in its
natural course, just as Julian the apostate (or rather apostle of the
gospel of letting things be) held that progress or culture and science
might have advanced just as surely and rapidly on the old heathen lines
as any other.  According to Heine, this would have saved us all an
immense amount of trouble in our school-studies, in learning Latin and
mythology, had we kept on as we were.

I mean by this that these traditions of Virgil indicate, as no other book
does, the condition of a naïvely heathen mind, “suckled in a creed
out-worn,” believing in the classic mythology half turned to fairies,
much more sincerely, I fear, than many of my readers do in the Bible, and
from this we may gather very curious reflection as to whether men may not
have ideas of culture, honesty, and mercy in common, whatever their
religion may be.

The marvels of the birth of Virgil of old, as told by Donatus, probably
after the lost work of Suetonius, are that his mother Maia dreamed, _se
enixam laureum ramum_, that she gave birth to a branch of laurel; that he
did not cry when born, and that the pine-tree planted according to
ancient custom on that occasion attained in a very short time to a great
height, which thing often happens when plants grow near hot springs, as
is the case on the Margariten Island, by Budapesth, where everything
attains to full-size in one-third of the usual time.  The custom of
planting a pine-tree on the birth of a child, in the belief that its
condition will always indicate its subject’s health and prosperity, is
still common among the Passamaquoddy, and other Red Indians in America, I
having had such a tree pointed out to me by an old grandfather.

In the Aryan or Hindu mythology Buddha, who subsequently becomes a great
_magus_ and healer of all ills, like Christ, “was born of the mother-tree
Maya,” according to J. F. Hewitt (“L’Histoire et les Migrations de la
Croix et du Su-astika,” Bruxelles, 1898).  He was the son of Kapila
Vastu, who was born holding in his hands a medicament, whence he became
“the Child of Medicine,” or of healing.  Buddha appears to be confused
with his father.

Now Virgil is clearly stated to be born of Maya or Maia, who is a
mythical tree; his life is involved in that of a mysterious tree, and in
more than one legend he is unquestionably identical with Esculapius, the
god of medicine.




VIRGIL, THE EMPEROR, AND THE TWO DOVES.


    “Qualis spelunca subito commota Columba,
    Cui domus, et dulces latebroso in pumice nidi,
    Fertur in arva volans, plausumque exterrita pennis
    Dat tecto ingentem; mox ære lapsa quieto
    Radit iter liquidum, celeres neque commovet alas.”

                                                VIRGILIUS: _Aen._, V. 213.

This is another story, telling how Virgil first met the Emperor.

                                * * * * *

It happened on a time that the Emperor of Rome invited many of his
friends to a hunt, and on the appointed day all assembled with fine
horses and hounds, gay attendants, and sounding horns—_tutti allegri e
contenti_, “all as gay as larks.”

And when they came to the place, they left their horses and went into the
forest, where it befell, as usual, that some got game, while others
returned lame; but on the whole they came to camp with full bags and many
brags of their adventures and prowess, and supped merrily.

“It is ever so,” said the Emperor to a courtier, “one stumbles, and
another grumbles; then the next minute something joyful comes, and he
smiles.

    “‘Thus it is true in every land
    Good luck and bad go hand in hand.’”

“When men speak in that tone,” replied the courtier, “they often
prophesy.  Now, there is near by an ancient grotto, long forgot by men,
wherein if you will sleep you may have significant dreams, even as people
had in the olden time.”

So when night came on some of the courtiers went to a contadino house to
lodge, while others camped out _alla stella_, or in the _albergo al
fresco_, while the Emperor was guided by the courtier to an old ruin,
where in a solid rock there was a door of stone, which Virgil opened by a
spell.  (_Sic_ in MS.)

The Emperor was then led through a long passage into a cave, which was
dry and comfortable enough, and where the attendants made a bed, whereon
His Highness lay down, and, being very weary, was soon asleep.

But he had not slumbered long ere, as it seemed to him, he was awakened
by the loud barking of a dog, and saw before him to his amazement a
marvellously beautiful lady clad in white, with a resplendent star
(crescent) on her forehead.  In her right hand she bore a white dove, and
in her left another, which was black.

When the lady, or goddess, saw that the Emperor was awake, she let both
the doves fly.  The white one, after circling several times round his
head, alighted on his shoulder.  The black one also flew about him, and
then winged its course far away.

Then the lady disappeared, and the white dove followed her, and sat on
her shoulder as she fled.

The Emperor was so much amazed, or deeply moved, by this strange sight
that he slept no more, but remained all night meditating on it, nor did
he on the morrow give any heed to the chase, but ever reflected on the
lady and her doves.

The courtier asked him what had occurred.  And the Emperor replied:

“I have had a wonderful vision, and I cannot tell the meaning thereof.”

The gentleman replied:

“There is in Rome a young man, a poet and sage, of whom I have heard
strange things, and I believe that he excels in unfolding signs and
mysteries.”

“It is well,” replied the Emperor.  So when they returned to Rome he sent
for the magician, who came, yet he knew beforehand why he was summoned to
Court.  And it is said that this was the first time when the Emperor knew
Virgil. {12}

Now, Virgil was as yet a young man.  And when the Emperor set forth what
he had beheld, he replied:

“It is a marvellously favourable sign for you, oh my Emperor, for in that
lady you have seen your star.  There is a planet allotted to every man,
and thine is of the greatest.  Thou hast one—call to her, invoke her ever
when in need of help, and she will never abandon thee.  Thou hast seen
thy star.  Her greeting to thee (_saluto_) means that a year hence a
danger will threaten thee.  The black dove signifies that one year hence
thou wilt have an enemy who will make war on thee.  When the dove fled
afar, it was not the dove but the enemy, who will be put to flight.  And
the white dove was not a dove, but your victory announced to you in that
form, and your star has announced it because in one year you will have,
as the proverb says, ‘the enemy at your heels.’”

And all this came to pass as he had foretold.

Then the poet and magician became his friend, and from that time the
Emperor never moved a leaf (_i.e._ did nothing) without taking the advice
of Virgil.

                                * * * * *

The goddess, or planet, described in this tale is very evidently Diana,
appropriately introduced as the deity of the chase, but more
significantly as the queen of the witches, and mistress of mysteries and
divination.  In both forms the dog has a peculiar adaptation, because a
black dog was the common attendant of a sorcerer, as exampled by that of
Henry C. Agrippa.

The dove is so widely spread in this world, and is everywhere so
naturally recognised as a pretty, innocent creature, that it is no wonder
that very different and distant races should have formed much the same
ideas and traditions regarding it.  It is a curious anomaly that while
doves, especially in Roman Catholic symbolism, are the special symbols of
love and peace, there are in reality no animals or birds which fight and
peck so assiduously among themselves, as I have verified by much
observation.  However, herein the pious mythologists “builded better than
they knew,” for the _odium theologicum_, either with heretics or among
rivals in the Church, has been the cause of more quarrelling than any
other in the world—woman perhaps excepted.

In the Egyptian symbolism, a widow who, out of love for her husband, will
not wed again was typified by a black dove. {13}  The dove who brought
the olive-leaf to Noah was generally recognised as symbolizing the new
birth of the world, or its regeneration after a divine bath or
lustration, and the same meaning is attached to its appearance at the
baptism of Christ.  A German writer named Wernsdorf has written two books
on the dove as a symbol, viz., “De simulacro columbæ in locis sacris
antiquitas recepto,” Viterbo, 1773; and “De Columba auriculæ Gregorii
adhærente,” Witteberg, 1780.

As Diana always bears the crescent, here confounded or identified very
naturally with a star—both being heavenly bodies—the representing her as
the peculiar planet of the Emperor is very ingenious.  In seeing her he
beholds his star, and, in the mute language of emblems, hears her voice.
Truly there is unto all of us a star, but it is within and not without,
and its name is the Will, which, when revealed or understood, can work
miracles.

“So mote it be!”




VIRGILIO AND THE ROCK.


One night, when he was young, Virgil was in Naples; he went to visit a
very beautiful woman.  And when he left her at midnight he found the
house surrounded by _bravi_ or assassins, who had been placed there to
kill him by a signore who was his rival.

Then the magician ran for his life, followed by all the crew, till he
came to a steep rock like a high wall.  And here he paused, and cried
aloud during the minute which he had gained, this incantation:

    “Apri spirito della rupe,
    Apri il tuo cuore a me.
    Spirito gentile, abbi,
    Abbi pietà di me,
    Se tu vuoi che Iddio
    Abbia pietà di te.”

    “Mighty spirit of the mountain,
    Ope thy rocky heart to me.
    Gentle sprite, I pray thee
    Have mercy upon me,
    As thou truly hopest
    That God may pity thee.”

Then the rock opened, and Virgil fled into it and was saved.

Those who sought his life followed.  And Virgil went forth, but while
they were in the passage it closed at both ends, and they all perished.
So was Virgil saved.

It came to pass in time that Virgil, seeing it would be of great use,
opened the grotto, and it is there to this day.

There was no place where Virgil did not leave some great work, whence it
came that his name is known to all the world.

                                * * * * *

There is a curious reflection, and one of great value to folk-lore, to be
drawn from this, and in fact from all of these stories.  It is
believed—actually believed, and not merely assumed to make a tale—that
the conjurations given in them have the effect attributed to them when
they are uttered by any wizard or witch or person who is prepared by
magic or faith.  Therefore such tales as told by witches are only a
frame, as it were, wherein a lesson-picture is set.  This induces a
deeper, hence a more advanced, kind of reflection or moral than is
conveyed by common, popular fairy-tales.  The one condition naturally
leads to another.  There is very little trace of it in the “Mährchen” of
Grimm, Crane, Pitré, or Bernoni.  In the _novelle_ of Boccacio, Sachetti,
Bandello and others, of which literally thousands were produced during
and after the Renaissance, there is very often a commonplace kind of
moral, such as follows all fables, but it is not of the same kind as that
which is involved in witch-stories.  Even in this of Virgil the
invocation to the Spirit of the Rock, adjuring it to be merciful as it
hopes for mercy from God, is beyond what is generally found in common
traditions.

All of these conjurations, to have due effect, must be intoned in a
certain manner, which is so peculiar that anyone who is familiar with it
can recognise at a distance, where the words are not to be distinguished,
by the mere sound of the voice, whether an incantation is being sung.
Hence the greatest care and secresy is observed when teaching or chanting
them.

Among the Red Indians of North America this is carried so far that, as
one who took lessons from an Oneida sorcerer informs us, it required
study every day for seven years to learn how to correctly intone one
spell of twelve lines.  The same is told of the old Etruscan-Latin spells
in the “_Dizionario Myth. Storico_.”

This legend is specially interesting because the tomb of Virgil is close
by the grotto of Posillippo, and it is conjectured that as it was,
according to tradition, made by magic, Virgil probably made it.
Therefore it may have been the first of these tales.  Why the grotto was
specially regarded as mysterious is almost apparent to all who have
studied cave and stone worship.  In early times, in the mysteries, the
going through a hole or passage, especially in a rock, signified the new
birth, or illumination, or initiation, hence the cult of holy or holed
stones, great or small, found all over the world.  Such writers as Faber
and Bryant have, it is true, somewhat overdone guess-work symbolism, or
fanciful interpretation, but that the passing through the dark tunnel and
coming to light played a part in old rites is unquestionable, and that
this respect for the subject extended to all perforated stones and even
beads.

Incantations or spells are of two kinds—the traditional, and those which
a powerful or gifted magician or witch improvises.  This of Virgil is of
the latter kind.




VIRGIL, THE EMPEROR, AND THE TRUFFLES.


    “Quo ducit gula?”—_Latin Saying_.

    “I am passionately fond of truffles, though I never tasted
    them.”—XAVIER DE MONTEPIN.

One day Virgil was at table with the Emperor, and the latter complained
that his cook was a dolt, because he could never find anything new to
tempt his appetite, and that he had to eat the same kind of dishes over
and over again.

“What I would like,” he said, “would be some kind of new taste or
flavour.  There must be many a one as yet unknown to the kitchen.”

Then Virgil, reflecting, said:

“I will see to-morrow if I cannot find something of the kind which will
please your Highness.”  Whereupon all who were present expressed delight,
for no one doubted that he could do whatever he attempted.

So the next day Virgil went into the forests, where there were many pigs,
and considered attentively what the roots might be which they dug up with
such great care; for he had remarked that whatever men eat pigs also
like, above all other animals.  And having obtained some of the roots,
which were like dark-brown or black lumps, he took them to the Emperor’s
cook, and said:

“Wash these well and cut them fine, and I will see to the cooking.”

That day the Emperor had invited several friends to see what new dish
Virgil would produce; and when they were assembled at table, Virgilio
took the roots, cut fine, put them into a pan with oil and beaten eggs,
and served them up with his own hands.  And the smell thereof was so
appetizing that all cried, “_Evviva Virgilio_!” even before they had
tasted the dish.  But when they had eaten of it, they were delighted
indeed, and one and all wished to know what the roots were which gave
such a delicate flavour; to which Virgil, rising, replied:

“Truffles!” {18}

And ever since that time, even at the table of the Pope, or any other
rich man, no one has ever discovered any better flavour for food than
this which was first found out by Virgil.

One day not long after this took place Virgil was in his study, when,
looking at the stone in a ring which he wore, he exclaimed: “The Emperor
wishes to see me!”  And sure enough, a few minutes later a messenger
entered, saying that his imperial master desired to speak to the sage.
And, having obeyed the call, he found the Emperor ill and suffering from
an indigestion.

“_Caro Virgilio_,” exclaimed the Emperor, “I have made thee come because
I am suffering from disorder; and as that pig of a cook who caused it can
give me nothing to eat to relieve it, I have recourse to science, for I
know that thou art a great doctor.”

“Truly,” replied Virgil.  “Very simple doctoring is needed here.  Just
tell the cook to boil wheat-bran in water, mix it with the yolk of an
egg, and drink it in the morning before you rise.”

“Bran boiled in water!” repeated the Emperor slowly.  “Just what they
give to pigs!  Truly, it seems that you have brought me down to a pig’s
level, since you give me ‘hogs’ broth,’ as they call it.”

“I wonder,” exclaimed Virgil, “since your Highness is so humble, that you
do not put yourself below the pigs, because you have abused like a pig,
and many a time, that poor devil of a cook for not pleasing your palate.
It is not long since I delighted you, and had applause from all, for
serving truffles at your imperial table.  Had _he_ done so, you would
have curiously inquired what the roots were and whence they came; and
having learned that they were _cibo di maiali_, or pigs’ food, you would
have cast him forth, and the truffles after him.  For such is the wisdom
of this world, and so is man deluded!  But as for the bran boiled in
water, whether it be pigs’ broth or not, ’tis the specific for your
illness.”

“Ah well, my dear Virgilio,” replied the Emperor, “in future serve me up
as many pigs’ dainties and give me as much pigs’-doctor stuff as you
please, provided that all be as good as truffles, or the medicine bran
broth.  It is foolish to be led by mere fancies: a pig or a peasant may
know as well as a prince what is pleasant for the palate or good as a
cure.  _Evviva Virgilio_!”

                                * * * * *

In this merry tale I have followed to the letter an undoubted original,
which was in every detail new to me; and this is the more remarkable
since there is in it decidedly the stamp and expression of a kind of
humour and philosophy which seems to be peculiar to individual or
literary genius.  The joke of pigs’ dainties, pigs’ remedies, the calling
the cook a pig, and the final reduction of the Emperor to a degree below
that animal, is carried out with great ingenuity, yet as marked
simplicity.

The best truffles in Italy are sold as coming from _Norcia_, and Nortia,
who was an old Etruscan goddess, known to the original Virgil, is in
popular tradition in Tuscany the Spirit of Truffles, to whom those who
seek them address a _scongiurazione_, or evocation, which may be found in
my “Etrusco-Roman Remains.”  In Christian symbolism the truffle is
associated with St. Antony and his pig.  When the saint had resolved to
die by hunger, the pig dug up and brought to him a number of truffles,
the saint seeing in this an intimation by a miracle that he should eat
and live, which thing would seem to be poetically commemorated in the
_saucisses aux truffes_, or Gotha sausages, in which pork and truffles
are beautifully combined.

The most remarkable variety of the truffle is one found in the United
States, south of Pennsylvania.  It is called _tuckahoe_, or Indian bread,
and, with most things American, is remarkable for bigness at least, since
it weighs sometimes fifteen pounds and hides at a depth of fifteen feet
underground.  Like California fruit, it is far more remarkable for size
or weight than excellence.  An incredible quantity of so-called truffles,
which appear thinly sliced or in small bits in dishes even in first-class
hotels or restaurants all over Europe, are nothing but burned potatoes,
or similar vegetable carbon, flavoured sometimes with extract of
mushrooms, but much oftener are simply tasteless soft coal.  Very good
truffles, equal to the French, for which they are sold, are found in the
South of England.  The truffle is, like raw meat, caviare, and oysters,
strongly stimulating food, and as a _purée_ or paste is beneficial for
anæmic invalids.




BALSÀBO.


There once lived in Florence in the days of King Long-Ago or Queen
Formerly a signore who went beyond all the men who ever sinned, in making
evil out of good and turning light into darkness.  For, under cover of
being very devout and serving the saints, he well-nigh outdid many a
devil in making all about him unhappy.  He had six children, three boys
and three girls, all as fine young folk as there were in Tuscany.  For he
was severe in punishing and slow in rewarding, always reviling, never
giving a kind word.  Once when his eldest son saved him from drowning at
the risk of his own life, he abused and struck the youth for tearing his
garment in so doing.  And in his family there was ever the wolf at the
table with such a hunger that one could see it, {21a} while all save
himself went so sorrily clad that it was a shame to behold, and if anyone
made a jest or so much as smiled there came abuse and blows.  And to
offend and grieve and insult was so deeply in him that it became a
disease.

However, evil weeds must fade as well as flowers; everything dies except
Death, and the longer time he takes to sharpen his scythe, the more
keenly will it cut.  So it came to pass that one day this good man, but
very bad parent, came suddenly to his death-bed, while his children stood
round with eyes as dry as the Arno in August, which, though it may shine
here and there, never runs over. {21b}

Now, by chance there stood by the dying man the great magician Virgilio,
who indeed had much love and pity for these young people.  And at the
same minute, but seen only by him, there came floating in, like a bit of
gold-leaf on a light feather, borne on the current of air, a certain
_folletto_, or devil, who had been drifting about in the world for a
thousand years, and in all that time had only learned more and more that
everything is naught, or nothing of much consequence, and that good or
evil stand for one another, according to circumstances.  And as the dying
man was one who, above all people living, made the meanest trifle a thing
of vast importance, so this devil, whose name was Balsàbo, went beyond
all his own kind of _diavoli pococuranti_ in being unlike the great
Signore di Tribaldo (as the dead man was called), he being a _diavolo a
dirittura_, a devil in a straight line, or directly forward.  And this
demon being invisible to all save Virgil, the master said to him
secretly:

“Art thou willing to enter this man’s body and act as his soul, and
become father of a family?”

“As ready for that as for anything.  No doubt I will find fun in it,”
answered Balsàbo.

Then Virgil said:

    “Spirito di Belsàbo,
    Io ti scongiurò
    Che per comando mio
    Tu lasci una vita sfrenata
    Come ’ai tenuto per il passato
    E dentro il corpo di Tribaldo
    Tu possa entrare e divenire
    Un capo di famiglia
    Fino a ordine mio.
    E tutti quei
    Fanciulli educherai (_sic_).”

    “Spirit of Belsàbo,
    I now conjure thee
    That by my command
    Thou shalt leave the lewd life
    Which thou did’st lead of old,
    And enter into this body
    Of Di Tribaldo, and become
    Head of a family,
    And educate his children.”

So into the body he went, as the spirit of Di Tribaldo went out, like the
toy which shows the weather in which one puppet pops forth as the other
goes in.  So there he lay for a minute, all the children around in silent
amazement that he had departed without cursing them.  When all at once up
leaped Balsàbo, as gay as a lark, crying like a _Scaramuccio_:

“Whoop, pigs! here we are again!”

Hearing which, the dear children, understanding that he had come to life
again, did indeed weep bitterly, so that Di Tribaldo, had he stopped a
little longer, might have been amazed.  But he had no sooner gone out of
his body than a great grim devil, a kind of detective demon, who was on
the look-out for souls, whipped him up, gave him a couple of cuffs to
keep him quiet, and, putting him into a game-bag, drawing the cords
tight, and then rolling them round and tying them, flew off to give the
prey up to the proper authorities, and what disposition they made of this
precious piece of property I know not, nor truly do I much care.  All
that can be said is that ’twas a good riddance of bad rubbish, and that
we may all rejoice that he comes no more into this story.

But what was the amazement of the well-nigh bereaved children when their
solemn parent made a leap half-way to the ceiling, and then, while
imitating with his mouth a _zufolo_, or shepherd’s pipe, to perfection,
began to dance with grace a wild _coranto_, and anon sang:

    “Chi ben vive, ben muore,
    Io lo credo in mio cuore;
    Oggi vivo, in figura,
    E doman in sepoltura,
    Ho scappato ben il orco,
    Morto io, morto il porco!” {23}

    “He who lives well may well depart,
    As I believe with all my heart.
    To-day alive, and all in bloom,
    To-morrow buried in the tomb;
    But I’ve escaped, and don’t care why!
    If I were dead the pig might die!
    The pig might die, the world be burned!
    And everything to ashes turned!”

Which pious song being ended, he asked them why they were all staring at
him like a party of stuck pigs, and bade them scamper and send out for a
good supper, with flowers and wine; and on their asking what he would
have, he replied, still singing:

    “Everything to please the palate,
    Venison, woodcocks, larks, and sallet,
    Partridges both wild and tame,
    And every other kind of game,
    Buttered eggs and macaroni,
    Salmagundi, rice and honey,
    Mince-pies and oyster too,
    Lobster patties, veal ragoût,
    Beef, with mushrooms round the dish,
    And everything that heart could wish.”

Whereupon, being told by his eldest daughter, who was of opinion that he
had gone mad, that such a supper would cost twenty crowns, he replied
that it could not be done for the money, and that he should always expect
such a meal every day, and a much better one when guests should come.
Wherein he kept his word, and amazed them all by urging them to stuff and
cram to their hearts’ desire, but especially by pressing them to drink;
and whereas it had been of yore that they had been scolded like beasts if
they so much as begged for a second glass of sour, half-watered wine,
they were now jeered and jibed as duffers and sticks for not swigging off
their bumpers of the best and strongest like men.

And they also noted a great change in this, that while the late Signore
Tribaldo had ever been as severe in manner and conversation as any saint,
and grim as an old owl, the Signore Balsàbo during the meal cracked one
joke after the other, some of them none too seemly, and roared with
laughter at their frightened looks.  But as ’tis easy to teach young cats
the way to the dairy, they began to slowly put out one paw after the
other, and be of the opinion that on the whole their dear papa had been
much improved by his death and revival.  And some word having been said
of games, he suddenly whipped out a pack of cards and proposed play.  At
which his eldest son replying that it would be but a thin game with them
who had hardly a _quattrino_ apiece, Balsàbo sent for his strong-box,
which was indeed well-lined, and gave them each a hundred crowns in gold,
swearing it was a shame that such a magnificent family as his should go
about like poor beggars, because handsome youth and beautiful girls
needed fine clothes, and that in future they were all to spend what they
liked—and bless the expense at that!—for as long as there was twopence in
the locker, half of it should be theirs.

Then they sat down to play, and Gianni, the eldest son, and Bianca, the
eldest daughter, who had aforetime learned to play a little on the sly,
thought they would surely win.  But Balsàbo in the end beat them all, and
when they marvelled at his luck roared with laughter, and said ’twas no
wonder, for he had cheated at every turn; and then, sitting down again,
showed them how ’twas done, but bade them keep it all a family secret.
“For thus,” said he, “we can among us cheat all the gamesters in
Florence, and ever be as rich as so many Cardinals.”

And then he said to them, as in apology: “Ye have no doubt, my dear
children, marvelled that I have this evening been somewhat strict and
austere with you, which is not to be blamed, considering that I have been
dead and am only just now alive again; but I trust that in future I shall
be far more kind and indulgent, and lend you a helping hand in all your
little games, whatever they be; for the only thing which can grieve me is
that there shall be any fun or devilry going on, and I not have a hand in
it.  And as it is becoming that children should obey their parents, and
have no secrets from them, I enjoin it strictly on you that whatever you
may be up to, from swindling at pitch-and-toss, up to manslaughter or
duels, ye do nothing without first taking counsel with me, because I,
being more experienced in the ways of this wicked world, can best guard
you against its deceptions.  And so, my beloved infants, go in peace,
which means go it while you are young, and as peacefully as you can, and
merrily if you must!”

Now, the eldest son, Gianni, had longed well nigh to being ill, and even
to tears, to wear fine clothes (in which Bianca and the others were well
up with him), and have a gallant horse, like the other youths of his rank
in Florence.  But kind as Balsàbo had been to him, he hardly dared to
broach the subject, when all at once his father introduced it by asking
him why he went footing about like a pitiful beggar, instead of riding
like a cavalier; and learning that it was because he had no steed,
Balsàbo gave a long whistle and said:

“Well, you are a fool of forty-five degrees!  Why the devil, if you
thought I would not approve it, did you not buy a horse on post-obit
credit, and ride him on the sly?  However, ’tis never too late to mend.
But such a goose as you would be certainly cheated in the buying.  Come
with me.”

And Gianni soon found that his saint of a father was well up to all the
tricks of the horse trade, the end being that he had the best steed in
Florence for half of what it would have cost him.  And from this
accomplished parent he also learned to ride and fence, and in the latter
he taught his son so many sly passes and subtle tricks, crafty glissades
and _botte_, that he had not his master in all the land.

And now a strange thing came to pass: that as all these young people,
though willing enough to be gay and well attired, were good at heart and
honest, as they day by day found that their father, though really bad in
nothing, had, on the other hand, no more conscience or virtue than an old
shoe or a rag scarecrow, so it was they who began to sermonize him, even
as the late Signore Tribaldo had lectured them, the tables being quite
turned.  But what was most marvellous was that Signore Balsàbo, far from
taking any offence, seemed to find in this being scolded for his want of
heart, morals, and other crimes, a deep and wondrous joy, a sweet
delight, as of one who has discovered a new pleasure or great treasure.
This was especially the case when he was brought to book, or hauled over
the coals, by his daughter Bianca, who was gifted with the severe
eloquence of her other father, which she now poured forth in floods on
his successor.

Now, you may well imagine that an old devil-goblin who had been kicked
and footed about the world for a thousand years between the back-kitchen
of hell unto the inner courts of the Vatican, including all kinds of
life, but especially the bad, thus having a family to support and beloved
daughters and sons to blow him up, and, in fact, the mere having any
decent Christian care enough for him to call him a soulless old
blackguard, was like undreamed-of bliss.  He had been in his time
exorcised by priests in Latin through all that grammar and vocabulary
could supply, and cursed in Etruscan, Greek, Lombard, and everything
else; but the Italian of his daughter had in it the exquisite and novel
charm that there was real _love_ mingled with it and gratitude for his
profuse kindness and indulgence, so that ’twas to him like the pecking of
an angry and dear canary bird, the which thing acted on him so strangely
that he at times was fain to look about him for some stray sin to commit,
in order to get a good sound scolding.  For he had fallen so much into
decent life and ways by living with his dear children that it often
happened that he did nothing wrong for as much as three or four days
together.

And truly it was a brave sight to see him, when reprimanded, cast down
his eyes and sigh: “Yes, yes! ’tis too true: _mea culpa_! _mea maxima
culpa_!  It was indeed wicked!” when all the while he hardly knew where
the sin was or wherein he had done wrong or right or anything else.  Now,
it may seem a strange thing that so old a sinner should ever come to
grace; but as ye know that in old tombs raspberry or other seeds, hard
and dry, a thousand years old, have been found which, however, grew when
planted, so Balsàbo began to think and change, and try, even for
curiosity’s sake, what being good meant.

Meanwhile it was a marvel to see how well—notwithstanding all the
expenditure, to which there was no limit, save the consciences of the
children—Balsàbo kept the treasury supplied.  And this was to him a joke,
as all life was, save, indeed, the children, in whom he began to take
interest, or for whom he felt love; for, what with knowing where many an
old treasure lay hidden, or the true value of many a cheap estate, and a
hundred other devices and tricks, he ever gained so much that in time he
gave great dowers to his daughters, and castles and lands, with titles,
to his sons.

Now, it came to pass—and it was the greatest marvel of all—that Bianca,
by her reproving and reforming Balsàbo, had her own heart turned to
goodness, and gave herself up to good works and study and prayer; and
unto her studies Balsàbo, curiously interested, gave great aid.  Then she
learned marvellously deep secrets of magic and spirits, but nothing evil;
and it came to pass that in her books she found that there were beings
born of the elements, creatures appointed to live a thousand years or
more, and then pass away into air or fire, and exist no longer.
Furthermore, she discovered that such wandering spirits sometimes took up
their abode in human bodies, and that, being neither good nor bad, they
were always wild and strange, given up of all things to quaint tricks and
strange devices, as ready unto one thing as another.

And it came to her mind, as she noted how Balsàbo knew all languages, and
spoke of things which took place ages before as if he had lived in them,
and of men long dead as if he had known them, that he who was her father
aforetime was ignorant of all this as he was of gentleness or kindness or
good nature, all which Balsàbo carried to a fault, not caring to take the
pains to injure his worst enemy or to do a good turn to his best friend,
unless it amused him, in which case he would kill the one with as little
sorrow as if he were a fly, and give the other a castle or a thousand
crowns, and think no more of it than if he had fed a hawk or a hound.
And all such good deeds he played off in some droll fashion, like tricks,
as if thinking that sport, and nothing else, was the end and aim of all
benevolence.  However, as regarded Bianca and her brothers and sisters,
he seemed to have other ideas, and to her he appeared to be as another
being, in love and awe obeying her as a child and striving to understand
her lessons.

So this went on for years, till at last one day Bianca, full of strange
suspicions, which had become well nigh certainties, went to Virgilio and
said:

“Tell me in truth who is this being whom thou didst send us as my father,
for that he is not the Di Tribaldo of earlier days, I am sure.  Good and
kind he hath been, but too strange to be human; wild hart is he, not to
be measured as a man.”

Virgil replied:

“Thou hast guessed the riddle, and yet not all; for he is a spirit of the
elements, and his appointed time is drawing near to an end, and, being
neither good nor evil, he would have passed away in peace into the
nothing which is the end of all his kind.  But thou hast awakened in him
a knowledge of love and duty, so that he will die in sorrow, for he has
learned from thee what he has lost.”

Then Bianca asked:

“Can he not be saved?”

And Virgil replied:

“If anyone would give his or her life, then by virtue of that sacrifice,
when the thousand years of his existence shall be at an end, the two
lives shall be as one in the world where all are one in love for ever.”

Bianca replied:

“That which I have begun I will finish.  Having opened the bud, I will
not leave the flower; having the flower, I will bring it to fruit and
seed; the egg which I found and saved, I will hatch.  She who hath said
‘A’ must also say ‘B,’ till all the letters are learned.

    “‘Who such a course hath once begun,
    To the very end must run.’

And so will I give my life to give a soul to this poor spirit, even as
the Lord gave His to save mankind.”

Then Bianca departed, and many days passed.  On a time Virgilio saw
Balsàbo, who greeted him with a sad smile.

“My sand is well-nigh run out, oh master,” said the spirit.  “Yet another
day, and the sun which is to rise no more will go down behind the
mountain-range of life.  _Il sole tramonta_.”

“And art thou pleased to have been for a time a man?” asked Virgil.

“It was not an ill thing to be loved by the children,” replied Balsàbo.
“There I had great joy and learned much—yea, far too much for my own
happiness, for I found that I was lost.  When I was ignorant, and only a
poor child of air and earth, fire and water, I knew nothing of good or
evil, or of a soul or a better life in eternity; now I have learned all
that by love, and also that it is not for me.”

“Wait and see,” replied Virgilio.  “He who has learned to love has made
the first step to immortality.”

And after a few days, news was brought to Virgilio that Balsàbo, whom men
called Di Tribaldo, was dying, and that Bianca also could not live long;
and that night the master, looking from his tower beyond the Arno on the
hill, that which is now called the San Gallo, or the Torre di Galileo,
saw afar in the night a strange vision, the forms of a man and of a young
woman, divinely beautiful, sweetly spiritual, in a golden, rosy light,
ever rising higher and higher, while afar there was a sound as of harps
and voices singing:

    “They walked in the world as in a dream,
    For nothing they saw as it now doth seem;
    And all they knew of care and woe
    Is now but a tale of the long ago;
    And they will walk in the land on high
    Where flowers are blooming ever and aye,
    And every flower in its breath and bloom
    Sings in the spirit with song perfume,
    And the song which it sings in the land above,
    In a thousand forms, is eternal love.”

And as they rose Virgilio saw falling from them, as it were, a rain of
rose-leaves and lilies, and every leaf as it fell faded, yet became a
spirit which entered some newborn babe, and the spirit was its life.

“Sweetly hast thou sung, oh Spirit of God,” said Virgilio, as the last
note was heard and the sight vanished.  “The poorest devil may be saved
by Love.”

                                * * * * *

The idea that a soul or spirit, human or other, can enter into a dead
body and revive it is to be found in the legends of all lands, from those
of ancient Egypt, as appears in that of “Anpu and Bata,” which has been
nine times translated into English, down to several of these Italian
tales.  It is a fancy which need not be traditional or borrowed; it would
occur to man as soon as the Shaman pretended to go out of his body while
in a trance.

After the foregoing was written out, including the allusion to seeds
found in tombs a thousand years old which grew again, and which were, of
course, Roman or Etruscan, as the only kind known in Italy—I never having
read of any such thing save as regards corn found in Egypt—I met with the
following passage in “The Sagacity and Morality of Plants,” by Dr. J. E.
Taylor:

    “Seeds have been found in Celtic tumuli . . . which, after an
    interval of perhaps two thousand years, have germinated into plants,
    and similar successful experiments have been made with seeds found in
    ancient Roman tombs.”

As regards the original of this story, it was so imperfect, brief, and
trifling that I have, as it were, well-nigh reconstructed it, and might
as well claim to be its author as not, as I should have done were I an
earlier Italian novelist, who without scruple appropriated popular
stories with as little conscience as Robert Burns did old ballads.
Bishop Percy amended them, and owned it, and all that he got thereby was
much abuse and ridicule.  But it is of little consequence when the legend
is not offered as a mere tradition, and this is only a scrap of tradition
_réchauffé_.

The character of Balsàbo belongs closely to the class which includes
Falstaff, Panurge, Punch, Belphegor, and many other types who are
“without conscience or cognition” of right or wrong, neither adapted to
be banned or blessed, genially selfish, extravagantly generous, good
fellows and bad Christians, yet who have ever been pre-eminently popular.
But I am not aware that it ever entered into a mortal head to dream of
their being reformed, any more than their cousins Manfred and Don
Giovanni, for which reason I consider this tale of Balsàbo as decidedly
original.  Sinners we have had repentant by thousands, but this is really
the only history of the conversion of Nothingarian.

Paracelsus was the first writer, following the Neo-Platonists and popular
traditions, to make a mythology of elementary spirits and define their
nature.

“There dwell,” he says, “under the earth semi-homines, or half-human
beings, who have all temporal things which can be enjoyed and desired.
They are called ‘gnomes,’ though properly the name should be sylphs or
pygmies.  They are not spirits, yet may be compared to them . . . between
them and the devil is a great difference, because he does not die and
they do, albeit they are very long-lived.  And they are not _spirits_,
because a spirit is immortal.”

This gave birth in later days to the “Entertainments” of the Comte de
Gabalis, and the exquisite “Undine” of La Motte Fouqué.  Of late years
exact science, by its investigations into zoology and botany, has
approached Paracelsus by discovering incredible developments in
_instinctive_ intelligence, as distinguished from self-conscious reason,
in all that exists.

                                * * * * *

Since the foregoing tale, with the comment on it, was written, even to
the last word, I met with and read a novel entitled “Entombed in the
Flesh,” by Michael Henry Dziewicki, {32} which, both as regards plot and
many details, bears such an extraordinary, and yet absolutely accidental,
resemblance to the story of “Balsàbo” that, unless I enter a protest to
the contrary, I can hardly escape the accusation of having borrowed
largely from it.  In it a demon, neither angel nor devil, enters into the
body of a man just dead, and has many marvellous and amusing adventures,
being, of course, involved in the fate of a girl whom Lucifer wishes to
destroy.  The end is, however, very different, because in the novel
Phantasto, the spirit, is set free, and the maiden rescued by the latter
going into a Salvation Army meeting and being moved by hearing the name
and teaching of Jesus.  In “Balsàbo” the demon has immortality conferred
on him by Bianca’s giving her own _life_ to effect it.  This is, I think,
more ingenious than any other sacrifice could be, because in the tale,
though it be rudely expressed, there is the exquisite conception that an
immortal existence can take in, include with it, and identify a minor
intelligence or raise it to a higher sphere.

That I have somewhat enlarged the original tale or written it up will be
evident to everyone, but I have omitted very little which is in the text,
save an incantation at the end which Virgil addresses to the unborn souls
who are to enter into the bodies of the children born of the rose-leaves.
But I have inadvertently missed one point, to the effect that, after
having been kicked out of hell, Balsàbo got down so low in morality as to
be finally expelled from the Vatican.  The literal translation of the
passage is as follows:

“But poor Balsàbo, who had been kicked out of the kitchen of hell, . . .
and even from the Vatican (felt honoured) . . . when Bianca scolded him
like a child, and said: ‘_Vergogna_!’—‘For shame!’”




VIRGIL, MINUZZOLO, AND THE SIREN.


    “Caperat hic cantus _Minyas_ mulcere, nec ullus
    Præteriturus erat Sirenum tristia fata
    Iam manibus remi exciderant stetit uncta carina.”

                                                  ORPHEUS: _Argonauticis_.

[Virgil had a pupil named Minuzzolo, who was very small indeed, but a
very beautiful youth, and the great master was very fond of his
disciple.]

They undertook a long journey round the world, since Virgil wished that
his little Minuzzolo should learn all the wonders which are hidden in the
earth.

So he said to him one day:

“Know, Minuzzolo, that we are going on a long journey which may last for
years, and thou must be right brave, my boy, for many are the perils
through which we must pass, and dire are the monsters which we shall
meet.”

So they went forth into the world, far and wide, and little Minuzzolo
showed himself as brave as the biggest, and as eager to learn as a whole
school with a holiday before it when it shall have got its lesson.

All things he learned: how to resist all sorceries and evil spells; he
could call the eagle down from the sky, and the fish from the sea; but
one thing he did not learn from his master.

One day Virgil gave him a book wherein was the charm against the Song of
the Siren, the words which protect him who knows them against the music
of the Voice.  But two leaves stuck together like one, so that Minuzzolo
skipped two pages, and never knew it.

Virgil had gone forth, and Minuzzolo, seated in a hut in the forest where
they lived, began to sing.  Then he heard in the wood a girl’s voice,
which seemed to come from a torrent, singing in answer; and it was so
sweet that all his soul and senses were captured, he forgot all duty and
desire, his master and everything, all in a mad yearning to follow the
sound.  So he went on and on, led by the song; day and night were
unnoticed by him.  The Voice went with the torrent, he followed it to a
river, and the river to the sea, where the waves rolled high in foam and
fog; he followed the song, it went deep into the sea, but he gave no
heed, but went ever on.

Then he found himself in a very beautiful but extremely strange old
city—a city like a dream of an ancient age.  And as eve came on, the
youth asked of this and that person where he could pass the night, and
all said that they knew of no place, for into that city no strangers ever
came.  However, at last one said to him: “I know where there dwells a
witch, and she often hath strange guests; perhaps she will give thee
shelter.”

“I will go to her,” replied Minuzzolo.

“Better not,” was the reply.  “I did but jest, and I would be sorry if so
fair a youth should be devoured by some monster.” {34}

“Little fear of that have I,” replied the young magician.  “He who has
harmed no one need fear none, and in the name of my Master I am safe.”

So he went to the house and knocked, and there came to his call an old
woman of such unearthly ugliness, that Minuzzolo saw at once that she was
a sorceress.  So when she asked what he wanted, he replied:

    “In the name of him whom all
    Like thee obey, and heed his call,
    And tremble at his lightest word,
    VIRGIL, my master and thy lord,
    I bid thee give me food and rest,
    Whate’er thou canst and of the best!”

And she answered:

    “Whate’er is asked in that dread name,
    I’m sworn to answer to the same.”

So the youth stayed there and was well served.  And in the morning he
thanked the old woman, and asked her where he could find Virgil.  She
replied:

“Do not seek him in the forest where thou didst leave him.  Since then
thou hast passed over half the world, for she who called thee was a
Siren, whom none can resist unless they learn the spell which thy master,
foreseeing that thou wert in danger, gave thee, and which thou didst not
learn.  However, I will give thee a ring which will be of use, but do not
seek its help until thou shalt be in dire need.  And then thou shalt say
to it:

    “‘In nome del gran Mago,
    In nome di Virgilio,
    A chi sara buono!
    Questo anello sara mia sposa!’”

    “In the name of the great magician!
    In the name of Virgil!
    To whom be all good,
    This ring shall be my spouse!”

“Well shall I remember it,” replied Minuzzolo.  So he went on to the land
and by the strand ever on, till he came to a great and fine ship, and
pausing as he looked at it, he thought he would like to be a sailor.
Therefore he asked the captain if a boy was wanted.  And the captain,
being much pleased, took him and treated him very kindly, and for three
years Minuzzolo was a mariner.

But one night there was a great storm, and there came in an instant such
a tremendous wave and gale of wind that Minuzzolo was blown afar into the
sea and wafted away a mile ere he was missed.  However, he gained a beach
and scrambled ashore, where he lay for a long time as if asleep.  Yet it
seemed to him, while thinking of the captain and his mates, that he were
being borne away and ever on, as if in a dream, and indeed, when he
awoke, he found himself in what he knew must be another country, in
another clime.

And being very hungry, and seeing a fine garden wherein delicious fruit
was growing, he approached a tree to pluck a pear; when all at once there
sprang out a man of terrible form, with eyes like a dragon, who
threatened him with death.

But Minuzzolo drew the ring from his pocket and repeated the charm, and
as he did this the sorcerer fell dead.  And then he heard the voice of
the Siren singing afar, and it drew nearer and nearer, till a beautiful
girl appeared.  And when she saw the hideous sorcerer lying dead, she
exclaimed with joy: “At last I am free!  This the great Master Virgilio
has done; over land and sea and afar off he has put forth his power.
Blessed be his name!”

Then she explained to the youth that she and others had been enslaved and
enchanted, and compelled to become a Siren and bewitch men.  But
Virgilio, knowing that she was lurking near to charm his pupil, had given
him the book to read, but that her master by his power had closed the
leaves, so that Minuzzolo had yielded to her song.  But Virgilio had put
forth a greater power, and brought it to pass that the Siren was herself
enchanted with love, and in the end the sorcerer was defeated.

Then Virgilio appeared and blessed the young couple, who were wedded and
lived ever after happily.  Such things did Virgilio.

                                * * * * *

This strange story, in which classic traditions are blended with the
common form of a fairy-tale, was sent to me from Siena, where it had been
taken down from some authority to me unknown.  It begins very abruptly,
for which reason I have supplied the introductory passage in parenthesis.

Minuzzolo, led strangely afar over the sea, drawn by the voice of the
Siren, suggests that the Argonauts were called _Minii_, because they were
descended, like Jason, from the daughters of _Minia_.  There may be here
some confusion with Minos, of whom Virgil says that “he holds in his hand
an urn and shakes the destiny of all human beings, citing them to appear
before his tribunal,” “Quæsitor Minos urnam movet.”  In the Italian
legend Minuzzolo, or Minos, has a ring which compels all who hear his
charm to obey.

Minuzzolo wins his Siren by means of a ring, and it is remarkable that
Hesychius derives the name _Siren_ from _σεἰρη_, _seire_, a small ring.
Moreover, the sirens in the old Greek mythology did not of their own
accord or will entice sailors to death.  “The oracle,” says Pozzoli
(Dizionario Mit.) “had predicted that they should perish whenever a
single mortal who had heard their enchanting voices should escape them.”
Therefore they were compelled by a superior power to act as they did.

Confused and garbled as it all is, it seems almost certain that in this
tale there are relics of old Græco-Latin mythology.

The names of the three Sirens were Aglaope, Pisinoe, Thexiopia; according
to Cherilus, Thelxiope, Molpe and Aglaophonos.  _Clearchus_, however,
gives one as Leucosia, another as Ligea, the third as Parthenope.
“Aglaope was sweetest to behold, Aglaophone had the most enchanting
voice.”  Therefore we may infer that Aglaope, or Aglaophone, was the
heroine of this tale.  It is remarkable that _Aglaia_, a daughter of
Jupiter, was the fairest and first of the three Muses, as Aglaope was of
the Sirens.

It would seem evident that Edgar A. Poe had the Siren Ligea in mind when
he wrote:

    “Ligeia, Ligeia,
    My beautiful one,
    Whose harshest idea
    Will to melody run . . .
    Ligeia! wherever
    Thy image may be,
    No magic shall sever
    Thy music from thee;
    Thou hast bound many eyes
    In a dreamy sleep,
    But the strains still arise
    Which thy vigilance keep.”

Most remarkable of all is the fact that the Sirens, who were regarded as
evil witches or enchantresses of old, are in this story, which was
written by a witch, indicated as women compelled by fate to delude
mariners, which has escaped all commentators, and yet was plainly enough
declared by the Oracle.




LAVERNA.


    One day a fox entered a sculptor’s shop,
    And found a marble head, when thus he spoke:
    ‘O Head! there is such feeling shown in thee
    By art—and yet thou canst not feel at all!’

                                                          _Æsop’s Fables_.

It happened on a time that Virgil, who knew all things hidden or magical,
he being a magician and poet, having heard an oration, was asked what he
thought of it.

And he replied:

“It seems impossible for me to tell whether it is all introduction or
conclusion.  It is like certain fish, of whom one is in doubt whether
they are all head or all tail, or the goddess Laverna, of whom no one
ever knew whether she was all head or all body, or both.”

Then the Emperor asked him who this deity might be, for he had never
heard of her.

And Virgil answered:

“Among the gods or spirits who were of the ancient times there was one
female, who was the craftiest and most knavish of all.  She was called
Laverna; she was a thief, and very little known to the other deities, who
were honest and dignified, while Laverna was rarely in heaven or in the
country of the fairies.  She was almost always on earth among thieves,
pickpockets, and panders; (she lived) in darkness.  Once it happened that
she went to a great priest, in the form of a very beautiful, stately
priestess, and said to him:

“‘Sell me your estate.  I wish to raise on it a temple to (our) god.  I
swear to you on my body that I will pay thee within a year.’ {39}

“Therefore the priest gave her the estate.  And very soon Laverna had
sold off all the crops, grain, cattle, and poultry.  There was not left
the value of four farthings.  But on the day fixed for payment there was
no Laverna to be seen.  The fair goddess was far away, and had left her
creditor in the lurch—_in asso_.

“At the same time Laverna went to a great lord, and bought of him a
castle, well-furnished, with much land.  But this time she swore _on her
head_ to pay in full in six months.  And she did as she had done by the
priest; she stole and sold everything—furniture, cattle, crops; there was
not left wherewith to feed a fly.

“Then the priest and the lord appealed to the gods, complaining that they
had been robbed by a goddess.  And it was soon found that the thief was
Laverna.  Therefore she was called to judgment before all the gods.  And
she was asked what she had done with the property of the priest, unto
whom she had sworn by her body to make payment at the time appointed.
And she replied by a strange deed, which amazed them all, for she made
her body disappear, so that only her head remained, and it cried:

“‘Behold me!  I swore by my body, but body have I none.’

“Then all the gods laughed.

“After the priest came the lord, who had also been tricked, and to whom
she had sworn by her head.  And in reply to him Laverna showed to all
present her whole body, and it was one of the greatest beauty, but
without a head, and from the neck there came a voice which said:

    “‘Behold me, for I am Laverna, who
    Have come to answer to that lord’s complaint
    Who swears that I contracted debt with him,
    And have not paid, although the time is o’er,
    And that I am a thief because I swore
    Upon my head; but, as you all can see,
    I have no head at all, and therefore I
    Assuredly ne’er swore by such an oath!’

“Then there was indeed a storm of laughter among the gods, who made the
matter right by ordering the head to join the body, and bidding Laverna
pay up her dues, which she did.

“Then Jove spoke and said:

“‘Here is a roguish deity without a duty, while there are in Rome
innumerable thieves, sharpers, cheats, and rascals—_ladri_, _bindolini_,
_truffatori e scrocconi_—who live by deceit.  These good folk have
neither a church nor a god, and it is a great pity, for even the very
devils have their master Satan.  Therefore I command that in future
Laverna shall be the goddess of all the knaves or dishonest tradesmen,
and all the rubbish and refuse of the human race, who have been hitherto
without a god or devil, inasmuch as they have been too despicable for the
one or the other.’

“And so Laverna became the goddess of all dishonest people.  Whenever
anyone planned or intended any knavery or aught wicked, he entered her
temple and invoked Laverna, who appeared to him as a woman’s head.  But
if he did his work badly and maladroitly, when he again invoked her he
saw only the body.  But if he was clever, then he beheld the whole
goddess, head and body.

“Laverna was not more chaste than she was honest, and had many lovers and
many children.  It is said that, not being bad at heart, she often
repented her life and sins; but do what she might she could not reform,
because her passions were so inveterate.  And if a man had got any woman
with child, or any maid found herself _incinta_, and would hide it from
the world and escape scandal, they would go every day to invoke Laverna.
{40}  Then, when the time came for the suppliant to be delivered, Laverna
would bear her in sleep during the night to her temple, and after the
birth cast her into slumber again, and carry her back to her bed.  And
when she awoke in the morning she was ever in vigorous health and felt no
weariness, and all seemed to her as a dream.

“But to those who desired in time to reclaim their children Laverna was
indulgent, if they led such lives as pleased her and faithfully
worshipped her.  And this is the manner of the ceremony and the
incantation to be offered to Laverna every night:

“There must be a set place devoted to the goddess, be it a room, a
cellar, or a grove, ever a solitary place.  Then take a small table of
the size of forty playing-cards set close together, and this must be hid
in the same place, and going there at night. . . .

“Take the forty cards and spread them on the table, making of them, as it
were, a close carpet on it.  Take of the herbs _paura_ {41a} and
_concordia_ and boil the two together, repeating meanwhile:

    “‘Fo bollire la mano della concordia,
    Per tenere a me concorde.
    La Laverna, che possa portare a me
    Il mio figlio e che possa
    Guardarmelo da qual un pericolo!

    “‘Bollo questa erba ma non bollo l’erba.
    Bollo la _paura_ {41b} che possa tenere lontano
    Qualunque persona, e se le viene,
    L’idea a qualchuno di avvicinarsi,
    Possa essere preso da paura,
    E fuggire lontano!’”

    “I boil the cluster of _concordia_
    To keep in concord and at peace with me
    Laverna, that she may restore to me
    My child, and that she, by her favouring care,
    May guard me well from danger all my life!

    “I boil this herb, yet ’tis not it which boils;
    I boil the _fear_ that it may keep afar
    Any intruder, and if such should come
    [To spy upon my rite], may he be struck
    With fear, and in his terror haste away!”

“Having said this, put the boiled herbs in a bottle, and spread the cards
on the table, one by one, saying:

    “‘Batezzo queste quarante carte
    Ma non batezzo le quarante carte.
    Batezzo quaranta dei superiori
    Alla dea Laverna che le sue
    Persone divengono un vulcano
    Fino che la Laverna non sara
    Venuta da me colla mia creatura.
    E questi dei dal naso dalla bocca,
    E dall’ orecchie possino buttare
    Fiammi di fuoco e cenere,
    E lasciare pace e bene alia dea
    Laverna, che possa anche essa
       Abbracciare i suoi figli,
       A sua volunta!’”

    “I spread before me now the forty cards,
    Yet ’tis not forty cards which here I spread,
    But forty of the gods superior
    To the deity Laverna, that their forms
    May each and all become volcanoes hot,
    Until Laverna comes and brings my child.
    And till ’tis done, may they all cast
    Hot flames of fire and coals from their lungs,
    And leave her in all peace and happiness,
    And still embrace her children at her will.”

                                * * * * *

The character of Virgil is here clearly enough only an introduction by
the narrator, in order to make a Virgilian tale or narrative.  But the
incantation, which I believe to be _bonâ fide_ and ancient, is very
curious and full of tradition.  The daring to conjure the forty gods that
they may suffer till they compel Laverna to yield is a very bold and
original conception, but something like it is found very often in Italian
witchcraft.  It is of classic origin.  In the witchcraft manufactured by
the Church, which only dates from the last decade of the fifteenth
century, it never occurs.  The witches of Sprenger and Co. never lay any
of the Trinity under a ban of torture till a desire is accomplished, nor
are they ever even invoked.

_La femme comme il faut_, or “the only good woman,” is a very ungallant
misogamic corner tavern sign once common in France.  It represents a
headless woman.  Perhaps she was derived from some story like this of
Laverna.  It recalls the inhuman saying: “The only good (Red) Indian is a
dead Indian.”

Laverna is in this tale another form of Diana.  There are also traces of
Lucina in the character.




VIRGIL AND THE UGLY GIRL.


    “Though her ugliness may scare,
    Money maketh all things fair.”

                                                                _Proverb_.

    “_Gelt—wie lieb’ich Dich_.”—How truly I love thee! or, “Money—how I
    love thee!”—_German Jest_.

There was once in Rome an ugly young lady; yes, the ugliest on earth!
And, as if this were not enough, she was ill-tempered and spiteful, and
in his whole course the sun did not shine on a more treacherous being.
She was a true devilkin, being as small as a dwarf.  However, devil or
not, she was worth millions, and had the luck to be betrothed to the
handsomest young man in Rome, who was, indeed, poor.

One day a certain Countess said to Virgil:

“I cannot understand how it comes to pass that such a splendid fellow is
allied to such a horrid little fright—_un tal spauracchio_!”

Virgil said nothing, but he went home and took two scorpions, and by his
magic art turned them into gold, and of these he made two ear-rings and
sent them to the Countess, who was delighted with them, and when Virgil
asked her if she liked them, answered: “_Tanta_, _tanta_, _sono molto
belli_”—“Very much, they are so beautiful!”

“You said to me a little while ago,” replied Virgil, “that you did not
see what the handsomest man in Rome finds to admire in the ugliest girl.
It is gold, Signora Contessa, which does it all—gold which makes
scorpions so charming that you wear them in your ears, and call them
beautiful!”

The Countess laughed, and said: “Thou speakest truth—

    “‘Gold like the sun turns darkness to night,
    And fear or hatred to love and delight.
    Gold makes raptures out of alarms,
    Gold turns horror to beautiful charms,
    And gives the beauty of youth to the old.
    On earth there’s no magic like that of gold.’”




VIRGIL AND THE GEM.


      SHOWING HOW VIRGIL BY HIS ART DROVE ALL THE FLIES OUT OF ROME.

    “Cil une mouche d’arain fist,
    Que toutes mouches qui estoient.
    Celle approchier ne povoient.”

                                             RENARS CONTREFAIS, A.D. 1318.

    “Et fist une mousche d’arain,
    De quoi encor le pris et ain.
    A Naples cele mousche mist
    Et de tel maniere la fist,
    Que tant com la mousche fu la
    Mousche dedenz Naples n’entra,
    Mais je ne sai que puis devint,
    La mousche, ne qu’il en avint.”

                  ADENÈS LI ROIS: _Roman de Cleomadès_.  _XIIIth Century_.

    “There were at that time near the city many swamps, in consequence of
    which were swarms of _flies_, which caused death.  And VIRGIL . . .
    made a fly of gold, as large as a frog, by virtue of which all the
    flies left the city.”—_La Cronaca di Partenope_, 1350.

    “Trovasi chi egli fece una moscha di rame, che dove la posa niuna
    moscha apariva mai presso a due saettate che incontanente non
    morissi.”

                                           ANTONIO PUCCI, _XIVth Century_.

Once there came to the Emperor a merchant with many gems and jewels, and
begged him to purchase some.

The Emperor asked of Virgil, who was present:

“Which is the very best of all these stones?”

Virgil replied:

“Let them all remain for a time in the light of the sun, and I will tell
you which is the gem of them all.”

This was done, and after a time a fly alighted on one.

“This is the gem of greatest value,” said Virgil.

“But it is really hardly worth a crown,” replied the merchant.

“And yet it is worth all the rest put together,” answered Virgil; “for it
increases marvellously the intellect or understanding, and thereby one
can win with it the love of whom he will.”

“Very well,” said the Emperor, “I will buy it, and find by experience
whether it can increase wit whereby we gain hearts.”

He did so, and finding that the stone had the virtue which Virgil
ascribed to it, said to the sage one day:

“How was it that thou didst find out and understand the value of that
gem?”

“I knew it, because I saw that there was in the stone a very small fly
(_moschettina_—gnat), and I knew that flies are very quick and gay, and
have great cleverness, as anyone can see if he tries to catch them, and
they make love all the time.”

“Truly thou art a devil, oh Virgil,” replied the Emperor; “and for reward
I hereby make thee Emperor or Pope over all the flies.  There are, by the
way, far too many of them, and a perfect plague—they spoil all the meat
in the shops.  I would that thou couldst banish all thy subjects from
Rome.”

“I will do it,” answered Virgil.

Then, by his magic, he summoned the Great Fly—Il Moscone, the King of all
the Flies—and said to him:

“Thy subjects are far too many, and a sore plague to all mankind.  I
desire that thou wilt drive them all out of Rome.”

“I will do it,” replied the Moscone, “if thou wilt make a fly of gold as
large as a great frog, and put it in my honour in the Church of Saint
Peter.  After which, there will no more flies be seen in Rome.”

Then Virgil went to the Emperor and told him what Il Moscone had said,
and the Emperor commanded that the fly should be made of many pounds of
gold, and it was placed in the Church of Saint Peter, and so long as it
remained there no fly was ever seen within the walls of Rome.

                                * * * * *

I have another version of what is partially the same story, but with a
curious addition, which is of greater antiquity and most unconsciously
really Virgilian, or the old tale of the bull’s hide.




THE FLIES IN ROME.


It happened one summer in Rome that people were sadly afflicted with
flies.  Nothing like it had ever been seen; they swarmed by millions
everywhere, they blackened the walls, the meat on the butchers’ stands
was hidden under masses of them.  And the poor suffered in their
children, many of whom died, while all kinds of food was poisoned and
corrupted everywhere.  Then the Emperor said to Virgil:

“Truly, if thou hast indeed the art of conjuring, now is the time to show
it, by conjuring away this curse, for I verily believe that all the flies
of Egypt are come here to Rome.”

Virgil replied:

“If thou wilt give me so much land as I can enclose in an ox’s hide, I
will drive all the flies away from Rome.”

The Emperor was well pleased to get so much for so small a price, as it
seemed to him, and promised that he should truly have as much land as
could be enclosed or covered {46} in the skin of an ox.

Virgil summoned Il Moscone, the King of the Flies, and said to him:

“I wish that all flies in Rome leave the city this very day!”

Il Moscone, the King of the Flies, replied:

“Cause me to become by magic a great fly of gold, and then put me in the
Church of Saint Peter, and after that there will be no more insects in
the city.”

Then Virgil conjured him into the form of a fly of gold, and it was
placed in the church, and at that instant all the flies left Rome.  At
which the Emperor was well pleased.

Then the Emperor asked Virgil where the land lay which was to be taken in
the ox-hide.

“Come to-morrow and you shall see,” answered the sage.

So the Emperor came with all his Court, and found Virgil mounted on
horseback, bearing a great bundle of leather cord, like shoe-strings, and
this had been made from the skin of the ox.  And beginning at one gate
and letting fall the cord, he rode around the city until all Rome was
surrounded.

“Your Highness will observe,” said Virgil, “that I have taken exactly as
much land as could be enclosed in an ox’s hide, and as Rome stands on the
ground, therefore all Rome is mine.”

“And what wilt thou take for this bit of earth—houses, people and all?”
inquired the Emperor.

“I ask what to me is its full value, oh my Emperor, for I have long loved
your beautiful niece!  Give her to me with one hundred thousand crowns in
gold, and I will restore to you your city.”

The Emperor was well pleased to grant this, and so it came to pass that
all Rome was bought and sold in one day for a purse and a princess, or
for a woman and one hundred thousand crowns.

                                * * * * *

It will be observed by many readers that in the first tale here narrated
there are combined two of the older Virgilian legends, one being that of
the Gem which has within it a mysterious power, and which is thus told in
“The Wonderful History of Virgil the Sorcerer.” {47}

    “Soon after, the Emperor having his crown-jewels laid out before him,
    sent for Virgilius, and said: ‘Master, you know many things, and few
    are hid from your ken.  Tell me now, if you be indeed a judge of
    gems, which think you is the best of these?’  The Emperor having
    pointed out one gem of peculiar brilliancy, Virgilius laid it, first
    in the palm of his hand, then to his ear, and said: ‘Sire, in this
    stone there is a worm.’  Forthwith the Emperor caused the stone to be
    sawn asunder, and lo, in the centre was found a worm concealed!
    Amazed at the sagacity of Virgilius, the Emperor, at the charge of
    the country, raised his allowance to a whole loaf per diem.”

The story of the fly is told in almost all the collections.  The reader
will bear in mind the following frank and full admission, of which all
critics are invited to make the worst, that in many cases I had already
narrated these Virgilian tales to my collector, as I did here—a course
which it is simply impossible to avoid where one is collecting in a
speciality.  If you want fairy-tales, take whatever the gods may send,
but if you require nothing but legends of Red Cap, you must specify, and
show samples of the wares demanded.  But it may here be observed, that
after I had communicated these tales, they all returned to me with
important changes.  In the older legends the fly made by Virgil is
manifestly—like the leech which he also fabricated—simply an _amulet_ or
talisman formed under the influence of the planets, or by astrology.  In
the version which I give there is an altogether different, far more
ancient and mysterious motive power described.  This is the direct aid of
_Moscone_, the King of the Flies, suggestive of _Baal tse Bul_, or
Beelzebub himself.  The reader may find a chapter on this mystical being,
who is also the god of news, in the “Legends of Florence,” Part II.
According to my story, the Golden Fly is not a _talisman_ made by
planetary influences, but a tribute of respect to a demon, which he
demands shall be set up in Saint Peter’s.  Here the _witch_, ever
inimical to orthodox faith, appears in black and white—so true is it, as
I have before remarked, that even where my assistant has been asked to
re-tell a tale, it always returned with darker and stranger colouring,
which gave it an interest far greater than existed in the simple
narrative.  The tale of the fly, as a mere amulet, is of almost no
importance whatever, beyond its being an insignificant variant; but as a
legend of the chief of the flies, or Beelzebub, claiming honour and a
place in the great Christian Church, it is of extraordinary novelty.

Amber, in which insects are often found, especially small flies or
midges, was anciently regarded as a gem, and is classed as one in the
_Tesoro delle Goie_.  _Trattato curioso_, Venice, 1676.

It may be observed that something like this story of the gem with an
insect in it occurs not only in the early legends of Virgil, but also in
the oldest _novelle_, as may be seen in Roscoe’s “Italian Novelists.”  In
fact, there is probably not one of the old Neapolitan Virgilian stories
which is not, like this, of Oriental origin.




THE COLUMNS OF VIRGIL AND HIS THREE WONDERFUL STATUES.


    “En sic meum opus ago,
    Ut Romæ fecit imago
    Quam sculpsit Virgilius,
    Quæ manifestare suevit
    Fures, sed cæsa quievit
    Et os clausit digito.”

              DE CORRUPTO ECCLESIÆ STATU: _XVIth Century_.  _Virgilius the
                                                         Sorcerer_ (1892).

The reader who is familiar with “The Legends of Florence” will remember
that, in the second series of that work, {49} there are several tales
referring to the Red Pillars of the Baptistery, of which, as Murray’s
“Guide Book” states, “at each side of the eastern entrance of the
Battisterio di San Giovanni there is a shaft of red porphyry, presented
by the Pisans in 1117.”  To which I added:

    “Other accounts state that the Florentines attached immense value to
    these columns, and that once when there was to be a grand division of
    plunder between Florence and Pisa, the people of the former city
    preferred to take them, instead of a large sum of money, or something
    which was apparently far more valuable.  And the Pisans parted from
    them most unwillingly, and to deprive them of value passed them
    through a fire.  Which is all unintelligible nonsense, but which
    becomes clear when we read further.

    “I had spoken of this to Mr. W. de Morgan, the distinguished scholar,
    artist, and discoverer in ceramics, when he informed me that he had
    found, in the ‘Cronaca Pisana’ of Gardo, a passage which clearly
    explains the whole.  It is as follows:

    “In the year 1016, the Pisans brought the gates of wood which are in
    the Duomo, and a small column, which is in the façade, or above the
    gate of the Duomo.  There are also at the chief entrance two columns,
    about two fathoms each in length, of a reddish colour, and it is said
    that whoever sees them is sure in that day not to be betrayed.  And
    these two columns which were so beautiful had been so enchanted by
    the Saracens, {50a} that when a theft had been committed the face of
    the thief could be seen reflected in them.  And when they had
    scorched them they sent them to Florence, after which time the
    pillars lost their power; whence came the saying, _Fiorentini
    ciechi_, or ‘blind Florentines.’ {50b}

    “Unto which was added, _Pisani traditori_, or ‘treacherous Pisans.’
    Those pillars were, in fact, magic mirrors which had acquired their
    power by certain ceremonies performed when they were first polished,
    and which were lost.”

A German writer on witchcraft, Peter Goldschmidt, states that there was
once in olden time in Constantinople a certain Peter Corsa, who, by
looking in two polished stones or magic mirrors, beheld in them proof
that his wife, then far away, was unfaithful to him.  It is possible, or
probable, that this refers to the same pillars, before they had been
brought to Pisa, even as the column of the Medicis in the Piazza
Annunciata was sent from the East to Florence.

What renders this the more probable is the following passage by
Comparetti, given in his “Virgilio nel Medio Evo”:

    “In a History of the Pisans, written in French in the fifteenth
    century and existing in manuscript in Berne, there is mention of two
    columns made by Virgil, and which were then in the cathedral of Pisa,
    on the tops of which one could see the likeness of anyone who had
    stolen or fornicated.”  See De Sinner, “Catal. Codicum MSS. Bibl.
    Bernensis,” II., p. 129; Du Meril, “Mélanges,” p. 472.

It is most unlikely that the Pisans had _two_ pairs of columns, in each
of which appeared the forms or phantoms or _simulacra_, of criminals, for
which reason we may conclude that those in the Battisterio of Florence
are quite the same as those which were said to have been made by Virgil.
And it is also probable that the belief that they were made by Virgil
went far to give them the great value which was attached to them.  They
should be called the columns of Virgil.

It may be observed that the Berne manuscript cited mentions that it was
on the _top_ of the pillars that the visions were seen, and that the tops
of the columns of the Battisterio have been knocked away, possibly by the
Pisans, in order to deprive them of their peculiar value.

Virgil is also accredited with having made a statue which, like Mahomet’s
coffin, hung free in mid-air, and was visible from every part of Rome, or
in fact from every door and window.  And it had the property that no
woman who had once beheld it had, after that, any desire to behave
improperly, which thing, according to the plainly-speaking author of “Les
Faicts Merveilleux de Virgille,” was a sad affliction to the Roman dames,
_qui aymoyent par amour_, since they could not put foot out of doors
without seeing “that nasty-image” which prevented them from having
_soulas de leurs amours_.  So they all complained bitterly to Virgil’s
wife, who promised to aid them.  Therefore, one day when her husband was
absent, she went up the bridge or ladder which led to the statue and
threw down the latter.  “So, from that time forth, the _dames de Rome
firent à leur volonté et a leur plaisance_, _et furent bien ayses de
lymage qui fut abbatu_.”  Truly the Ibsenite and other novelists of the
present day, but especially the lady realists of our time, have great
cause to be thankful that no such statues are stuck up in the public
places of our cities, for if such were the case their occupation would be
gone for ever—or until they had overturned them.

Virgil would appear, however, to have been somewhat inconsistent in this
matter of statues, or else desirous of demonstrating to the world that he
could go to opposite extremes, since he made another, which is thus
delicately hinted at in a footnote by Comparetti: {52}

    “In contradizione con questo racconto in cui Virgilio apparisce come
    protettore del buon costume, trovasi un altro racconto, secondo il
    quale . . . egli avrebbe fatto una donna pubblica artificiale.  Cosi
    Enenkel nel suo ‘Weltbuch’; vede V. J. Hagen, ‘Gesammtten Abenteuer,’
    II., 515; Massmonn, ‘Kaiser Chronik,’ III., 451.  Una leggenda
    rabbinica parla anch’ essa di una statua destinata a quell’ uso ed
    esistente in Romæ.  Vede Praetorius, ‘Anthropodemus Plutonicus,’ I.,
    150, e Liebrecht nella ‘Germania di Pfeiffer,’ X., 414.”

The passage in Enenkel referred to is given with the rest of the
“Weltbuch” by Comparetti, and is as follows:

    “Virgilius der selbe man,
    Begunde nu ze Rôme gân,
    Und versuocht ’sain maisterschaft,
    Ob es wær’ wâr der teuvel kraft,
    Er macht’ ze Rôm’ ain stainein Weib
    Von Künste den het ainen Leib
    Swann’ ain Schalk, ain boeser Man
    Wolte ze ainem Weibe gân,
    Daz er gie zu dem Staine,
    Der boese, der unraine,
    Das im was bei des Staines Leib
    Recht als ob er wær im Weib,
    Nicht vür baz ich en sagen sol
    Main mainung ’witzt ihr alle wol.”

Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” Ravisius Textor (“Officina”), and Kornmann
(“Curiosa”) have brought together all the instances in special chapters
of men who have fallen in love with statues.  I observe that in a late
popular novel this device of the _donna artificiale_ is described in a
manner which leaves actually nothing to be desired to the lovers of
indecency, vileness, blasphemy, or “realism”—_c’est tout un_.

It may be observed that in another tale collected by me, Virgil has for
his Egeria a statue called Pæonia, which comes to life when he would
confer with her, and which I regard, on what is at least startling
coincidence if not full proof, a tradition of Minerva-Pæonia and
Esculapius.

The tale in question declares that the magician Virgil, who had a marked
fancy for making statues love, or turning women into stone—ever petting
or petrifying among the petticoats—had a third favourite, a Pæonia, who
was marble when not specially required for other purposes than ornament.
These three ladies suggest the Graces:

    “Aglaia, Euphrosyne que Thaliaque splendida
    Clara letitiæ matres!”

It is probably by mere coincidence or chance that in Keats’ “Endymion”
the habitual friend and comforter of the hero is:

    “_Peona_, his sweet sister; of all those
    His friends, the dearest, . . .
    Whose eloquence did breathe away the curse.
    She led him like some midnight spirit-nurse.”

But that Peona, through all the poem, plays the part which Pæonia has
with Virgil is unquestionable.  It would seem as if there is, if not a
spiritual, at least an æsthetic influence in names.  _Nomen est omen_.
“All Bobs are bobbish,” said a farmer, “and all Dicks dickies.”




VIRGIL AND ADELONE.


    “Who would have ever said that amid the horrors of prison I would
    find a true friend to console me?”—BOETHIUS _to_ PATRICIUS.

    “All by prayer and penitence
    May be at length forgiven.”

                                               _Ballad of Sir Tannhäuser_.

There once lived in Florence a young man who was not really bad at heart,
but utterly selfish, especially to his relations, and was without heed or
feeling as to the sufferings of others.  And, it being in his power, he
wasted all the income of the family on sport, letting his brothers and
sisters endure great privations; nor would he have cared much had they
starved.  He was like all such people—frivolous and capricious.  If he
met a poor child in the street, he would give it a gold crown, and then
let all at home hunger for days.

One day his suffering mother went to Virgilio, and, telling him all about
her son, begged the master, if it were possible, to reform him.

Virgilio said to her: “I will indeed do something which will bring thy
son to his senses.”

The young man was named Adelone, and Virgilio, meeting him the next day,
said:

“If thou wouldst fain see a strange thing indeed—such as thou hast
erewhile prayed me to show thee by my art—then be to-night at twelve in
the cloister of Santa Maria Novella, where thou wilt see and learn that
which it is most needful for thee to know.  But to behold and bear the
sight thou muse be bold, for a faint heart will fail before it.”

Then Adelone, who, to do him justice, was no coward, did not fail to be
in the cloister of Santa Maria Novella at the appointed hour.  And as the
last stroke of twelve was heard, Adelone saw before him the spirit of a
young man named Geronio, who had died one year before, and who had been,
as one like him in all respects, his most intimate friend.  They were
always together, and what one did the other joined in; both were reckless
wasters of money, and selfishly indifferent to their families.  And as
Adelone looked at Geronio he saw in the face of the latter such an
expression of awful suffering, that it was a torture to behold him.  And
Geronio, seeing this, said:

“Depart now, for it is time; but this night I will come to thee and
remain with thee till morning.” {55}

And Adelone was glad to have seen Geronio once more, but greatly grieved
at finding him in such suffering.

That night he was in his room, which was on the ground, and at the
appointed hour the spirit came.  And, looking with awe at his friend,
Adelone said:

“I see that thou art in pain beyond all belief.”

“Yes,” replied Geronio; “I suffer the greatest agony, such as no mortal
could endure.  But I pray you come with me.”

Then the two sunk softly down into the earth, ever deeper and deeper in
silent darkness, until Adelone saw that they were in an immense cavern,
all of gray ice, dimly lighted, with dripping icicles hanging from the
roof, and all the floor was covered with dirty, half-freezing water,
under which was a bed of stinking mud, and over all was an air of sadness
and wretchedness beyond description.

“This is my home,” said Geronio; “but it is as nothing compared to what I
suffer in my soul—which is a thousand times more terrible than anything
which mortals can imagine, for they have no idea of what spiritual
torture is like, because they always think of pain as bodily.  But know
that I had rather be beaten or burned in fire for a year than suffer for
an instant the remorse which I endure.”

“Can anything be done to help you?” asked Adelone.

“Yes, all can be done; and you can save me and not only give me peace,
but do as much for thyself, and thereby escape what I have suffered.  If
thou wilt lead a good and loving life—good and kind to all, especially to
thy family and friends, no longer wasting money and life on selfish
follies, no longer neglecting duty and acting as an egoist—thus thou
canst give me peace, and rescue me from this inferno.  But woe unto thee,
shouldst thou promise this and fail to keep thy word.  For when thy time
cometh, as come it will, thou wilt suffer as I do—yea, with redoubled
remorse.”

Then Adelone, looking about him, saw many sad shades of men and women
wandering or wading through the icy water; all people who had lived for
themselves alone, all waiting till someone as yet alive should, by good
conduct, save them.  And none spoke, for they were doomed to silence.  So
they looked at one another, and passed on, and such looks were the only
thing like comfort allowed them.

Then Adelone fell, as it seemed to him, asleep, and when he awoke he was
in his own room, but he well knew that it was no dream which he had
beheld.  And from that hour he was another man, becoming as good as he
had been bad, living to make all others happy, and devoted in every way
to his family.  And thereby he became for the first time truly contented.

                                * * * * *

Six months passed, and one night at twelve o’clock, on awaking, he saw
before him Geronio, who no longer seemed to suffer as before, though
there was still in his eyes something terrible.

“How is it with thee?” asked Adelone.

“Far better.  Come with me.”

Then Adelone found himself in a great castle, which seemed like a free
prison, which was grim and without comfort.  Many souls were in it, but
they were walking about together, or resting and conversing, apparently
in no suffering.  It was a joyless place, but not one of torture, nor was
it filthy. {57}

“We do not suffer so much here,” said Geronio.  “We have still much
remorse, but at least we have the consolation of being able to converse
one with another, and enjoy sympathy in sorrow.”

“What do you talk about?” asked Adelone.

“Chiefly about the people whom we hope will set us free.  I talk of thee,
because all my hope is in thee.  I think of nothing else by day or
night.”

Then Adelone returned to his home.  After six months he beheld Geronio
again.  Again he found himself in a castle, but the spirits were
conversing happily, many were singing hymns, they had guitars and
mandolins, and here and there were vases of flowers which gave forth
delightful perfume.

Geronio said to him:

“Here we are happier still, and, believe me, friend, if thou canst in
this life make others as good as thou art, to love their relations and
friends, and cease to be selfish, thereby everyone can save another soul,
and win great reward for himself.”

Adelone replied:

“I truly will do all I can to content thee.”

From that day he did all that he could, not only to do good himself, but
to cause others to act like him.  Six months after this Geronio came to
him and said:

“Now that I know that thou art truly good, learn that I am at peace.  And
as thou hast been the means of giving it to others, know that in future
all good spirits will aid thee!”

It is not enough not to be a sinner.  He who does not take care and pains
and labour earnestly to make others happy will be punished as an
evil-doer.  He who does not love (us) is an enemy.

                                * * * * *

It is to be remarked in this, as in all the other tales from the same
sources, when a moral end or plot is to be worked out, it is done without
benefit of clergy or aid of priest, or the Church.  For these are legends
of the witches and wizards, who have ever been the foes, and consequently
the hated and afflicted, of the orthodox.  It is a curious reflection
that as it has been said that the last savage in America will die with
the last Indian, so the _strega_, or witch, will remain to the end a
heathen.  And I find curious emotion in the thought that what I have
gathered, or am gathering, with such care, is the last remainder of
antique heathenism in Europe.  Superstitions there are everywhere, but in
this kind Italy is alone.




VIRGIL AND DORIONE, or THE MAGIC VASE.


    I have a vase in which I daily throw
    All scraps and useless rubbish—oh that I
    Had one wherein to cast away all thoughts,
    Imaginations, dreams and memories
    Which haunt and vex the soul, to disappear
    For ever, lost in fast forgetfulness!
    That were a vase indeed, and worth far more
    Than that which forms the subject of this tale.

Many centuries ago there was in Naples a young man named Dorione, who
studied magic, and his master was a great sorcerer named Virgil.  One
evening Dorione found himself in company with friends, and there was
present another wizard named Belsevo. {58}  Now, there was not bread
enough in the house for supper for all.

“Never mind,” remarked Belsevo.  “He who hath art will find his bread in
any part.  Observe me.”

Taking a large vase, he turned it upside down and said:

    “Viene pane!
    Abbiamo fame;
    Dimmi o Cerere del pane!
    Se questa grazia mi farai,
    Sempre fedele a te sarai.”

    “Come, bread, to me,
    For hungry are we!
    Oh, Ceres, give us bread!
    Grant me this grace benign,
    And I will be ever thine!”

Then he removed the vase, and there were on the table eight small loaves.

Then Belsevo said to Dorione:

“Canst thou not give us wine for the bread, O scholar of the grand master
Virgil?”

But Dorione, being only a beginner in magic, could not effect such a
miracle, and was much ashamed because all laughed at him.

The next morning Dorione told what had happened to Virgil.

“Well didst thou deserve,” replied the master, “to be thus scoffed at and
jeered, for a young magician should never play tricks at a table like a
juggler to amuse fools.  But thou hast been sufficiently punished, and to
please thee I will give thee a fine present.  And if thou canst not make
bread come, thou shalt at least have the power to make it and other
things disappear.  I will give thee this vase of bronze.  It is but
small, as thou seest, but tell any object, however large, to disappear in
it, then the vase will swallow it.  Thou shalt keep for thyself in secret
a house somewhere, and whatever the vase may swallow thou wilt find it in
the house, however distant thou mayst be from it.  Only say, ‘Go into the
vase!’ and by the vase it will be swallowed up.  But thou shalt never use
it to steal, or for any dishonest purpose.  So long as thou art honest it
will serve, and none shall rob thee of it.  And if that should come to
pass, call to it and it will return to thee.”

Then Dorione took the vase, and thanked the grand master Virgil.  After a
time the scholar went on a long journey.  Dorione possessed a small
castle in a remote place in the mountains of Tuscany, and in it was a
secret vault.  “There,” he said, “I will send all that the vase may
swallow.  Many a thing may be come by honestly, if one knew how to send
it away and where to put it.

    “‘He who hath a cage, I’ve heard,
    In time will surely get a bird.’”

It came to pass that he became the secretary of a certain lord, who, like
many of the brave gentry of his time, was ever at war with somebody,
plundering or being plundered, every one in his turn, as fortune
favoured.

    “Up on the top of the hill to-day,
       Down in the dale to-morrow;
    Oft in the morning happy and gay,
       After a night of sorrow;
    For some must fall that others may rise,
       And the swallow goes chirping as she flies.”

One evening his master heard a trumpet afar, and, looking forth, seemed
suddenly startled, like a man in great alarm.  Pointing to a splendid
suit of armour, he said:

“Seest thou that armour, Dorione?  It is worth ten thousand crowns, and I
would give ten thousand it were this instant in hell.  I took it in a
raid from the Grand Duke, and he will be here in ten minutes with all his
men.  If he finds the armour I shall lose my head.  And there, too, is an
iron chest full of gold and jewels—all plunder, and all in evidence
against me.”

“If you will give it to me,” answered Dorione, “I will make it all vanish
in an instant.”

“Yea, I give it with all my heart; but be quick about it, for the Grand
Duke and his soldiers are at the gate, and I feel the rope round my
neck!”

Then Dorione brought his vase in a minute, and uttered the conjuration:

    “Vattene via!  Vattene via!
    Roba bella, cosa mia!
    Vai nell’ istante al mio castello!
    Apri la bocca, vaso bello!”

    “Hasten away!  Begone! begone!
    All ye fine things which are now mine own,
    Fly to my castle—never pause;
    Beautiful vase, now open thy jaws.”

And in an instant the armour and chest went flying into the vase and
disappeared.

Just as they vanished the Duke and his men entered, but though they
sought in every cranny they found nothing; and so, having come for a
bargain of wool, went away shorn, {60} as the proverb says.

“Thou hast saved my life,” said the Signore.  “God only knows how you ran
away with the things, but you are welcome to them.  Truly I was glad to
get them, but a thousand times better pleased to see them go.”

One day the Signore and Dorione found themselves in a battle together,
sore beset and separated from all their troop.  They were in extremest
danger of being killed. {61}  When all at once there came an idea to
Dorione, who had his vase slung to his side like a canteen.  He
pronounced the spell, ordering all the arms in the hands of the enemy to
fly through the vase to his castle.  In an instant swords and spears,
daggers and battle-axes, had left their owners, who stood unarmed and
amazed.  So the two were saved.

The Signore took a great deal of booty, and rewarded Dorione very
liberally, the more so because he was greatly delighted to see the gifts
disappear in the vase—no matter what, all was fish to that net, and all
the sheep black—and Dorione liked to please his kind master, especially
in this way.  Yes, to amuse him he would often wish away a gold-hilted
and jewelled sword or helm from an enemy, and was pleased to hear the
brave old knight laugh to see the things fly.

The generosity of the lord stopped, however, at a certain point.  He had
a beautiful daughter whom Dorione loved, _alla follia_, to distraction,
but the father would not consent to bestow her on him.  But it came to
pass that one day the castle was besieged by a vast force, which spared
neither man, woman nor child, and it seemed plain that the besieged must
yield.  The lord bade Dorione to cause the arms of the enemy to vanish.

“This time,” replied his secretary, “I cannot do it.  The fame of my vase
or of my power has spread far and wide, and the enemy have had their arms
enchanted by a mighty sorcerer, so that I cannot take them.”

They fought on until of all the garrison only Dorione, with the lord and
his daughter, were left alive.  They were in extremity.

“And now,” thought Dorione, “something must be done, for there is many a
wolf at the door.  Let me see whether I cannot make the young lady go
into my vase, and then her father.”  So, bringing them together, he said:

    “Signora bella, signora mia!
    La più bella che su questa terra sia!
    Ti prego—subito, subito,
    Di qua vattene via!
    Vai nell istante al mio castello,
    Vi troverai un vaso bello,
    Che la sua bocca aprira,
    E li dentro ti salvera!”

    “Lovely lady, lady mine own,
    The fairest whom earth has ever known;
    Fly in a hurry, oh, fly away!
    Leave the castle—flit while you may,
    And off to my distant shelter flee!
    The beautiful vase is ready for thee,
    Who will open her mouth to take you in.
    Safe you will be when once within!”

In a second, ere the eye could follow, the young lady was whirled away
mysteriously, and, the conjuration being repeated, then her father.
After which Dorione prayed to the spirit of the vase, who was no other
than Saint Virgil himself, {62a} to save him also.  And in an instant he
felt himself swallowed up like a bean in the mouth of a horse.  And as
soon he found himself in the vault of the castle with the lady and her
father.  And they were amazed, in looking about, to see what wealth was
there gathered up, for Dorione had been very industrious in many a battle
in sending arms and booty to his home.

Then all three, joining hands, danced and sang for joy to find themselves
safe, Dorione and the lady doing the most rejoicing, because the lord had
promptly said:

“After this you may get married.”  And they had the wedding that night.

The good lord, as a proof of affection and esteem for Dorione, pronounced
an oration of regret as a penance on himself for not having sooner
consented to the nuptials, ending with these words: “And now let everyone
here present drink a cask of wine, and get as drunk as a tile, or four
fiddlers.” {62b}




VIRGIL AND THE LADY OF ICE AND WATER. {63}


    “And truly at that time it came to pass
    That Virgil, by the power of sorcery,
    Made a fair lady, who did shine like glass
    Or diamonds with wondrous brilliancy,
    Whom to the Emperor he did present,
    And who therewith, I trow, was well content.”

                                                    VIRGILO IL MAGO (MS.).

It happened on a time that the Emperor, coming from Rome to Florence, was
guest in the Duke’s palace, and treated so magnificently and in a manner
so much after his own heart, that he was indeed well content.

Now, in those days there was in Florence no Signore who, when he gave an
entertainment, did not invite Virgil, not only because he was the
greatest poet in Italy, but because he always played some admirable trick
or jest, which made men merry and was always new.

So at the first great feast the Emperor was greatly delighted at the
endless jokes, as well as by the genius of the distinguished guest.

Therefore, when the Emperor, before his departure, gave in turn a great
entertainment to all the nobles of Florence, as well as of Rome, who were
in the city, he sent the first invitation to Virgil, requesting him at
the same time to invent for the occasion a jest of the first magnitude.

So unto this for such occasion the magician gave all his mind.  And that
the Emperor should really “_catch_ the fly,” he resolved that the jest
should be one at the Imperial expense—_e lo scherzo voleva farlo a lui
medesimo_.

After long meditation he exclaimed, “_Ecco_, _l’ ho trovato_!  I’ve got
it!  I will give him a girl made of water!”

Forthwith he wrote to the Emperor that he would not fail to be at the
festival, but also begged permission to bring with him a beautiful young
lady—his cousin.

The Emperor, who was very devoted to the fair sex, inferred from this
directly that the jest was to be of a kind which would please all free
gallants—that is to say, the being introduced to some easy and beautiful
conquest—either wedded or a maid.  And, delighted at the thought that the
trick would take this turn, he replied to Virgil that he had _carta
biancha_, or full permission to bring with him whomever he pleased.

Then the magician made a woman of ice and light and water, clear as the
light of day he made her, and touched her thrice with his wand, and lo!
she became beautiful—but such a beauty, indeed, that you would not find
the like in going round the world; the sun or moon ne’er shone upon her
like, for she was made of star-rays and ice and dewdrops, so that she
looked like all the stars swimming in a burnished golden sky, and shining
like the sun, so resplendent in her beauty that she dazzled the eyes.

When Virgilio arrived at the palace, all the guests were there before
him, and they were so overwhelmed with blank amazement at the sight of
the sorcerer with such a beauty, that they, in silence and awed, drew
apart on either side, leaving open space through which Virgilio passed to
the Emperor.  And the latter was himself for a minute stupefied at the
sight of such brilliancy and beauty, when, recovering himself, he gave
his arm to the fair cousin, and asked her name.  To which she replied:
“_La Donna di Diaccio_” (ice).

“_Donna di Fuoco_! (Our Lady of Fire), {64} rather,” cried the Emperor,
“since all hearts are inflamed at thy beauty.  Truly, I had no idea that
the great poet had such a lovely cousin!”

The dance began, and the Emperor would have no other partner than this
lady, who outshone the rest as the moon the stars, and yet surpassed them
even more by her exquisite grace in every movement, and by her skill as a
dancer, so that one seemed to see a thousand exquisite statues or studied
forms of grace succeeding to one another as she moved.  Nor was she less
fascinating in her language than in her beauty, and no wonder, for
Virgilio had called into the form one of the wittiest and most gifted of
all the fairies to aid the jest.

So the dance swept on, and the Emperor, utterly enchanted, forgot
Virgilio and his promised jest, and the time, and the court, and all
things save the beauty beside him.  Finally he withdrew with her to a
side-room, where, sending for refreshment, he sat pouring forth wine into
himself and love into the ears of the lady by turns.

Virgil, indeed, wishing the Emperor to have a fine time of it for awhile,
did nothing to disturb the splendid pair.  But as daybreak would soon
appear, he spoke to one and another, saying that he had promised the
Emperor a merry jest to make them all laugh.  Whereupon there was a
general cry for the diversion, and by one consent the gay company invaded
the room where the fond couple sat.

Then Virgil, with the greatest politeness and a laughing air, said:

“Excuse me, your Highness, but it seems that my fair cousin here has so
engrossed you that you have forgotten that you laid an absolute command
on me that I should prepare and play some rare jest, the like of which
you had never seen, and I fear, should I forget it, you may ne’er forgive
me.”

Then the Emperor, good-natured and grateful to the poet for his fair
cousin’s sake, excused the intrusion, and begged for the jest, expressing
a hope that it would be a thoroughly good one.

Then Virgil said to the Emperor:

“Take my cousin upon thy lap, and let her arms be round thy neck!”

“_Per Bacco_!” cried the Emperor, “the jest begins well!”

“And now embrace her firmly!” exclaimed Virgil.

“Better and better!” quoth the Emperor.

Then Virgil spoke solemnly to the lady, and said:

“What is thy name?”

“Donna di Diaccia,” was her reply.

“Then, Lady of Ice,” replied the wondrous man, “in the name of my magic
power, I summon you to return to the ice from which you sprung, and to
the water from which you were born!”

Then little by little, as she sat in the Emperor’s lap, the beautiful
girl became a brilliant block of ice, and truly the great man, as his
fingers and all his person began to freeze, was fain to place the image
on the sofa, where they saw it presently thaw—features and feet and all
dispersing, and running away in a stream, till every trace had flown, and
the Emperor and the company understood that they had been admiring a
Woman of Water.

There was a pause of utter bewilderment, as of awe, at this strange
ending, and then a roar of laughter, in which the Emperor himself finally
joined, crying: “_Viva Virgilio_!  Long may he flourish with his magic
art!”  And so the feast ended with the clattering of cups, laughter, and
merry cheers.

[So the Donna di Diaccio was a spirit?  Certainly—the Spirit of
Ice-water.  If there is spirit in vermouth, why should there not be one
in the iced water which you mix with it?]

                                * * * * *

This story may remind the reader of “Our Lady of the Snow,” or Byron’s
“Witch of the Alps,” or Shelley’s “They all seem to be Sisters,” or else
suggest “Frozen Champagne,” and “Philadelphia Frozen Oysters.”




VIRGIL THE MAGICIAN, OR THE FOUR VENUSES.


    “Maint autres grand clercs ont estè
    Au monde de grand poesié
    Qui aprisrent tote lor vie,
    Des sept ars et le astronomie,
    Dont aucuns i ot qui a leur tens,
    Firent merveille par lor sens;
    Mais cil qui plus s’en entremist,
    Fu Virgile qui mainte enfist.
    Pour ce si vous en conterons
    Aucune dont oi avons.”

                                                _L’Image du Monde_ (1245).

Virgilio was as great a magician as he was a distinguished post.  And of
the great works which he did when alive many are yet remembered here in
Florence, and among other things his skill was such that by means of it
he made statues sing and dance.

_Ecco come avenne_—behold how it came to pass!  It chanced one day that
when walking alone in the environs of Florence, he found himself in a
place where there were four very beautiful Venuses. {67}  And looking at
them with great admiration, and observing their forms, he said:

“Truly they all please me well; and if they could converse I hardly know
which I would choose for a companion.  _Ebbene_!  I will make them all
talk and walk, live and move, and can then see if anyone of them will
show any gratitude for the gift of life.”

Then he took human fat, and anointed with it all the statues, and then of
the blood of a wild boar, and rubbed it very thoroughly over them, and
when this was done he waved his magic wand, and said:

“In the name of my magic art and power I order you to speak and move and
live!”

And with this they all awoke, as it were, from a long dream, and stepping
down from their pedestals, they walked about, seeming far more beautiful
than before.  And they gathered round Virgil, for truly they were
enchanted with him as well as by him, in more ways than one, and embraced
and kissed him with a thousand caresses and endearments, and each and all
wished him to select her as his mate.

Then Virgilio, laughing, said:

    “I know not which to choose among the four;
    I cannot make all four into a wife;
    But to determine who shall be the first,
    Do ye go forth and seek each one a gift,
    And come to-morrow evening to my house,
    And she who brings the gift which I prefer
    Shall be the fair one first preferred by me.”

And on the following eve the first who came was the Venus Agamene; thus
was she called who brought the first gift, and this was a splendid
diamond.  Virgilio received it with admiration, but said that he must
wait to see what the others would bring before he could decide.

Then the second was announced, whose name was Enrichetta, and she
presented a marvellous garment, richly embroidered and adorned.  And this
too was admired; but to her also Virgilio said he would await what was to
come.

The third, whose name was Veronica, brought such a wonderful bouquet of
flowers that the magician was more pleased with it than he had been by
the diamond or the robe.

Then there came the fourth, called Diomira, and she brought a splendid
crown of —. {68}  And Virgil preferred this to all, and gave the prize to
Diomira.  So he bade them all come the next evening to a grand festival.
And when they came, it was indeed a wonderful assembly, for there were
present, and in life, all the statues from all the palaces.  They came
down from their pedestals and danced in the house of Virgilio—nor did
they return until the early dawn; and so it came to pass that on that
night all the statues spoke and danced.

    “They danced so merrily all the night,
    Till the sun came in with a rosy light,
    And touched the statues fair,
    When in an instant every one
    Was changed again to marble stone.
    Per Bacco!  I was there!”

                                * * * * *

It is not remarkable that there should be so many tales in Italy of
statues speaking or coming to life.  They abounded among the Romans, and
are to be found in later literature.  Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” as I
have said, collects instances of men who have loved statues, and Zaghi,
whom I shall quote again directly, does the same.  But the idea of images
speaking is so natural that we need not have recourse to tradition to
account for its existence.

Among the archaic and very curious traditions in this tale we are told
that Virgil rubbed the statues with human fat and the blood of a wild
boar.  Both of these occur not only in witchcraft, but also in the wild
science of the earlier time, as potent to give or take life.  For the
blood of a boar that of a bull is equivalent.  In the recipes for
preparing the celebrated poison of the Borgias one or the other is
presented.  That of the boar still exists in the poisoning common in
Germany caused by eating _Blutwurst_.  In the “Selva di Curiosità,” by
Gabriel Zaghi, 1674, there is a chapter (xx.) devoted to showing that
bull’s blood—_sangue di toro_—is a deadly poison; to prove this he cites
Plutarch, Pliny, Dioscorides, and others, from which it appears that the
idea is ancient.  That it gives life to statues in the tale is quite in
keeping with the strange and rude homœopathy which is found in
Paracelsus, and all the writers on mystical medicine of his time, from
which Hahnemann drew his system, _i.e._, that what will kill can also
cure, or revive.

It is very remarkable that in this tale Agamene brings a diamond.
According to Hyginius (“Astronom.,” II., 13, _vide_ Friedrich, “Symbolich
der Natur.,” p. 658), Aega (or Aegamene) nursed the youthful Jupiter.  In
another legend (No. 1) Virgil is the son of Jove.  “Aega was a daughter
of the Sun, and of such brilliancy that the Titans, dazzled by her
splendour, begged their mother _Gäa_, or Gea, to hide her in the earth.”
This clearly indicates a diamond.  Jupiter transformed her into a star.

It is simply possible, and only a conjecture of mine, that in Diomira we
find the name of Diomedea, the _Diomedea necessitas_ of Plato (“De
Repub,” lib. 6), who carried all before her.  Diomira conquers all her
rivals in this legend.  She is the _Venus Victrix_.

I cannot help believing when we find such curious instances of tradition
as that of Aega, or Agamene, surviving in these tales, that there is a
possibility that the whole story may, more or less, be of classic or very
ancient origin.  We are not as yet able to _prove_ it, and so there are
none who attach much value to these fragments.  But a day will come when
scholars will think more of them.  That there still survives a great deal
of Græco-Latin lore which was not recorded by classic writers has become
to us a certainty.  Therefore it is possible, though not now to be
proved, that these statues of Virgil had a common origin with the image
of Selostre, or _Testimonium luminis_, described by Pausanius, which
spoke when the sun rose or at the Aurora.

If it be possible, and it certainly is conjectural, that Diomira is the
same with Diadumena, we have beyond question a very remarkable
illustration of old tradition surviving in a popular tale; for Diadumena,
or “She who binds her forehead with a fillet,” or band, was the name of
one of the most beautiful statues of Polycletus.  According to Winkelmann
(“Ist. dell Acte,” lib. 6, cap. 2), this statue was very frequently
copied and familiarly known.  A statue in the Villa Farnese is believed
to be an imitation of it.  Were this conjecture true, the gift brought by
Diomira would be the fillet which Virgil wears by tradition, as typical
of a poet.  An ornament, fillet, or tiara is, effectively, a crown.
Therefore, the meaning of the myth is that a true poet is such by
necessity; he cannot help it—_poeta nascitur_, _non fit_.




VIRGIL, THE LADY, AND THE CHAIR.


    “Now the golden chair wherein Juno was compelled to sit, by the
    artifice of Vulcan, means that the earth is the mother of riches, and
    with it that part of the air which cannot leave the earth, Juno being
    air.”—NATALIS COMITIS: _Mythologia_, lib. ii., 79 (1616).

    “Thou wolt algates wete how we be shape!
    Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dere,
    Come wher thee needeth not of me to lere,
    For thou shalt by thine own experience
    Conne in a chaiere rede of this sentence
    Better than Virgile while he was on live
    Or Dante also.”

                                              CHAUCER: _The Frere’s Tale_.

There once lived in Rome a very great, rich, and beautiful Princess, but
she was as bad at heart as could be, and her life was of the wickedest.
However, she kept up a good appearance, and was really at last in love
with a fine young man, who returned her affections.

But Virgil, knowing all, and pitying the youth, said to him that the
woman would certainly be the cause of his ruin, as she had been of many
others, and told him so many terrible things of her, that he ceased to
visit the Princess.

And she, first suspecting and then learning what Virgil had done, fell
into bitter hatred, and swore that she would be revenged on him.

So one evening she invited the Emperor and many nobles, among them
Virgil, to a splendid supper.

And being petty and spiteful by nature, the Princess had devised a mean
trick to annoy Virgil.  For she had prepared with great craft a chair,
the seat of which was of paper, but which seemed to be of solid wood.  It
appeared to be a handsome seat of great honour.

But when the great man sat on it, there was a great crash, and he went
down, indeed, but with his legs high in the air.  So there was a peal of
laughter, in which he joined so heartily and said so many droll things
over it, that one would have thought he had contrived the jest himself,
at which the lady was more angry than ever, since she had hoped to see
him angry and ashamed.  And Virgil, taking all the blame of the accident
on himself, promised to send her in return a chair to pay for it.  And he
requested leave to take the proper measure for it, so that she might be
fitly taken in.

Which she was.  For, having returned to his home, Virgil went to work and
had a splendid chair made—_con molto artifizio_.  With great art he made
it, with much gold inlaid with pearls, studded with gems.  It was all
artificial. {72}

And having finished it, Virgil begged the Emperor to send it to the
Princess as a gift.

The Emperor did so at the proper time, but there was in it a more cunning
trick than in the one which she had devised.  For there were concealed
therein several fine nets, or snares, so that whoever sat in it could not
rise.

Then the Princess, overjoyed at this magnificent gift, at once sent an
invitation to her friends to come to a supper where she could display it;
nor did she suspect any trick, having no idea that she had any enemy.

And all came to pass as Virgil planned.  For the lady, having seated
herself in great state, found herself caught, and could not rise.

Then there was great laughter, and it was proposed that everyone present
should kiss her.  And as one beginning leads to strange ending, the end
thereof was that they treated her _senza vergogna_, saying that when a
bird is once caught in a snare, everybody who pleases may pluck a
feather.

                                * * * * *

The classical scholar will find in this tale a probable reminiscence of
the chair made by Vulcan wherein to entrap Juno, in which he succeeded,
so that she was made to appear ridiculous to all the gods.  It is worth
noting in this connection that such chairs are made even to the present
day, and that without invisible nets or any magic.  One is mentioned in a
book entitled “The Life of Dr. Jennings the Poisoner” (Philadelphia, T.
B. Peterson, Bros.).  If any person sat in it, he or she fell back, and
certain clasps closed over the victim, holding him or her down perfectly
helpless, rendering robbery or violence easy.  Since writing the
foregoing, I have in a recent French novel read a description of such a
chair, with the additional information that such seats were originally
invented for and used by physicians to confine lunatic patients.  A
friend of mine told me that he had seen one in a house of ill-fame in New
York.

The legend of the Lady and the Chair suggests a very curious subject of
investigation.  It is very probably known to the reader that, to make a
mesmerized or hypnotized subject remain seated, whether he or she will or
not, is one of the common experiments of the modern magicians.  It is
thus described by M. Debay in his work “Les Mystères du Sommeil et
Magnetisme.”

    The operator asks the subject, “Are you asleep?”

    “No.”

    “Rise from your chair.”  (_He rises_.)  “Tell all present that you
    are not asleep.”

    “No.  I am wide awake.”

    The operator takes the subject by the hand, leads him to different
    persons present with whom he is acquainted, and asks him if he knows
    them.  He replies:

    “Certainly I know them.”

    “Name them.”

    He does so.

    “All right.  Now sit down.”  (_The subject obeys_.)  “And now I
    forbid you to rise.  It is for you impossible—you cannot move!”

    The subject makes ineffectual efforts to rise, but remains attached
    to the chair as if held fast by an invisible power.

    The operator then says:

    “Now you may rise.  I permit you to do so.  Rise—I order it!”

    The subject rises from the chair without an effort.

I have frequently had occasion to observe that, in all of these legends
which I have received from witches, the story, unlike the common fairy
tale or _novella_ of any kind, is only, as it were, a painted casket in
which is enclosed the jewel of some secret in sorcery, generally with an
incantation.  Was not this the case with many of the old myths?  Do they
not all, in fact, really set forth, so far as their makers understood
them, the mysteries of Nature, and possibly in some cases those of the
wonder-works or miracles of the priests and magicians?  There was a
German—I forget his name—who wrote a book to prove that Jupiter, Juno,
and all the rest, were the elements as known to us now, and all the
wonders told of all the gods, with the “Metamorphoses” of Ovid, only a
marvellous poetic allegory of chemical combinations and changes.  That
hypnotism was known to Egyptians of old is perfectly established—at least
to his own satisfaction—by Louis Figuier in his “Histoire du Merveilleux
dans les Temps Modernes,” Paris, 1861; and it is extremely possible.
Therefore it may be that Juno in the chair is but the prototype of a
Mademoiselle Adèle, or Angelique Cottin, or Marie Raynard, or some other
of the “little Foxes,” who, by the way, are alluded to in the Old
Testament.




VIRGIL AND THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.


    “_Images_, though made by men, are the bodies of gods, rendered
    perceptible to the sight and touch.  In the images are certain
    spirits brought by invitation, after which they have the power of
    doing whatever they please; either to hurt, or to a certain extent to
    fulfil the desires of those persons by whom divine honours and
    duteous worship are rendered unto them. . . .  Do you not see, O
    Asclepias, that _statues_ are animated by sense, and actually capable
    of doing such actions?”—HERMES TRISMEGISTUS, AP. AUGUSTINE, C. D.,
    viii. 23.

    “And there withall Diana gan appere
    With bowe in hand, right as an hunteresse,
    And saydé, ‘Daughter—stint thin heavinesse. . . .’
    And forth she went and made a vanishing.”

                                            CHAUCER: _The Knighte’s Tale_.

There was in the oldest times in Florence a noble family, but one so
impoverished that their _giorni di festa_, or feast-days, were few and
far between.  However, they dwelt in their old palace, which was in the
street now called the Via Citadella, which was a fine old building, and
so they lived in style before the world, when many a day they hardly had
anything to eat.

Round this palace was a large garden in which stood an ancient marble
statue of a beautiful woman, running very rapidly, with a dog by her
side.  She held in her hand a bow, and on her forehead was a small moon;
it seemed as if, instead of being in a garden, she was in a forest
hunting wild game.  And it was said that by night, when all was still and
no one present, and the moon shone, the statue became like life, and very
beautiful, and then she fled away and did not return till the moon set,
or the sun rose.

The father of the family had two children, a boy and a girl, of nine or
ten years of age, and they were as good as they were intelligent, and
like most clever children, very fond of curious stories.

One day they came home with a large bunch of flowers which had been given
to them.  And while playing in the garden the little girl said:

“The beautiful lady with the bow ought to have her share of the flowers.”

“Certainly,” answered her brother, “because I believe that she is as good
as she is beautiful.”

Saying this, they laid flowers before the statue, and made a wreath,
which the boy placed on her head.

Just then the great poet and magician Virgil, who knew everything about
the gods and _folletti_, whom people used to worship, entered the garden,
and said, smiling:

“You have made the offering of flowers to the goddess quite correctly, as
they did in old times; all that remains is to make the prayer properly,
and it is this.  Listen, and learn it.”  So he sang:

    “Bella dea dell arco!
    Bella dea delle freccie!
    Delia caccia e dei cani!
    Tu vegli colle stelle
    Quando il sole va dormir,
    Tu colla Luna in fronte,
    Cacci la notte meglio del di
    Colle tue Ninfe al suono
    Di trombe—sei la regina
    Dei cacciatori,
    Regina della notte!
    Tu che siei la cacciatrice
    Più potente di ogni
    Cacciator—ti prego
    Pensa un poco a noi!”

    “Lovely Goddess of the bow!
    Lovely Goddess of the arrows!
    Of all hounds and of all hunting;
    Thou who wakest in starry heaven
    When the sun has gone to sleep;
    Thou with moon upon thy forehead
    Who the chase by night preferrest
    Unto hunting by the day,
    With thy nymphs unto the sound
    Of the horn—thou Queen of Hunters!
    Queen of night, thyself the huntress,
    And most powerful, I pray thee,
    Think, although but for an instant,
    Upon us who pray unto thee!”

Then Virgil taught them the _Scongiurazione_, or spell to the goddess
Diana:

    “Bella dea dell’ arco del cielo,
    Delle stelle e della Luna.
    La regina più potente
    Dei cacciatori e della notte;
    A te riccoriamo,
    E chiedamo il tuo aiuto
    Che tu possa darci
    Sempre la buona fortuna!”

    “Fair goddess of the rainbow!
    Of the stars and of the moon!
    The queen all-powerful
    Of hunters and the night,
    We beg of thee thy aid
    To give good fortune to us!”

Then he added the conclusion:

    “Se la nostra scongiurazione,
    Ascolterai,
    E buona fortuna ci darei,
    Un segnale a noi lo darei!”

   “If thou heedest our evocation,
   And wilt give good fortune to us,
   Then give us in proof a token.”

And having taught them this, Virgilio departed.

Then the children ran to tell their parents all that had happened, and
the latter impressed it on them to keep it all a secret, nor breathe a
word or hint of it to anyone.  But what was their amazement, when they
found early the next morning before the statue a deer freshly killed,
which gave them good dinners for many a day—nor did they want thereafter
at any time game of all kinds.

There was a neighbour of theirs, a priest, who held in hate all the
idolatry of the olden time, and all which did not belong to his religion,
{77} and he, passing the garden one day, beheld the statue crowned with
roses and (other) flowers.  And in a rage, seeing in the street a
decaying cabbage, he rolled it in the mud, and threw it, all dripping, at
the face of the statue, saying:

“Ecco male bestia d’idolo, questo e l’omaggio che io ti do, gia che il
diavolo ti aiuta!”—(Behold, thou vile beast of an idol, this is the
homage which I render thee, and may the devil help thee!)

Then the priest heard a voice in the gloom where the trees were thick,
which said:

    “Bene bene—tu mi hai fatto
    L’ offrande—tu avrai
    La tua porzione
    Di caccia.  Aspetta!”

    “It is well—since thou hast made
    Thy offering, thou’lt get thy portion
    Of the game—but wait till morning!”

All that night the priest suffered from horrible fancies and fears, and
when at last, just before three, he fell asleep, he soon awoke from a
nightmare, in which it seemed as if something heavy rested on his chest.
And something indeed fell from him and rolled on the ground.  And when he
rose and picked it up, and looked at it by the light of the moon, he saw
that it was a human head, half decayed. {78a}

Another priest who, hearing the cry which he had uttered, entered his
room, said:

“I know that head.  It is of a man whom I confessed, and who was beheaded
three months ago at Siena.”

And three days after this the priest who had insulted the goddess died.

                                * * * * *

In a single incident this tale recalls that of Falkenstein, one of the
synonyms of the wild huntsman in Germany, of whom it is said that as he
passed by, a reckless fellow wished him luck, whereupon he heard the
words, “Thou hast wished me luck; thou shalt share the game;” whereat
there was thrown to him a great piece of carrion.  And soon after he
died. {78b}  But the true plot of this narrative is the conduct of the
goddess Diana, who rewards the children for their worship and punishes
the priest for his sacrilege.

And, noting the sincere spirit of heathenism which inspires many of these
legends, the belief in _folletti_ and _fate_, and curiously changed forms
of the gods of Græco-Roman mythology, still existing among the peasants,
it is worth inquiring whether, as the very practical Emperor Julian
believed, a sincerely religious and moral spirit, under any form, could
not be adapted to the progress of humanity?  The truth is that as the
heathen gods are one and all, to us, as something theatrical and unreal,
we think they must have been the same to their worshippers.  Through all
the Renaissance to the present day the pretended appreciation and worship
of classic deities, and with them of classic art and mythology, reminds
one of the French billiard-player Berger, who, when desirous of making a
very brilliant exhibition of his skill, declared that he would invoke the
god of billiards!  They may seem beautiful, but they are dead relics, and
the worst is that no one realizes now that they ever really lived, moved,
and had a being in the human heart.  And yet the Italian witch still has
a spark of the old fire.

Diana Artemis is known to poets and scholars in certain varied characters
thus summed up by Browning:

    “I am a Goddess of the ambrosial courts,
    And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed
    By none whose temples whiten this the world.
    Through Heaven I roll my lucid moon along;
    I shed in Hell o’er my pale people peace;
    On Earth, I, caring for the creatures, guard
    Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleep,
    And every feathered mother’s callow brood,
    And all that love green haunts and loneliness
    Of men; the chaste adore me.”

But to her only believers and worshippers now left on earth—such as
Maddalena—Diana is far more than this, for she is the queen of all
witchcraft, magic, sorcery, the mistress of all the mysteries, of all
deep knowledge, and therefore the greatest of the goddesses—all the rest,
in fact, except Venus and Bacchus, who only exist in oaths, being now
well-nigh forgotten and unknown to them.




VIRGIL AND THE SPIRIT OF MIRTH.


    “’Tis an ancient tale that a boy for laughing at Ceres was turned
    into a stone.  For truly too much merriment hardens us all.”—_Comment
    on L. M. Brusonii_ ‘_Facetiæ_.’

In ancient times there lived in Florence a young lord who was very
beautiful, and ever merry—and no wonder, because he was _Il Dio della
Allegria_—the God of Mirth—himself.

He was greatly beloved, not only by his friends, but by all the people,
because he was always so joyous, kind-hearted, and very charitable.

Every evening this spirit-lord went with his friends to the theatre, or
to his parties (_al circolo_), and the name by which he was known was
Eustachio.  All awaited with impatience his arrival, for with it the
merriment began, and when he came there was a joyous shout of “Evviva il
Dio dell’ Allegria!”

It came to pass that in a theatre Eustachio met with a girl, a singer, of
such marvellous beauty and wit, that he fell, like one lost, in love with
her; which love being reciprocated, he took her to himself, and kept her
in a magnificent home, with many fine attendants, and all that heart
could desire.  In those days every signore in Florence thus had an
_amante_, and there was great rivalry among them as to who should keep
his favourite in the best style—_con più di lusso_.  And this lady so
beloved by Eustachio, was not only the most beautiful, but the most
magnificently entertained of any or all in the city.

Now, one evening there was a grand festival in a _palazzo_, where there
was dancing and gay conversation, Eustachio being as usual present, for
all his love for his lady did not keep him from the world, or making
mirth for all.  And as they diverted themselves or sung to music, there
entered a group of young lords, among whom was Virgilio, the great poet.
{80}

Then Eustachio rose and began to clap his hands and cry, “_Evviva_!  Long
live the great poet!” and those who were at table ceased to eat, and
those who were dancing left the dance with their partners, and all in
welcome cried, “_Evviva il gran poeta_!”

Then Eustachio begged Virgilio to sing, and the poet did so, for there
was no one who would have refused anything to Eustachio, so winning were
his ways.

So Virgil made him the subject of his song, telling in pleasing verse how
free he was from care, ever laughing like sunshine, ever keeping himself
free from thought, which kills joy and brings sorrow.

And Eustachio, singing and laughing, said that it was because he was ever
among friends who banished thought, and so kept away melancholy.

Then Virgil, still softly singing, asked him whether, if he should lose
his lady-love, he would not be melancholy for a time, despite the
consolations of friends and relations.

Eustachio replied that he would indeed regret the loss, and it would make
him sad for a time, but not as a settled grief or incurable sorrow, for
that all things pass away, every night hath its morning, after every
death new life, when the sea has sunk to its lowest ebb then it rises,
and that he who knows this can never know trouble.

Virgil ended the dialogue of song by saying that he who believes he can
never be sad knows not what sorrow and trials are, that grief must come
some time or other to all, even to the God of Mirth himself, and offered
to make a wager of a banquet for all present, if he could not within two
weeks’ time cause Eustachio to know what grief, and a melancholy which
should seem incurable, was like.

Eustachio assented, and said he would add a thousand gold crowns to the
bet.

There was a statue named Peonia to whom Virgil had given life; and going
to her, who was now as other women, he said:

“I can give life to a statue, but how to change a human being to marble
is beyond my power; I pray thee, tell me how I may turn into an image,
such as thou wert, this beautiful girl whom Eustachio adores.”

And Peonia, smiling, replied: “Before thou didst come hither I knew thy
thought and thy purpose.  Lo! here I have prepared a bouquet of flowers
of such intense magic perfume that it will make Eustachio love to
madness, as he never did before; but when his mistress inhales the
perfume she will become a statue.”

And as she bid he did, and placed the bouquet in the lady’s chamber, and
when she smelt at it she became a statue, and sat holding the flowers.
And Eustachio seeing her sitting there in the dim twilight, knew not the
truth, but also smelt of the perfume, and became more in love than man
can dream, but when he found that the lady was petrified he was well-nigh
mad with grief, nor could anyone console him.  And this passed into an
iron-like melancholy, nor would he leave the room where the statue sat.

Now, the friends of all, though they well knew that Virgilio had done
this, still remembered that he had mighty and mysterious power, and then,
thinking over the wager, concluded that he had been in some manner in the
affair.  So they went to him, praying that he would do something to keep
Eustachio from madness or death.

Then Virgilio, the great master, went to the room where Eustachio sat in
profound grief by the statue, and said, with a smile, “_Caro giovane_ (My
dear youth), I have won my wager, and expect to see thee this evening in
the hall at the banquet and dance, bringing the thousand crowns.”

“Dear Virgilio,” answered Eustachio, “go to my parents or friends, and
receive thy gold, and assemble them all to banquet or to dance; but do
not expect me, for from this room I never more will stir.”

Then Virgilio, gently removing the magic bouquet from the hand of the
statue, stepped to the window and threw it down into the street—when lo!
the lady flushed into life, and with a laugh asked them what they were
all doing there?  And then Eustachio burst out laughing for joy, and they
danced in a circle round Virgilio.  Eustachio paid down the thousand
crowns, which Virgil gave as a wedding present to the bride—for of course
there was a wedding, and a grander banquet than ever.  But though he was
the God of Mirth himself, Eustachio never declared after this that he
would or could never mourn or think of grief.

                                * * * * *

What is remarkable in this tale is the confusion between the conception
of the hero as a spirit, or the God of Mirth, and his social condition as
a young Italian gentleman about town.  It is this transition from the god
to the popular hero, a mere mortal, which forms the subject of Heine’s
“Gods in Exile.”

There is another Florentine legend, in which this god appears by the more
appropriate name _Momo_, evidently _Momus_, in which a young lord who had
never laughed in his life is made merry for ever by having presented to
him the image of a laughing goblin, which one of his peasants had dug up
in a ruin.  Whenever he looks at it, he bursts into a roar of laughter,
which has the effect of changing his character very much for the better.

What is perhaps most significant in this tale is the name _Peonia_.
Pæonia in classic mythology was Minerva, as a healing goddess.  As such,
alone, she bears the serpent.  Esculapius is termed by Claudian the
_Pæonio_—dragon or snake.  In reference to which I find the following in
the “Dizionario Mitologico”:

    “_Peonia_, an additional name of Minerva, worshipped . . . as
    guardian of health.  Therefore she has for a tribute the serpent, as
    emblem of the art of healing.  _Peonico_ was a surname of Apollo.”

When medicine was synonymous with magic, Peonia-Minerva would naturally
appear as one familiar with occult arts.  The changing to a statue and
being revived from a statue to life is a very evident symbol of raising
from death to life.  Æsculapius, who was the male equivalent of Peonia,
revived corpses.  As Minerva and other deities were familiar to the
people as statues, in which there was believed to be a peculiar spirit or
life, we can readily understand how any image of a goddess was supposed
to be at times revived.

Peonia in our story works her miracle by means of flowers.  This, if we
are really dealing with an archaically old Italian tradition, is
marvellously significant.  The _pœonia_, or peony, or _rose de Nôtre
Dame_, was believed in earliest Roman times to be _primus inter magnos_,
the very first and strongest of all floral amulets, or to possess the
greatest power in magic.  This was due to its extreme redness, this
colour alone having great force to resist the evil eye and sorcery.  The
most dreaded of all deities among the earliest Etrusco-Latin races was
Picus, who appeared as a woodpecker, to which bird he had been changed by
Circe.  “Nam Picus, etiam rex, ab eadem Circe virga tactus, in volucrem
picum evolavit,” as Tritonius declares.  When people dug for treasure
which was guarded by this dreaded bird, he slew them unless they bore as
a protecting amulet the root of the peony.  But there is a mass of
testimony to prove that the _pæonia_, or peony, was magical.  Many
classic writers, cited by Wolf in his work on amulets, 1692, declare its
root drives away phantasms and demons.  It was held, according to the
same writer, that the same root protected ships from storms and houses
from lightning.  It is true that this writer evidently confuses the peony
with the poppy, but the former was from earliest times strong in all
sorcery.

It is also curious that, in old tradition, Pygmalion the sculptor is
represented as indifferent to women.  Venus punishes him by making him
fall in love with a statue.  Eustachio, the Spirit of Mirth, declares
that the death of his love would not cause him deep grief and for this
Pæonia and Virgil change the lady into a marble image.  It is the very
same story, but with the plot reversed.

Peonia, or peony, regarded as the poppy, since the two very similar
plants were beyond question often confused, had a deep significance as
lulling to sleep—a synonym for death, a reviving force—and it was also an
emblem of love and fertility (Pausanias, II., 10).  Peonia lulls the lady
to sleep with flowers, that is, into a statue.

I do not regard it as more than _probable_, but I think it possible that
in this story we have one of the innumerable _novelle_ or minor myths of
the lesser gods, which circulated like fairy-tales among the Latin
people, of which only a small portion were ever written down.  That there
were many of these not recorded by Ovid, and other mythologists, is very
certain, for it is proved by the scraps of such lore which come to light
in many authors and casual inscriptions.  It requires no specially keen
imagination, or active faculty of association, to observe that in this,
and many other legends which I have collected and recorded, there are
beyond question very remarkable relics of old faith and ancient
tradition, drawn from a source which has been strangely neglected, which
neglect will be to future and more enlightened antiquaries or historians
a source of wonder and regret.

A certain Giovanni Maria Turrini, in a collection of odds and ends
entitled “Selva di Curiositá,” Bologna, 1674, declares that “the peony,
if patients be touched with it, cures them of epilepsy, which results
from the influence of the sun, to which this plant is subject, the same
effect resulting from coral.”  Here we also have the restoring to life or
reason, as if from death; that is to say, from a fit or swoon.  Truly,
the ancients did not know botany as we do, but there was for them far
more poetry and wonder in flowers.

Some time after all the foregoing was written I found—truly to my great
astonishment—that in a novel by Xavier Montepin there is a student named
Virgil, who has a mistress named Pivoine—the title of the book—which word
is in Latin _Pæonia_.  This, according to the kind of criticism which is
now extensively current, would settle the whole business, and determine
“the undoubted original.”  I believe it to be a mere chance coincidence
of names—strange, indeed, but nothing more.  For, in the first place, I
am sure that my collector or her informants are about as likely to have
read the _Sohar_, or “Book of Light,” or Hegel’s “Cyclopædia,” as any
novel whatever.  But the great part of what is curious in my narrative is
not that Virgil loves Pæonia, but that Pæonia-Minerva depresses people
to, or _raises them from_, _death by means of flowers_.  Very clearly in
the Italian tale, as in others, Virgil is a physician, and Pæonia is his
counterpart, of all which there is no hint in the French novel.

So it once befell that in a very strange Italian tale of Galatea, the
Spirit of the White Pebble, there was a narrative agreeing in _names_
with one in a romance by Eugene Sue.  But on carefully examining the
account of the Virgins of Sen, given by Pomponius Mela (Edition 1526, p.
34, for which purpose I expressly purchased the book), I found that the
legend, as known to Maddalena, and also to an old woman whom she did not
know, contained the main element as given by Mela, which is _not_ to be
found in the French story, namely, the transmigration of the soul or
metamorphosis into different forms.  The Latin writer states that such
enchantresses are called Gallicenas.  Now, there was at one time a great
infusion of Celtic blood into Northern Italy, and if it was in
correspondence with the Gauls, it _may_ possibly be that the story of Sen
and Galatea of the White Stone passed all round.

It may be observed, however, that there may linger among French peasants
some legend of Virgil and Pivoine, or Pæonia, which Montepin had picked
up, and should this be so, doubtless there is some folklorist who can
confirm it.  This is far more likely than that my authority took the
names from a French novel.

The Spirit of Mirth in this story has really nothing in common with
Momus, who was, in fact, the God of Sneering, or captious, petty
criticism of the kind which objects to great and grand or beautiful
subjects, because of small defects.  The Virgilian spirit is that of the
minor rural gods, or the daughters of the dawn, who were all smiling
sub-forms of the laughing Venus.  These play the principal part in the
mythology of the Tuscan peasantry.  This spirit differs from that of
Momus as an angel from a devil.

Psellus held that there was a soul in all statues.

That the God of Mirth, or Laughter, is in this tale also a gay young
cavalier in Florentine society is paralleled or outdone by Chaucer in the
“Manciple’s Tale,” in which Apollo is described as follows:

    “Whan Phebus dwelled here in erth adoun,
    As oldé bookes maken mentioun,
    He was the mosté lusty bacheler
    Of all this world, and eke the best archer. . . .
    Thereto he was the semelieste man
    That is or was sithen the world began.”

That is, this “flour of bachelerie as well in fredom as in chivalrie” was
simply human while here below, having “a wif which that he loved more
than his lif.”  Chaucer wrote this evidently with conscious humour of the
naïve paradox by which those of his age could thus confuse gods and
common mortals, even as a Red Indian vaguely confuses the great beaver or
wolf with a human being.  It is a curious reflection that, at the present
day in Italy, there are believers in the old gods who regard the latter
in the same way, as half divine and half like other folk.




NERO AND SENECA.


    “This Seneka, of which that I devise,
    Because Nero had of him swiché drede,
    For he fro vices wold him ay chastise
    Discretely, as by word, and not by dede.
    ‘Sire,’ he wold say, ‘an Emperor mote nede
    Be vertuous, and haten tyrannie.’
    For which he made him in a bathe to blede
    On both his armès till he mustè die.”

                                      CHAUCER: _The Monke’s Tale_: _Nero_.

    “Già tra le infamie delle regie sale
    Due uomini vedevansi soltanto
    A cui volera orribilmente male,
    Questo amatore delle stragi, e pianto,
    Uno di questi è Seneca, ch’ eguale
    In Roma non aver per nobil vanto
    Nelle dottrine di filosofia,
    E nel fare una bella poesia. . . .
    Nerone che non vuol d’ogni folliá,
    Avere appreso un rigido censore,
    Fece morir, con modi scellerati,
    Tanto costui, che Seneca, svenati!”

                      _Storia di Nerone_: _A Florentine Halfpenny Ballad_.

    “Alteri vivere oportet si vis tibi vivere.”

    “Thou must live for others if thou wouldst live for thyself.”—

                                                       SENECA: _Epistolæ_.

There was once in Rome a young Emperor named Nerone.  As a boy, he was by
no means badly inclined, and it seemed for a long time as if he would
grow up into a great and good man.

He had a tutor or teacher named Seneco, {88} who was benevolent and wise
beyond all the men of his time, and he had such influence on the young
Nerone, that for two years the youth behaved well and did no harm to
anyone.

But little by little he was led astray by courtiers who flattered and
corrupted him, and who of course did all they could to injure Seneco in
his esteem, saying that the sage was really an old knave, and that he was
engaged in plots with the design of becoming Emperor himself.  And the
end of it all was that Nerone believed them.

So he sent a letter to Seneco, in which he declared that the time had
come for the old man to die; but that he might choose his own manner of
death by suicide.

Seneco, having read it, said: “What an evil youth is this, of what a
corrupted heart!  Well, infamous as the command is, I will die!  But I
will leave him a legacy which shall be his ruin.”

Thus he wrote to Nerone:

“I will die this very day, but I leave you a gift which is more than a
fortune.  It is a book of magic and necromancy.  If you wish for
anything, be it the love of a woman or the death of a man, or his
disaster, or to destroy all Rome, you will find in the book spells by
which it may be done.”

And when he knew that Nerone had the book, he went at once into a hot
bath, and said to his surgeon:

“Open my veins, so that I may bleed to death.  I will die, but I know
that the Emperor will soon follow me.”

So he died, and all Rome wept. {89a}

Then Nerone read the book, and it seemed as if it were poisoned, for
while reading it he perceived as it were an exhalation {89b} from hell.

He read in the book how to commit all crimes and sins, how to seize on
fortunes, or rob whom he would, and learned from it all the secrets of
licentiousness—_tutte cose voluttiose_—and having finished it, he became
a veritable devil.

He collected many lions and tigers, and all kinds of terrible wild
beasts, and then drove among them all the Christians and saints in Rome,
and they were devoured by the beasts.  Then he took the fortunes of all
the rich men, {89c} and decreed that all the women in the city were his
wives.  After which he every day debauched them in the open streets
before their husbands, and likewise ordained that all men and women
should do the same openly.  And he committed even more infamous deeds in
public places, with an orchestra, saying it was best to make love to the
sound or accompaniment of music.

And one day, to make a scene in an opera, he (set fire to and) burned all
Rome.

Then the people made a revolution, and drove him out of his palace.  It
is said that this palace was all gilded.  (_Era tutto dorato_.)

In a public square was a statue of Seneco, and it was of marble.  So the
people in a rage drove Nerone before them until, utterly weary and
exhausted, he fell down at the foot of the statue of Seneco.  And
beholding the image of his tutor, Nerone cried:

“_Tu mi vincesti_, _tu mi inperasti_—Thou hast conquered, O Seneco; thou
hast prevailed over me, and had thy revenge!  And accursed be the day in
which thou didst send me the book which gave me the power to have all
which I desired!”

And all who were present were astonished when they heard the statue
reply:

“I am avenged, and thou art punished.”

Then a butcher struck him heavily; he gave him a death-wound with an axe,
and Nerone, dying, said:

“If thou hast no shame for having killed an Emperor, thou shouldst at
least blush at having put to death the best actor in Rome!”

Then the ground opened, and there came forth the flame and thunder of
hell, with many devils who howled. . . .

And so did Nero die, who was the most infamous king {90} who ever lived
in this world since it was a world.

                                * * * * *

Though there are so many authentic traits of the Emperor Nero in this
tradition, the reader is not to infer from them that she who wrote it has
had access to a copy of Suetonius.  There is a “halfpenny dreadful,” or
_sou_ shocker, entitled the “Life of Nero”—_Vita di Nerone_—published by
Adriano Salani, the Catnach of Florence, Via Militare, No. 24 (No. 107 on
his catalogue), to say nothing of other halfpenny classical works, such
as the “Story of the Proud Emperor,” “The Empress Flavia,” and the “Tale
of Pyramus and Thisbe,” which, as they are to be found on many open-air
stands, may account for a great deal of such learning in the popular
mind.  One may meet daily in Italy with marvellous proof in many forms of
what a strange, curious, confused mass of old Latin lore still lingers
among the people, and the marvellous contrast which it presents to what
the common folk read and reflect over in other lands.  But Nero would be
most likely to be remembered, because he is frequently mentioned or
described in popular Lives of the Saints as a great maker of martyrs, and
caster of them unto lions.

This does not belong to the cycle of Virgilian tales, but it was sent to
me as one from Siena.  To my collector it was all one, so that it
referred to a magician, and had the idea occurred to the writer, the name
of Virgilio would have been substituted for that of Seneca.  Doubtless in
their time, since they began life in India, or Egypt, or Arabia, these
legends have borne many names, and been as garments to the memory of many
sages—even as Buddha in his Jatakas was the first of a line which has
ended in the heroes of European nurseries.

The halfpenny, or _soldo_, or _sou_ ballad of Nero, to which I have
referred, is too curious as illustrating the remarkable knowledge of
classical antiquity still current among the Italian people, to be lightly
passed by.  Its title-page is as follows:

    “Storia di Nerone, dove si narrano, le Stragi, i Delitti, le
    Persecuzioni e gli Incendi commessi da questo infame Tiranno in
    Roma”—“History of Nero; in which is told the Murders and Crimes
    committed by this Infamous Tyrant in Rome.”

This poem and others of the same stamp are quite as barbarously
classic-mediæval or Romanesque as anything in any of these stories of
Virgilio, and if I cite it, it is to give a clear idea of the remarkable
degree to which strange traditions, and very ancient legends or
“learning,” have lingered among the people.  I really cannot understand
why this marvellous survival of old Latin romance, and this spirit of the
Dark Ages among the people, attracts so little attention among literary
people, and especially Italians.  For it certainly indicates to any
thinking mind the survival of a great deal of classic tradition which has
never been recorded.




VIRGIL AND CICERO.


    “Magic is genius most mysterious,
    And poetry is genius passed to form,
    And these allied give birth to Eloquence;
    For never yet was there an orator
    Who did not owe his best to Poetry.”—C. G. L.

There was once a young man named Cicero, who was a student with Virgil,
and who, being poor, served the great magician in all things.

When Christmas came, with the New Year, Virgil, being well pleased with
his fidelity, resolved to make a handsome gift to Cicero, and so said:

“_Che vuoi_?  What wilt thou have?”

“I would like,” replied young Cicero, “to be master of the art of
speech”—_Il dono di parlar bene_.

“Would you not prefer wealth?” asked Virgil.

“He who hath a ready tongue can have his will mid old or young,” answered
Cicero; “and as the proverb says:

    “Chi ha eloquenza,
    Ad ogni cosa ha pretenza.”

    “He who hath but eloquence
    Hath unto everything pretence.”

“But do not forget,” remarked Virgil, “that amiable speech is courteous
and refined.  And remember to always speak well of women—everywhere.”

    “If it be false, or if it be true,
    Speak gently of women, whatever you do.”

After a while Cicero, wanting change of life or to try his fortune, left
Virgil and Rome, going first to Florence and then to Ravenna, where his
parents dwelt.

So ever travelling on afoot, he came one night to a solitary place among
rocks in a forest, where he saw at some distance a ruined castle.  And
entering, hoping to find a place to sleep, he was astonished to perceive
a light, and going further, came into a spacious hall, where, seated at a
table, were six gentlemen and a lady, all of them far more beautiful and
magnificent in every respect than ordinary mortals, especially the lady,
who, as Cicero thought, surpassed all women whom he had ever seen, as the
moon outshines the stars.

“_Salve Domine_!” exclaimed the scholar; “and excuse my intrusion, since
I did not expect to find company here, though I would have indeed come
many a day’s journey, had I known of it, to behold such handsome and
brilliant cavaliers, and such a marvel of beauty as yon lady, as all the
world would do.”

“Thou hast a smooth tongue and a sweet gift of speech,” replied the lady,
with a smile; “and I not only thank thee for the whole company, but
invite thee to sup with us, and lodge here, and be most welcome.”

So they supped gaily; and Cicero, who from the company of Virgil and his
friends and the court was familiar with the world, was amazed, and
wondered who these marvellous people could be.  At last he chanced to
ask:

“What day of the week is this?”

“Truly you can here take your choice,” replied the lady, with a laugh.
“But of all the days of the week, which do you prefer?”

“Friday,” replied Cicero; “because it is the only one which bears a
woman’s name or that of Venus.  _Evviva Venere_, _evviva le donne_!

    “Hurrah for Venus, whate’er befall!
    Long life unto love, and to ladies all!”

“This youth has a tongue of gold and honey,” said the lady.  “And what do
you think of the other days of the week?”

“Other people do not think much about them in any way,” replied Cicero.
“But that is not the case with me.  To me they are all saints and gods.
_Domenica_ is a holy name, which praises the Lord.  _Giovedi_ (Tuesday)
is the day of Jove, and that is a glorious name.  _Evviva Giove_!  So it
is with them all; and were I rich enough, I would build a temple to the
days of the week wherein to worship them.”

“That money shall not be wanting, O thou happy man!” replied the lady.
“Knowest thou who we are?  We are the Seven Days of the Week; and for
what thou hast said of me, every Friday thou shalt find a hundred gold
crowns under thy pillow.  And when thou needest any special favour, then
pray to us all.”

And as he heard the last word Cicero fell asleep.  When he awoke he was
alone in the ruin, but by him was a purse with one hundred crowns in
gold.

Then in time Cicero built the temple, as he had promised, to Venus, and
in it he placed all the images of the seven gods.  Then whoever wanted a
favour invoked those deities, as indeed did Cicero when he needed aught;
and those gods were the seven youths, and those youths whom he had found
in the hall were the days of the week.

Then for a time Cicero lived in happiness.  But something came to disturb
it, for one morning he saw at a window near by a young lady of such
marvellous beauty that he was as if enchanted, nor was she less pleased
with him.

“Tell me, thou splendid star,” said Cicero, “the very truth now passing
in thy mind.  Dost thou love me?”

“In very truth,” she replied, “I do love thee.  O Cicero, but thou lovest
only to lose, for this day I am to leave Rome never to return, unless
thou canst by some miracle so manage it as to prevent the journey, and
keep me here!”

Then Cicero went to the Temple of the Days and conjured them thus:

    “Lunedi e Marte! (Martedi.)
    Fai che la stella mia non parta!
    Mercurio e Giove!
    Fai che la stella non mova!”

    “Monday and Tuesday,
    I pray you cause my love to remain!
    Wednesday and Thursday,
    Let her not move!
    Venus, thou who art the fairest day,
    The one whom I most adore!
    Thou who hast put me in the way of wealth,
    And unto whom I truly built a temple,
    As I did promise in the bygone time,
    And as thou thyself didst promise,
    That if I needed aught, and came to thee,
    My wishes should be granted, now I pray
    To Venus and to Saturn—Saturday,
    That as I have no peace, and none can know,
    Till I have won the maid, give her to me!
    And thou, O Sunday, when the wedding comes,
    I pray thee give her to me with thy hand!”

Then a voice from the depth of the temple replied:

    “Because thou hast spoken so well,
    What thou hast asked is granted;
    She whom thou lovest
    Is not of the race of men;
    She is an enchantress,
    Born of Venus, who loves her,
    Venus, who bent her to love thee;
    The grace is granted:
    Wed and be happy!”

                                * * * * *

This pretty and fanciful, or strange, tale recalls that in the
“Pentamerone” of Gianbattista Basile, the Neapolitan, in which a young
man meets the Twelve Months in human form, and pleases March by speaking
well of him.  In this story the hero is a famed orator, who not only
possesses the _gaber_—or “gift of the gab”—but of whom we are told how he
came by it, namely, from Virgil, whose verse has indeed for ages wakened
eloquence in many hearts.

The days of the week in English are derived as follows:

Sunday         Sun day.
Monday         Moon day.
Tuesday        Tuisco’s day.
Wednesday      Woden or Odin’s day.
Thursday       Thor’s day.
Friday         Frey’s day.
Saturday       Seater’s day.

According to this, Friday is the luckiest day, because Frey was the god
who gave good fortune, and Freya, his female counterpart, was the
Northern Venus.  The Italian names with their gods correspond to ours, as
the deities of the North resembled those of the Latin pantheon.  As this
is an interesting subject, I take from the Italian
Historical-Mythological Dictionary the following:

    “_Settimana_ is a time composed of seven days.  Dion Cassius asserts
    that the Egyptians were the first to divide time into periods of
    seven days, and that it was suggested by the seven planets.  However,
    the ancients in this did not follow the rule, since in that case we
    should have had Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus, Mercury, and
    the Moon.  Saturday, Sabato, is derived from Saturn, who ruled the
    first hour.”

It was, in fact, from the disposition of the _hours_ that the days of the
week received their names; hence the transposition of names, as is very
ingeniously worked out by the author.

It is almost amusing to observe that in this, as in all tales coming from
a witch source, the incantations, though not at all necessary to the
story, are given with scrupulous care.

To the reader who would seriously study Cicero, yet in a deeply
interesting form, I commend “Cicero and his Friends,” by Gaston Bussier
(London: A. D. Innes and Co., 1897).  According to this genial and
vigorous French writer, there is a great deal of mystery as to the manner
in which the noble orator acquired the money to purchase estates and
villas, when he was notoriously devoid of income.  It is true that a
great deal of public money was passing through his hands just then, but
as he was as incorruptible and pure as an average American senator, of
course _this_ cannot account for his acquisitions.  Here the legend comes
to our aid and meets the difficulty.  Having the Seven Days to draw upon,
which probably means infinite extension of time and renewal of his notes,
the great Roman, borrowing, like his friend Cæsar, by millions, got along
very comfortably.  In fact, they borrowed so much that all Rome was
interested in their prosperity, and helped to make them rich that they
might pay.




VIRGIL AND THE GODDESS VESTA.


    “Put out the light, and then—put out the light!”

    “Ut inquit Hecateus in Genealogiis: Enim vero cùm _duæ_ essent Vestæ,
    per antiquiorem Saturni matrem; terram; at per juniorem ignem purum
    ætheris significarunt.”—_Mythologia Natalis Comitis_, A.D. 1616.

Many centuries have passed since there was (worshipped) in Florence a
goddess who was the great spirit of virtue and chastity, (yet) when a
maid had gone astray she always devoted herself to worship the beautiful
Avesta, as this deity was called, and the latter never failed in such
case to get her devotee out of the difficulty.  Her temple was that
building which is now called the Baptistery of Saint John, and she was
the goddess of light, as of candles, torches, and all that illuminates.
And Avesta was, as I have said, known as the deity of virtue, albeit many
of the people shrugged their shoulders when they heard this, being
evidently strongly inclined to doubt, but they said nothing for fear of
punishment.

For it was rumoured that Avesta had many lovers, and that in the rites of
her religion there were secrets too dark to discover, and that as
everything in her worship was involved in mystery and carried on
occultly, it followed, of course, that it involved something wrong.  And
it was observed that once a month many women who worshipped her met in
her temple by night, and that they were accompanied by their lovers, who
with them adored the goddess in the form of a large lighted lamp.  But
that when this rite was at an end and the multitude had departed, there
remained unnoted a number, by whom the doors were closed and the light
extinguished, when a general orgy ensued, no one knowing who the others
might be. {98a}  And it was from this came the saying which is always
heard when two lovers are seated together by a light and it goes out,
that Avesta did it. {98b}

There was in Florence a young lord who loved a lady of great beauty.  But
she had a bitter rival, who to cross their love had recourse to sorcery
or witchcraft, and so “bound” or cast on him a spell which weakened his
very life, and made him impotent and wretched, that his very heart seemed
to be turned to water.

And this spell the witch worked by taking a padlock and locking it,
saying:

    “Chiudo la catena,
    Ma non chiudo la catena,
    Chiudo il corpo e l’anima
    Di questo bel signor ingrato,
    Chi non ha voluto,
    Corrispondermi in amore, {98c}
    Ha preferito un’ altra a me,
    E questa io l’odio
    Come odio la signorina,
    Pure catena che incateni
    Tanti diavoli tieni!
    Tengo incatenata questo signor
    Fino a mio comando
    Che nessuno la possa disciogliere
    E incatenato possa stare,
    Fino che non si decidera
    Di sposarmi. . . .”

    “Now here I close the lock,
    Yet ’tis not a lock which I close;
    I shut the body and soul
    Of this ungrateful lord,
    Who would not meet my love,
    But loves another instead,
    Another whom I hate,
    Whom I here lock and chain
    With devil’s power again.
    I hold this man fast bound
    That none shall set him free
    Until I so command,
    And bound he shall remain
    Till he will marry me.”

One day Virgil was passing the Piazza del Duomo, when he met with the
young man who had thus been bound or bewitched, and the victim was so
pale and evidently in terrible suffering, that the great poet and
magician, who was ever pitying and kind, was moved to the heart, and
said:

“Fair youth, what trouble have you, that you seem to be in such
suffering?”

The young man replied that he, being in love unto life and death, had
been bewitched by some malignant sorcery.

“That I can well see,” replied the sage, “and I am glad that it will be
an easy thing for me to cure you.  Go thou into a field which is just
beyond Fiesole, in a place among the rocks.  There thou wilt find a flat
stone bearing a mark.  Lift it, and beneath thou wilt find a padlock and
chain.  Take this golden key: it is enchanted, for with it thou canst
open any lock in the world of door or chain. {99}  Keep the lock, open
it, and then go to the Temple of Vesta and return thanks with prayer, and
wait for what will come.”

So the young man did as Virgil had told him, and among the rocks found
the stone and the padlock, and went to the Temple of Avesta, where he
opened the lock and made the prayer to the goddess, which having done, he
fell asleep, and no one beheld him.

And while he was there the young lady entered the Baptistery to worship
Avesta, to offer her devotions, which being ended, she sat down and also
fell into a deep sleep, and no one observed her.

But later in the night, when the doors were closed and the light
extinguished, and the worshippers who remained were calling “Avesta!” the
two sleepers who were side by side were awakened by a rustling of silk,
and this was caused by the dress of the goddess, who roused them.  And
the young man found himself restored to vigorous health and unwonted
passion, and quickly noting that a lady was by him, and carried away by
feelings beyond his control, embraced and kissed her—nor did she indeed
resist, for the will of Avesta was on them both.  But noting that the
lady had a silk handkerchief {100} partly out of her pocket, he adroitly
stole it, putting in its place his own, and so with a kiss he left her,
neither knowing who the other was.  But on awaking, as if it were from a
dream or a delirium, the lady was overcome with shame and grief, and
could only think that madness or magic had overcome her reason, to cause
her to yield as she had done.  For this morning she felt more
passionately in love with her betrothed than she had ever done before,
and this was because the spell which had bound her was broken with the
opening of the padlock.

But what was the astonishment of the lover, who was also restored to all
his health and strength, when in the morning he looked at the
handkerchief which he had carried away and found embroidered on it the
arms and name of his love!  So he went to visit her, and his greeting
was:

“Signorina, have you lost a handkerchief?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the lady, amazed.

“Look at the one in your pocket, and then at _this_,” was his laughing
reply.

She did so, and understanding all in an instant, cried out in shame and
horror, while she became at first like blood and then milk.  Then the
gentleman said:

“It seems to me, Signorina, that we must by mistake have exchanged
handkerchiefs last night in the dark, and no wonder, considering the
fervency of our devotions.  And since we have begun to worship and pray
so devoutly, and have entered on such a good path, it were a pity for us
to turn back, and therefore it were well for us to continue to travel on
it hand in hand together.  But I propose that instead of changing
pocket-handkerchiefs, we exchange rings before the altar and get
married.”

The lady laughed and replied:

“I accept with great pleasure, Signore, the handkerchief; just as the
women in Turkey do when it is thrown to them.  And you know the proverb:

    “‘La donna chi prende
    Tosto si rende
    E poi si vende.’”

    “She who will take will give herself away,
    And she who gives will sell herself, they say.”

“Even so will I sell mine for thine; but you must take the bargain on the
nail, and the ball on the bound in the game of love.”

“Yes,” replied the young man; “I do so with all my heart.  But as for our
handkerchiefs, I now see that it is true that the peasant does not always
know what it is that he carries home in his bag from the mill.  Thanks be
to Avesta that we found such good flour in our sacks!”

“To Vesta and to Virgil be all praise!” replied the lady.  “But I think
that while we continue our daily worship in the temple, we will go there
no longer by night.  _Vi sono troppo donne devote nel buio_”—There are
too many lady devotees there in the darkness.

                                * * * * *

As a mere story this legend were as well left out, but it is one of a
hundred as regards curious relics of mythologic and other lore.  Firstly,
be it observed that a secret doctrine, or esoteric as opposed to exoteric
teaching, was taught in all the mysteries of the gods.  Diana, who is
identical with Vesta, Avesta, or Hestia, as a goddess of light by night
and also of chastity, had her lovers in secret.  What further identifies
the two is that in this tale girls who have got into trouble through
love, pray to Vesta, even as Roman maids did under similar circumstances
specially to Diana.

There is no historical proof whatever that the Baptistery was ever a
temple of Vesta, but there is very remarkable circumstantial evidence to
that effect which I have indicated in detail in an article in the
_Architectural Review_.  Both Vesta and Saint John were each in her or
his religion the special deities or incarnations of Light or Fire, and
Purity or Chastity.  The temples of Vesta were like those of Mars, and
Mars alone, either round, hexagonal, or square, to indicate the form
attributed with variations to the world.  The early tradition of all
writers on Florence speaks of the Baptistery of Saint John as having been
a temple of Mars, which legend the priests naturally endeavoured to deny,
thinking it more devout and “genteel” to attribute its erection to a
Christian Empress.

The binding and rendering impotent by means of a padlock, and forty other
devices, to render married folk miserable, or lovers languid, was so
common two centuries ago, that there is almost a literature, occult,
theological, and legal, on the subject.  The Rabbis say it was invented
by Ham, the son of Noah.  The superstition was generally spread in Greece
and Rome.  It is still very commonly believed in and practised by witches
all over Europe, and especially by gipsies and the Italian _strege_.

What is above all to be remarked in this tale is that it recognises a
double nature in Vesta—one as a chaste goddess of fire, the other of a
voluptuous or generative deity, signified by extinguishing the lights.
And this is precisely what the oldest writers declared, though it was
quite forgotten in later times.  As Natalis Comes declares, “There were
_two_ Vestas, one by the first wife of Saturn, another by the younger
one, meaning the earth, the other fire,” as Ovid witnesses, “Fastorum,”
lib. 6.  In fact, there was a double or second to every one of the Greek
or Etruscan gods.  And this belief which was forgotten by the higher
classes remained among the people.  And it may be specially noted that
the second Vesta was called the mother of the gods, as Strabo declares,
and she was in fact the Venus of the primitive or Saturnian mythology.




THE STONE FISH, AND HOW VIRGIL MADE IT EATABLE.


    “Virgille plus fu sapïens
    Plus clerc, plus sage et plus scïens.
    Que nul a son temps vesquist,
    Et plus de grans merveilles fist
    Pour voir il fist de grans merveilles;
    Homs naturels ne fist pareilles.”

                                             RENARS CONTREFAIS, A.D. 1319.

In the old times, when things were so different from what they are
now—the blue bluer, the red redder, when the grains of maize were as big
as grapes, and grapes as big as pomegranates, and pomegranates as big as
melons, and the Arno was always full of water, and the water so full of
fine large fish that everybody had as many as he wanted for nothing, and
the sun and moon gave twice as much light—there was, not far from Via
Reggio, a castle, and the signore who owned it was a great bandit, who
robbed all the country round, as all the gentlemen did in those times
when they could, for it is true that with all the blessings of those days
they had some curses!

One day there passed by a poor fisherman with an ass, and on it was a
very large, wonderfully fine fish, a tunny, which was a load for the
beast, and which was intended for the good monks of an abbey hard by, to
whom the man hoped to sell it, partly for money and partly for blessings.
When lo! he was met by Il Bandito, as the signore was called, and, as you
may suppose, the gentleman was not slow to seize the prey, which fell as
it were like a roasted lark from heaven into his mouth.  And to mock the
poor fellow, the signore gave him a small bottle of wine to repay him.

Then the fisherman in his despair cursed the Bandito to his face, saying:

“May God forget and the devil remember thee, and as thou hast mocked my
poverty, mayest thou pass centuries in worse suffering than ever was
known to the poorest man on earth.

“Thou shalt live in groans and lamentations, thou accursed of God and
despised by the devil; thou shalt never have peace by day or night!

“Thou shalt be in utter wretchedness till thou shalt see someone eat this
fish.

    “‘In pietra cambiato
    E in pietra sarai confinata.’”

    “Thyself a stone, as thou shalt find,
    And in a stone thou’lt be confined,
    And the fish likewise a stone shall be
    Till someone shall eat it and set thee free!”

And as the poor man prophesied, it came to pass: the fish was changed
into a stone, and the signore into a statue.  And the latter stood in a
corner of the dining-hall, and every day the fish was placed at dinner on
the table, but no one could eat it.

So three hundred years passed away, and the lord who had inherited the
castle had a beautiful daughter, who was beloved by a young signore named
Luigi, who was in every way deserving of her, but whom the father
disliked on account of his family.  So when he asked the father for her
hand, the latter replied that he might have it when he should have eaten
the stone fish, and not till then.  So the young man went away in grief.

One day, when this young gentleman was returning from the chase bearing
two fine hares, he met Virgilio, who asked him to sell him one.
Whereupon the young man replied: “Oh, take your pick of them, and
welcome; but say nothing about payment.  Perhaps some day you may do as
much for me.”

“Perhaps,” replied Virgilio, “that day may be nearer than you think.  I
never make my creditors wait, nor let my debts run into arrears.  What is
there on earth which you most desire?”

“Truly it is something, signore, which I trow that neither you nor any
man can render possible, for it is to eat the stone fish in the castle up
there.”

“I think that it can be managed,” replied Virgil, with a smile.  “Take
this silver box full of salt, and when the fish is before you, sprinkle
the salt on it, and it will grow tender and taste well, and you can eat
it.  But first say unto it:

    “‘Se tu pesce sei fatto
    Da un uomo, pel suo atto,
    Rimane sempre come sei,
    Ma se tu sei scongiurato,
    O vere scongiurato,
    Non restare pietra—ritorna come eri.’”

    “Fish, if once a man thou wert,
    Then remain e’en as thou art!
    But if a fish, I here ordain
    That thou become a fish again.”

Then Luigi went to the castle, and was with much laughter placed before
the fish, and the signore asked him if he would have a hammer to carve it
with.

“Nay, I will eat it after my own fashion,” he replied.  “I do but beg
permission to use my own salt, and say my own grace.”

Then he sprinkled the salt and murmured the incantation, when the fish
became soft and savoury, as if well cooked, and Luigi ate of it, till the
signore of the castle was satisfied, and admitted that he had fulfilled
the conditions—when lo! the fish became whole as before, and a stone
again.

Then an old statue which was in the hall, in a corner of the wall, spoke
and said:

“Now I am at peace, since the fish has been eaten.

    “‘Dacche il pesce ha stato mangiato,
    Io non sono più confinato.’”

And saying this, there went forth from the image a spirit-form, which
vanished.

Then Luigi wedded the young lady of the castle, and Virgilio, who was
present, promised the pair a happy life.  And he said:

“Thou wilt be, O Luigi, the beginner of a family or race which, like the
Holy Church, will have been founded on a stone, and while the Church
lasts thy name shall endure.”

                                * * * * *

The concluding paragraph refers to _pietra_, a stone, and to the text,
well known to the most ignorant Catholic, “Petrus es et super hanc petram
edificabo ecclesiam meam,” whence it has been said that the Roman Church
was founded on a pun, to which the reply might be, “And what if it was?”
since there was no suspicion in early times that the pun, as a poetical
form, might not be seriously employed in illustration.  Dr. Johnson made
the silly assertion that a pun upon a proper name is the lowest kind of
wit, in which saying there is—as in many of his axioms—more sound than
sense; nor is it altogether reverent or respectful, when we reflect that
both Christ and Cicero used the despised figure of speech.  In one of the
tales in this collection the Emperor of Rome speaks of a wheat-bran
(_tisane_) which had been ordered as “pigs’ broth,” which was exactly the
term by which Cicero alluded to the Verrine law, which also bears that
meaning.  As his adversary was a Jew, and the query was, “What has a
Hebrew to do with pig-broth, or pork-soup?”—_i.e._, the law of Verres—the
joke, with all due deference to the law-giver Samuel, may be fairly
called a very good one. {106}




VIRGILIO AND THE BRONZE HORSE.


    “The horse of brass.”—MILTON.

    “But evermore their moste wonder was
    About this horsé, since it was of brass.
    It was of faerie as the peple seemed,
    Diversè folk diversely han deemed.”

                                            CHAUCER: _The Squiere’s Tale_.

One day Virgilio went to visit the Emperor, and not finding him in his
usual good temper, asked what was the matter, adding that he hoped it
would be in his power to do something to relieve him.

Then the Emperor complained that what troubled him was that all his
horses seemed to be ill or bewitched, behaving like wild beasts, or as if
evil spirits were in them, and that which grieved him most was that his
favourite white horse was most afflicted of all.

“Do not vex yourself for such a thing,” replied Virgil.  “I will cure
your horses and all the others in the city.”

Then he caused to be made a beautiful horse of bronze, and it was so well
made that no one, unless by the will of Virgil (_senza il volere di
Virgilio_), could have made the like.  And whenever a horse which
suffered in any way beheld it, the animal was at once cured.

All the smiths and horse-doctors in Rome were greatly angered at this,
because after Virgil made the bronze horse they had nothing to do.  So
they planned to revenge themselves on him.  And they all assembled in a
vile place frequented by thieves and assassins, and there agreed to kill
Virgil.  Going to his house by night, they sought for him, but he
escaped; so they, finding the bronze horse, broke it to pieces, and then
fled.

When Virgil returned and found the horse in fragments he was greatly
grieved, and said:

“The smiths have done this.  However, I will yet do some good with the
metal, for I will make from it a bell; and when the smiths hear it ring,
I will give them a peal to remember me by.”

So the bell was made and given to the Church of San Martino.  And the
first time it was tolled it sang:

    “Io ero un cavallo di bronzo.
    Dai nemici son’ stato spezzato.
    Ma un amico che mi ama,
    In campana, mi ha cambiato
    E la prima volta che faro
    _Dindo_, _dindo_! dichiarero
    Chi e becco a caprone.”

    “I was a horse of bronze, and tall.
    My enemies broke me to pieces small.
    But a friend who loves me well
    Had me made into a bell.
    Now here on high I proudly ring,
    And as I _dindo_! _dindo_ sing,
    I tell aloud, as I toll and wave,
    Who is a _wittol_ and a knave.”

And all the smiths who had broken the horse when they heard the bell
became as deaf as posts.  Then great remorse came over them and shame,
and they threw themselves down on the ground before Virgil and begged his
pardon.

Virgil replied:

“I pardon you; but for a penance you must have six other bells made to
add to this, to make a peal, and put them all in the same church.”

This they did, and then regained their hearing.

                                * * * * *

This same story is told of Virgil in Comparetti’s collection; but the
present tale in the original has about it a smack or tone of the people
which is wanting in the older version.  Thus, the song of the bell is a
peculiarly quaint conception, and probably an adaptation of some popular
jest to the effect that bells proclaim the name and shame of certain
persons.  I have found that, with rare exception, the legends which I
have given, as preserved by a class to whom tradition has a special
value, are more complete in every respect than the variants drawn from
other sources.




VIRGILIO AND THE BALL-PLAYER.


    “Ima subit, resilit.  Ventosi prælia vento,
    Exagitant juvenes: pellunt dextra atque repellunt,
    Corruit ille iterùm; levisque aere truditur aer;
    Ictibus impatiens obmurmurat; altaque rursus
    Nubila metitur cursu; si forte globosa
    Excipiant miserata globum patiturque repulsam.”

      P. CAR. DE LUCA, 1. 19, EX. J. B. GANDUTIO: _Harpastum Florentinum_;
                            _or_, _On the Florentine Game of Ball_ (1603).

    “Jamque calent lusorum animi; color ardet in ore
    In vultu sanguis rubet, omnesque occupat artus;
    Præcipites hinc, inde ruunt, cursuque sequaci
    Atque oculis sphæræ volucri vigilantibus justant.”

     PILÆ LUDUS: _The Game of Ball_.  _Auctor Incertus_.  _XVIth Century_.

    “Now the playing at _ball_ is allowed to Christians, because, like
    chess, draughts, billiards, bowls, _trucca_, and the like, it is a
    game of skill and not of chance, which latter makes illicit the most
    innocent play.”—_Trattato di Giochi_, etc., _Rome_, 1708.

There was once upon a time a grand signore in Florence who had a clever
servant, a young man, who, whether he had a fairy god-mother or a witch
grandmother is not told; but it is certain that he had such luck at
playing ball as to always win and never lose.  And his master so arranged
it with him as to bet and win immense sums.

One day Virgilio, being present at a match in which this young man
played, observed that there sat upon his ball a tiny invisible goblin,
who directed its course as he pleased.

“Beautiful indeed is thy play,” said Virgilio to the youth, “and thy
ball—_ha tutta la finezza dell’ arte_—hath all the refinement of its art;
but ’tis a pity that it is not an honest ball.”

“Thou art mistaken,” replied the young man; but he reddened as he spoke.

“Ah, well,” answered Virgil, “I will show thee anon whether I have made a
mistake or told the truth.  _A carne di lupo dente di cane_—A dog’s teeth
to a wolf’s hide.  My young friend and his old master need a bite or two
to cure them of their evil ways.”

There was in Florence the next day a great fair, or _festa_, and Virgil,
passing where young people were diverting themselves, saw a very
beautiful, bold-faced girl, who looked like a gipsy, or as if she
belonged to some show, playing ball.  Then Virgil, calling a goblin not
bigger than a babe’s finger, {109} bade it go and sit on the girl’s ball,
and inhabit and inspire it to win.  It did so, and the girl won every
time.  Then Virgilio said to her:

“Come with me, and I will show you how to win one hundred crowns.  There
is a young man who carries all before him at playing; thou must drive him
before thee; _e render la pariglia_—pay him back in his own money.  Then
shalt thou have one hundred crowns.”

So they went together to the castle, and Virgilio said to the old
signore:

“I have found a young girl who plays ball so well, that I am anxious to
try her game against that of your young man.”

“What will you bet on her?” asked the old signore.

“A thousand crowns,” replied Virgilio.

“Done!” was the response.

But when they met on the ground the youth and the girl fell in love at
first sight to the last degree, and not being much troubled with modesty,
told one another so—_schiettamente e senza preamboli_—plainly, without
prelude, preamble, or preface, as is the way and wont of professionals or
show-people, wherein they showed their common sense of the value of time,
which is to them as money.

Then they began to play, and it was in the old fashion, with two balls at
once, each player tossing one to the other with the drum. {110a}  And it
came to pass that in the instant that the two goblins beheld one another
from afar they also fell in love.  And as fairies and _folletti_ do
everything, when they will, a thousand times more rapidly than human
beings, and as neither could or would conquer in the game, they both
cried:

“Let us be for ever united in love.”

So the two balls met with a bump half-way in their course and fell to the
ground as one, while the fays embraced; and at the same instant the youth
and the girl, unable to suppress their feelings, rushed into one
another’s arms and began to kiss, and Virgilio and the old signore roared
with laughter, the latter having a second attack of merriment when
Virgilio explained to him the entire trick and plot.

Then, as it was a drawn game, the thousand crowns were by common consent
bestowed on the young couple, who were married to their hearts’ content,
having one _festa_ after another, at which all the guests went from
bottle to bottle, even as the ass of a dealer in pottery goeth from door
to door, or as the pig of Saint Antonio went from house to house.  Amen!

                                * * * * *

Singularly enough, though this story comes from a witch source, there is
in it no incantation addressed to a ball to make it always win for its
owner; and, oddly enough, I recall one for that purpose, taken from an
American burlesque of “Der Freyschütz,” {110b} in which the demon-hunter
calls on Zamiel the fiend to give him a magic ninepin or skittle-ball.

    “Sammy-hell, a boon I beg!
    By thy well and wooden leg!
    We ask for that ’ere bowling ball
    Wot’ll knock down one and all.
    Give us all the queer ingredients,
    And we’ll remain your most obedients!”

The idea of enchanted dice which always throw sixes and the like, forms
the subject of stories possibly wherever dice are thrown or cards played,
inasmuch as all gamblers who live or lose by chance are naturally led to
believe that fortune can be invoked or propitiated.  Hence the majority
of them carry charms, fetishes, or amulets.




VIRGIL AND THE GENTLEMAN WHO BRAYED.


    “Braire comme des Asnes en plain marché.”

          _Cf._ LEROUX DE LUICY: _Facetieux Réveille-matin_, pp. 103, 171.
                                                           _XVII. Siècle_.

    “Ha, Sire Ane, ohé!
    Belle bouche, rechignez!
    Vous aurez du foin assez
    Et de l’avoine à-plantez!”

                                                 _Chanson_, _XII. Siècle_.

There were once assembled at the table of the Emperor many friends of
Virgilio, who praised him highly.  But there was also one who abused him
bitterly, and called him an ass; and the word went forth to all the city,
and much was said of it, and there was a great scandal over it.

When Virgil heard of it he smiled, and said that he thought he would ere
long be even with the gentleman who had jackassed him; and those who knew
him were of the same opinion, for certainly the means of retaliation were
not wanting to him.

Now, the Emperor had given to Virgilio an ass to ride, and the poet said
to his patron that, if he would order that the animal might go or come
wherever he pleased, he would show him some time a merry jest.  To which
the Emperor right willingly assented.

So one day there were many lords seated at the imperial table, and among
them were Virgilio and his enemy.  But what was the amazement of all save
the magician when the servants, flying in, said that the ass of the
Signore Virgilio had entered the door, and insisted on coming into the
banqueting-hall.

“Admit him instantly,” said the Emperor.

The ass came in as politely as an ass could.  He bowed down before the
Emperor and kissed his hand.

“He has come to visit his dear brother,” remarked the enemy of Virgil.

“_That is true_,” replied the ass; and walking up to the gentleman, he
stared him in the face, and said: “Good brother, good-day!”

The signore, bursting into a rage, tried to utter something, but only
brayed—and such a bray, the King of the Asses himself could not have
equalled it.  There was a roar of laughter long and loud, revived again
with each succeeding roar.  At last, when there was silence, Virgil said:

“But tell me, Ciuchino, donkey mine, which of us three is the _real_ ass?
For thy brother there says that I am one, and thou callest him brother,
and yet from thy appearance I should say that thou art truly ‘the one.’”

And the ass replied:

“Trust not to looks in this world, for in outward seeming there is great
deceit.  By their _voice_ shall ye know them; by their song, which is the
same in all lands.  For many are the languages of mankind, but there is
only one among asses, for we all bray and pray in the same tongue.”

“Truly,” replied Virgilio, “thou almost deservest to become a Christian,
and I will help thee to it.”  Saying this, he touched the donkey’s nose
with his wand, and his face became as the face of the gentleman, on whom
there now appeared a donkey’s head.

“Now we are indeed beginning to look more like ourselves,” quoth the ass.

“_Aun-ky—aunky—aunky—ooooh_!” brayed the gentleman.

“That, my lords,” explained the donkey, “when translated into _volgare_
from our holy tongue, is my brother’s confession of faith, wherein he
declares that he is the very Ass of Asses—the _summa summarum_, and the
_somaro dei somari_.”

“That will do,” exclaimed Virgilio; and touching the ass and the signore,
he restored to each his natural form and language.  And the signore
rushed out in a blind rage, but the ass went with proper dignity, first
saluting the company, and then bowing low before the Emperor ere he
departed.

“_Per Bacco_!” exclaimed the Emperor; “the ass, it seems to me, hath
better manners and a finer intellect than his brother.”

“’Tis sometimes the case in this world, your Imperial Highness, that
asses appear to advantage—even at court.”




VIRGIL AND THE GIRL WITH GOLDEN LOCKS.


    “And they had fixed the wedding day,
    The morning that must wed them both,
    For Stephen to another maid
    Had sworn another oath;
    And with this other maid to church
    Unthinking Stephen went—
    Poor Martha, on that woeful day,
    A pang of pitiless dismay
    Into her soul was sent.”

                      WORDSWORTH: _Poems of the Imagination_: _The Thorn_.

There was once in Florence a wealthy widow lady of noble family, who had
a son who was all that a parent could have wished, had he not been
somewhat reckless and dissipated, and selfish withal, which he showed by
winning the love of girls and then leaving them; which thing became such
a scandal that it caused great grief to the mother, who was a truly good
woman.  And so the youth, who was really a devoted son, seeing this,
reformed his ways for a long time.

But as the proverb says, he who has once drunk at this fountain will ever
remember the taste, and probably drink again.  So it came to pass that in
time the young gentleman fell again into temptation, and then began to
tempt, albeit with greater care and caution—’tis so that all timid
sinners go, resolving the next step shall be the last—till finally, under
solemn promise of marriage, he led astray into the very forest of despair
a very poor and friendless maid, who was, however, of exquisite beauty,
and known as “the girl of golden locks,” from her hair.  It might be that
the young man might have kept his word, but at an evil time he was
tempted by the charms of a young lady of great wealth and greater family,
who met him more than half-way, giving him to understand that her hand
was to be had for asking; whereupon he, who never lost a chance or left a
fruit unplucked, asked at once and was accepted, the wedding-day being at
once determined on.

Then the girl with the golden hair, finding herself abandoned, became
well-nigh desperate.  Ere long, too, she gave birth to a child, which was
a boy.  And it was some months after this, indeed, ere the wedding of the
youth to the heiress was to take place, when one day, as the young
unmarried mother was passing along the Arno, she met the great poet and
sorcerer Virgil, who saw in her face the signs of such deep suffering,
and of such a refined and noble nature, that he paused and asked her if
she had any cause of affliction.  So with little trouble he induced her
to confide in him, saying that she had no hope, because her betrayer
would soon be wedded to another.

“Perhaps not,” replied Virgil.  “Many a tree destined to be felled has
escaped the axe and lived till God blew it down.  On the day appointed we
three will all go to the wedding.”

And truly when the time came all Florence was much amazed to see the
great Virgil going into the Church of Santa Maria with the beautiful girl
with the golden hair and bearing her babe in his arms.  So the building
was speedily filled with people waiting eagerly to witness some strange
sight.

And they were not disappointed.  For when the bride in all her beauty and
the bridegroom in all his glory came to the altar and paused, ere the
priest spoke Virgil stepped forward, and presenting the girl with golden
locks, said:

“This is she whom thou art to wed, having sworn to make her thy wife, and
this is thy child.”

Then the infant, who had never before in his life uttered a word,
exclaimed, in loud, sweet tones:

    “Thou’rt my father, I’m thy son;
    Other father I have none.”

Then there was a great scene, the bride being as one mad, and all the
people crying, “_Evviva_, Virgilio!  If the Signore Cosino {114} does not
wed the girl with golden hair, he shall not escape us!”  Which he did
indeed, and that not so unwillingly, for the sight of the girl and the
authority of Virgil, the cries of the people, his own conscience, and the
marvellous occurrence of the babe’s speaking, all reconciled him to it.

So the wedding was carried out forthwith, and every soul in Florence who
could make music went with his instrument that night and serenaded the
newly-married pair.

And the mother was not a little astonished when she saw her son, who had
gone forth with one bride, return with another.  However, she was soon
persuaded by Virgil that it was all for the best, and found in time that
she had a perfect daughter-in-law.

                                * * * * *

I had rejected this story as not worth translating, since it presents so
few traditional features, when it occurred to me that it indeed very
clearly and rather curiously sets forth Virgil as a benevolent man and a
sympathizer with suffering without regard to rank or class.  This
Christian kindness was associated with his name all through the Middle
Ages in literature, and it is wonderful how the form of it has been
preserved unto these our times among the people.

There is a tale told by one Surius, “In Vita S. Anselmi,” cited by
Kornmann in his work “De Miraculis Vivorum” in 1614, which bears on this
which I have told.  A certain dame in Rome not only had a child, _ex
incestu_, but magnified her sin by swearing the child on the Pope,
Sergius.  The question being referred to Saint Anselm, he asked the babe,
which had never spoken, whether his papa was the Pope.  To which the
infant answered, “Certainly not,” adding that Sergius “_nihil cum Venere
commercium habere_”—Anselmus, as is evident, being resolved to make a
clean sweep of the whole affair and whitewash the Holy Father to the
utmost while he was about it.  Salverté would, like a sinner, have said
that Anselm was perhaps a ventriloquist—_es kann sein_!

But let us not discuss it, and pass on, just mentioning that since I
wrote the above I found another legend of an Abbot Daniel, of whom
Gregory of Tours and Sophronius relate that he, having prayed that a
certain lady might become a mother, and the request being complied with,
some of Daniel’s enemies suggested that other means as well as prayer,
and much more efficacious, had been resorted to by the saint to obtain
the desired result.  But Daniel, inquiring of the babe when it was
twenty-five days of age, was, _coram omnibus_, fully acquitted, the
_bambino_ pointing to his true father, and saying, with a nod, “_Verbis
et mitibus_”—_That’s_ the man!  And the same happened to a Bishop
Britius.  But Saint Augustine beats the record by declaring that, “It
hath sometimes happened that infants as yet unborn have cried out _ex
utero matris_—which is indeed a marvellous thing!”  (“De Civitate Dei,”
III., c. 31).

And yet it seems to me that Justinus, Procopius, and several others, have
done as well, if not better; for it is related by them that a number of
orthodox believers who had their tongues cut out by Socinians, or
Unitarians (whom the zealous Dean Hole declares are all so many little
ungodly antichrists, or words to that effect), went on praying and
preaching more volubly than ever.  The same is told by Evagrius of some
pious women, but I do not offer this as a miracle, there being in it
nothing improbable or remarkable.

That the Arians, or Unitarians, or Socinians have set tongues to
wagging—especially the tongues of flame which play round the pyres of
martyrdom—is matter of history—and breviary.  But that they have been the
cause of making dead and tongueless Trinitarians talk, seems doubtful.
However, as the Canadian said of the ox: “There is no knowing what the
subtlest form of Antichrist _may_ do.”  _Passons_!




VIRGIL AND THE PEASANT OF AREZZO.


             “Optuma tornæ
    Forma bovis, cui turpe caput, cui plurima cervix,
    Et crurum tenus a mento palearia pendent;
    Tum longo nullus lateri modus; omnia magna,
    Pes etiam, et camuris hirtæ sub cornibus aures.
    Nec mihi displiceat maculis insignis, et albo,
    Aut juga detrectans, interdumque aspera cornu,
    Et faciem taurs propior, quæque ardua tota,
    Et gradiens ima verrit vestigia cauda.”

                                          VIRGILIUS: _Georgics_, lib. iii.

    “Annescis, pinguem carnibus esse bovem?”

                                      _Epigrams by_ FRIED. HOFMANN (1633).

    “_Pallium non facit philosophum nec_
    _Cucullus monachum_—”

    “Dress if you will
    A knave in silk, he will be shabby still.”

This legend, with several others, was gathered in or near Arezzo.

                                * * * * *

In the old times people suffered in many things far more than they now
do, firstly from the signori, who treated them worse than brutes, and as
if this were not enough, they were tormented by witches and wizards and
wicked people who went to the devil or his angels to revenge them on
their enemies.  However, there were good and wise men who had the power
to conquer these evil ones, and who did all they could to untie their
knots and turn back their spells and curses on themselves, and the
greatest of these was named Virgilio, who passed all his life in doing
good.

Now, it is an old custom in Arezzo that when men take cattle to a fair,
be it oxen or cows or calves, the animals are tricked out or ornamented
as much as possible, and there is great competition as to this among the
peasants, for it is a great triumph for a contadino when all the people
say that his beasts made the finest show of any in the place; so that it
is said a man of Arezzo will spend more to bedeck his cattle for a fair
than he will to dress his daughters for a dance.

Now, there was a very worthy, honest man named Gianni, who was the head
or manager under the proprietor of a very fine estate near Arezzo, and
one day he went to the fair to buy a yoke of oxen.  And what he cared for
was to get the best, for his master was rich and generous, and did not
much heed the price so that he really got his money’s worth.

But good as Gianni was, he had to suffer the affliction which none can
escape of being envied and hated.  For wicked and spiteful souls find
something to hate in people who have not done them any wrong, and whom
they have not the least motive to harm—_nessunissimo motive_.

So the good Gianni found at the fair a pair of oxen which, so far as
ornament was concerned, were a sight to behold.  For they were covered
with nets, and adorned with many bands of red woollen stuff all
embroidered with gold, and bearing in gold the name of their owner,
having many cords and tassels and scarfs of all colours on their heads.
And these cords were elaborately braided, while there hung a mirror on
the forehead of each animal, so that the elegance of their decoration was
the admiration of all who were at the fair.

Then Gianni, seeing the oxen, drew near, but before making an offer,
complimented the owner on their beautiful appearance.  And this done, he
said:

“All very fine, but in doing business for my patron I set aside all
personal friendship.  Your cattle are finely dressed up, but how are the
beasts themselves?  That is all that I care to know, and I don’t wish to
have them turn out as it happened to a man who married a wife because he
admired her clothes, and found, when she was undressed, that she was a
mere scrap, and looked like a dried cod-fish.”

So they talked till the dealer took off the coverings, when Gianni found,
in fact, that the oxen had many faults.

“I am sorry to say, my friend,” quoth Gianni, “that I cannot buy them.  I
have done you more than one good turn before now, as you well know, but
business is business, and I am buying for my master, so good-day.”

Then the owner was in a great rage, and grated his teeth, and swore
revenge, for there were many round about who laughed at him, and he
resolved to do evil to Gianni, who, however, thought no more of it, but
went about the fair till he found a pair of excellent oxen which were the
best for sale, and drove them home.

But as soon as they were in the stable they fell on the ground (dead).
Gianni was in despair, but the master, who had seen the cattle and found
them fine and in good condition when they arrived, did not blame him.

So the next day Gianni went to another fair, and bought another yoke of
oxen.  But when in the evening they were in the stable, they fell dead at
once, as the others had done.  Still the master had such faith in him,
that although he was greatly vexed at the loss, he bade the man go once
more to a fair and try his luck.  So he went, and indeed returned with a
magnificent pair, which were carefully examined; but there was the same
result, for they also fell dead as soon as they were stabled.

Then the master resolved to go and buy cattle for himself, and did so.
But there was the same result: these fell dead like the others.  And the
master, in despair and rage, said to Gianni:

“Here I give thee some money, and now begone, for I believe that thou
bringest evil to me.  I have lost four yoke of oxen, and will lose no
more.”

So Gianni went forth with his wife and children, in great suffering.  And
the master took in his place Dorione.  This was the very man who had
owned the oxen which Gianni would not buy, and he was one who was versed
in all the sorcery of cattle, as such people in the mountains always are,
and by his witchcraft he had brought all this to pass.

But under his care all the cattle flourished wonderfully, and the master
was much pleased with him.  But Gianni was in extreme misery, and could
see nothing but beggary before him, because it was reported everywhere
that he brought bad luck, and he could get no employment.

One day, when matters were at their worst with him and there was not even
a piece of bread in his poor home, he met on the road a troop of
cavaliers, at the head of whom were two magnificently clad gentlemen, and
these were the Emperor and Virgil.

The poor peasant had stepped aside to admire the procession as it passed,
when all at once Virgil looked with a piercing glance at Gianni, and
cried:

“Man, what aileth thee that thou seemest so wretched?  For I read in thy
face that thou sufferest unjustly, well-nigh to death.”

Then Gianni told his story, and Virgil answered:

“For all of this there is a remedy.  Now, come with me to the house of
thy late master, where there is work to be done.”

“But they will drive me out headlong,” replied Gianni; “I dare not go.
And if I do not return to my family, who are all ill or starving to
death, they will think that some disaster has befallen me.”

“For that too there is also a remedy,” said Virgil, with a smile.  “Have
no care.  Now to thy master!”

“Why didst thou send away this honest man?” asked Virgil of the
_padrone_.

To which the master replied by telling all about the oxen.  “Therefore,
because he brought ruin into my house did I dismiss him.”

“Well,” replied Virgil, “this time thou didst get rid of an honest man
and keep the knave.  Now let us go and see to thy dead oxen.”

So they went apace to the spot where the dead oxen had all been thrown,
where the whole eight lay unchanged, for decay had not come upon them,
they were as sound as ever.

Then Virgil exclaimed, as he waved his wand:

    “If ye are charmed, retake your breath!
    If you’re bewitched, then wake from death!
    Speak with a voice, and tell us why,
    And who it was that made ye die!”

Then all the oxen came to life, and sang in chorus with human voices:

    “Dorione slew us for revenge,
    Because Gianni would not buy his oxen,
    Truly they were greatly ornamented,
    Yet withal were wretched, sorry cattle.
    So he swore to be revenged upon him,
    So he was revenged by witching us.”

“You have heard the whole truth,” said Virgil to the Emperor.  “It is for
you to condemn the culprit.”

“I condemn him to be at once put to death,” replied the Emperor.  “Hast
thou anything to add?”

“Yes,” said Virgil; “I condemn him to immediately become a goat after
death.”

Then Dorione was burnt alive for an evil wizard, and he leapt from the
flame in the form of a black goat and vanished.

Gianni returned in favour to his master, and all went well with him
evermore.

                                * * * * *

The very singular or unusual name of Dorione intimates a classical
origin, and it is true that one of the Danaides, the bride of Cerceste,
was called thus; but on this hook hangs no analogy.  Dordione was the
Roman god of blackguardism _pur et simple_, unto whom people made obscene
offerings—which, according to sundry reviewers, might suggest the Dorian
of a certain novel of the ultra Greek-æsthetic school, which had many
admirers in certain circles, both in America and England.  But it is very
remarkable that wherever it occurs, be it in pagan antiquity or modern
times, the name has always had a certain evil smell about it, a something
fish-like and ancient, but not venerable.  It is true that I have already
given a legend of another Dorione, who was a protégé of Virgil; but even
this latter example was sadly given to “rapacious appropriation.”  The
Dorians were all a bad lot from a moral point of view, according to
history.

It is remarkable that Dorione, who is a mountain shepherd or herdsman, is
noted as a sorcerer.  Owing to their solitary lives and knowledge of
secrets in the medical treatment and management of cattle, this class in
many countries (but especially in France and Italy) is regarded as
consisting entirely of sorcerers.  This is specially the case with
smiths, farriers, and all who exercise the veterinary art.

It may also strike the reader as singular that Dorione in the tale should
be moved to such deadly vengeance, simply because Gianni would not buy
his cattle, and preferred others.  This is a very common and marked
characteristic of Italians.  If you examine a man’s wares, talk about,
and especially if you touch them, you will often be expected to buy as a
matter of course.  I have been seriously cautioned in a fair, by one who
was to the manner born, against examining anything unless I bought it, or
something.  A few years ago, in Florence, a flower-girl asked an
Englishman to buy of her ware, which he declined to do, and then changing
his mind, bought a bouquet from another girl close by.  Whereupon the
first _floriste_ stabbed and slew the second—to the great astonishment of
the tourist!

There is an unconscious fitness and propriety in making the author of the
“Georgics” so familiar with cattle that he is able to raise them from the
dead.  The chorus of oxen, accusing the evil-doer, is an idea or motive
which also occurs in the story of Cain, as given in my “Legends of
Florence.”

The black goat is, and ever was in Italy, specially accursed as a type of
evil.  Witches are rarely described as riding brooms—their steed is the
goat.  Evil spirits, or souls of men accursed, haunt bridges in this
form.  The perverse and mischievous spirit of the animal, as well as his
appearance, is sufficient to explain this.




THE GIRL AND THE FLAGEOLET.


    “Thus playing sweetly on the flageolet,
    He charmed them all; and playing yet again,
    Led them away, won by the magic sound.”

                                           _De Pueris Hamleënsibus_, 1400.

There is in the Toscana Romagna a place known as La Valle della Fame, or
Valley of Hunger, in which dwelt a family of peasants, or three brothers
and two sisters.  The elder brother had married a wife who was good and
beautiful, and she had given birth to a daughter, but died when the babe
was only one year old.  Then, according to the advice of the sisters and
brothers, he married again, that he might have someone to take care of
his child.  The second wife was a pretty young woman, but after she had
been wedded a year she gave birth to a daughter, who was very ugly indeed
and evil; but the mother seemed to love her all the more for this, and
began to hate the elder, who was as good and beautiful as an angel.  And
as her hatred grew she beat and abused the poor little girl all day long.

One morning the latter went into the woods to hide herself from her
stepmother till it should be evening, when she could return home and be
safe with her father and aunts.  And while sitting all alone beneath a
tree, she heard a bird above her singing so sweetly that she felt
enchanted.  It was a marvellous sound, at times like the music of a flute
played by a fairy, then like a human voice carolling in soft tones, and
then like a horn echoing far away.  The little girl said:

“Oh dear, sweet bird, I wish I could pipe and play like you!”

As she said this the bird fell from the tree, and when she picked it up
she found that it was a _zufolo_, or shepherd’s flageolet, in the form of
a bird.  And when she blew on it, it gave forth such sweet sounds—_suone
belle da rimanere incantati_—as would charm all who heard them.  And as
she practised, she found the art to play it seemed to come of itself, and
every now and then she could hear a fairy voice in the sound speaking to
her.

Now, this was a miracle which had been wrought by Virgil the magician,
who did so many wonderful things in the olden time.

In the evening she returned home and played on the bird-pipe, and all
were charmed except the stepmother, who alone heard in the music a voice
which said:

    “Though sweet thy smile, and smooth thy brow,
    Evil and cold at heart art thou;
    I never yet did harm to thee,
    Yet thou hast beat me cruelly,
    And given me curses fierce and wild
    Because I’m fairer than thy child.
    Unless thou lettest me alone
    Henceforth, all ill shall be thine own,
    With all the suffering I have known.”

But to the girl the pipe sang:

    “Sing to thy father, gently say
    That thou the morrow goest away,
    And tell him thou hast borne too long
    Great cruelty and cruel wrong;
    For truly he was much to blame
    That he so long allowed the same;
    But now the evil spell is broken,
    The time has come, the word is spoken!”

Then her father would fain have kept her, but the spell was on her, and
she went out into the wide world playing on her pipe.  And when she was
in the woods, the birds and wild beasts came and listened to her and did
as she bade; and when she was in towns, the people gathered round and
were charmed to hear her play, and gave her money and often jewels, and
no one dared to say an evil word to her, for a spell was on her, and a
charm which kept away evil.

So years passed by, and she was blooming into maidenhood, when one day a
young lord, passing with his mother, who was a woman as noble of soul and
good as her son, paused to hear the girl play on her pipe and sing, for
they thought the marvellous song of the _zufolo_ was her voice.

Then the lady asked the girl if she would enter a monastery, where she
would be educated and brought up to live in a noble family in return for
her music.  The girl replied that she had already a great deal of money
and many jewels, but that she would be very glad to be better educated
and advanced in life.  So she entered the convent, where she was very
happy, and the end thereof was that she became betrothed to the young
signore, and great preparations were made for the wedding.

Now, the stepmother had but one idea in life, which was that her own
daughter should make some great match, and for this purpose she was glad
when the second went away, as she hoped, to become a mere vagabond,
playing the flute for a living.  But when she heard that the girl was
very prosperous in a convent in Florence, and had not only been educated
like a princess in the best society, but would ere long marry a nobleman,
she became mad with rage; and going to a witch, she paid her a great sum
to prepare a powder which, if strewed in the path of the bride, would
cause her prompt and agonizing pain, and after a time death in the most
dreadful suffering.  And this was to be laid in the way of the wedding
procession.  But on that morning the pipe sang:

    “Where’er on earth the wind doth blow,
    All leaves and dust before it go.
    Evil or good, they fly away
    Before its breath, as if in play;
    And so shall it for thee this day,
    Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
    And death to the witch, for so it must
    Ever happen as ’twas decreed,
    For death is the pay for an evil deed!”

Now, the bridegroom and all friends had begged the bride to play the
flute as she walked in the wedding procession, and she did so, and it
seemed to her that it had never played so sweetly.  The stepmother was
looking on anxiously in the crowd, and when the bride was just coming to
the powder in the way, the wicked woman cried:

“Play louder—_louder_!”

The bride, to oblige everyone, blew hard, and a wind came from the pipe
which blew all the powder into the stepmother’s eyes and open mouth, and
in an instant she gave a cry of agony, and then rolled on the ground,
screaming:

“_Il polvore_!  I have swallowed the powder!”

And the flute played:

    “By thy mother I was slain;
    A fairy gave me life again.
    I was killed for jealousy,
    And all as false as false could be.
    Now thou art dead and I am free.”

And from that time the pipe played no more.  But the young lady married
the signore, and all went well with them.

And this was done by Virgil, who was ever benevolent.

                                * * * * *

The pipe, flute, or whistle, which fascinates all who hear it, is to be
found in the traditions of all races, from the story of Orpheus onward;
it even forms the plot of what is one of the prettiest tales of the
Algonkin Indians, {126} and one which is probably original with them.
What is also common to many is the conception of the one unjustly put to
death turned into a musical instrument, which by a song betrays the
murderer.  But what is peculiar to this story is the power of the pipe to
blow away enchantment and dissipate the witch-dust laid in the path.
This is a very ingenious addition to the conception of the music and
voice.

It is to be observed that sometimes rustic performers on the pipe, who
have chiefly learned their music in the woods from birds and Nature,
sometimes attain to a very fascinating and singular execution, quite
unlike that which is heard from the most cultivated and artistic
musicians.  The celebrated Dr. Justinus Kerner, whom I have heard play,
could produce on the Jew’s-harp such results as would be deemed
incredible.  It struck me as an extraordinary expression of will and
character beyond all teaching or imitation.

There are also many learned writers on music who are not aware that the
human throat or voice is capable of producing sounds which are not, so to
speak, _vocal_, but like those of the musical-box and several
wind-instruments.  This accomplishment is common among the blacks of the
Southern States, and the performances, as I can bear witness, are most
extraordinary and amazing.  I once mistook the playing of two coloured
boys in Nashville for the sound of a somewhat distant hand-organ.  Even
the twang of the banjo is thus rendered with startling accuracy.  It is
also true that reed-pipes can be made which, by combining the voice and
blowing (as with the _mirliton_), give results which are very little
known, but which probably suggested this and other tales in which the
flute or pipe speaks.  There are not many people who know the bull-roarer
save as a boy’s toy—that is to say, a mere flat bit of wood whirled round
at the end of a cord—but by modification and combination, this or several
of them produce sounds like those of an organ; and when heard by night at
a distance, the effect is such as to fairly awe those who are ignorant of
its cause.  Finally, there is the application by a tube of air to the
Æolian harp, etc., so as to produce tunes, which is very remarkable, and
as little known as the rest—albeit, a traveller, who found something of
the kind among the heathen, avowed his belief that something might be
made of it.  If people would only find out what resources they all have
within themselves, or in very cheap and easily-made instruments, there
might be far more music or art in the world than there now is.  On which
subject the reader may consult a book, written by me, and entitled “The
Cheapest Musical Instruments,” etc., now being published by Whittaker and
Co., 2, White Hart Street, London.




LA BEGHINA DI AREZZO, OR VIRGIL AND THE SORCERESS.


    Beauty, when blent with wickedness,
    Ne’er yet did faile to bring distresse,
    A lovely thing that is an evil
    Is the own daughter of the devil;
    And what was wicked from the first
    Unto the ende will be accurst,
    And sow, I trow, full sinfull seede,
    As ye may in this story reade!

Once upon a time there was in Arezzo a young woman of rare beauty, though
of base condition.  This girl showed from her earliest years a very
strong character, great and varied talents or gifts, and the outward
appearance, at least, of great piety and morality, so that she was always
in church or absorbed in thought, which passed for pious meditation,
while she never missed early Mass on a single morning.

It came to pass that a young gentleman who was rich, handsome, clever,
and of good family, fell in love with her and offered marriage, but this
she refused, to the amazement of all, especially her parents.  But the
girl declared that her disposition to religion made marriage
objectionable to her; and indeed at this time she so devoted herself to
devotion that she hardly found time to eat.  Yet as she did not become a
nun, the Aretini, or people of Arezzo, called her the Beghina (Beguine),
or Sister of Charity.  Yet in doing all this she had ideas of her own, or
more fish in her net than the world was aware of, for the peasants for
her services and prayers, regarding her as a saint who could work
miracles, because she indeed effected many strange things which seemed to
them to be Divine, brought her many gifts, including money, all of which
she declared would be devoted in future to the Madonna, regarding all
which she had a great work in view.

At last her reputation for sanctity spread over all the country, and it
was greatly increased when it was reported that so poor a girl had
refused to marry a rich young gentleman, so that she was visited by the
nobility, among whom she acquired great influence.  And as she declared
that it was her ambition to build a small church, and with it a home for
herself, they, hoping that this would bring many pilgrims and greatly
benefit the town, at last offered her thirty thousand crowns wherewith to
carry out her pious purposes, which she with thanks and tears gratefully
accepted.

The first thing which she did, however, was to build for herself a house,
for which there was (secretly) constructed a long subterranean passage
which led out to the river.  Then she left her parents, saying that for
the present she must lead a life of devotion in absolute seclusion.  Then
it was observed that from time to time young gentlemen were missing, and
more than once their bodies were found floating in the river below the
house of La Beghina, yet so great was her reputation for sanctity that no
one connected their loss with her name.

So years passed by.  But there was one who put no faith in her piety, and
this was the signore whom she had refused, and with whom love for her had
been succeeded by a bitter love of revenge, and by constant observation
and inquiry he found out several things which greatly confirmed his
suspicions.  The first of these was the discovery of the bodies in the
river; and being resolved to find out all the secrets of her house, he
visited the mason who had built it, saying that he wished to erect a
mansion for himself, and as he greatly admired that of La Beghina, would
like to have one exactly like it.  To which the old man replied that he
was willing, but as every person who built a house kept certain details a
secret to secure the safety of persons or property in certain
emergencies, he must be excused if he withheld certain particulars.  But
the young signore replied that he had set his heart on having just such a
house in every respect; that he himself wished to conceal all secrets,
and, finally, that he would pay a round sum extra to have his desire
fulfilled.  This was an argument which the mason could not resist, and so
explained to his patron every detail of the building, which made more
than one mystery clear to him.  And having learned the secret of the
underground passage which led to the river, he began to watch it by night
with great care; and found that the exit by the river was by a stone
door, which was so artfully concealed in a rock by bushes that it was
hardly perceptible.

One night, when it was very dark, the Signore Primo, for such was his
name, being on the watch, heard a noise and saw the door open.  Then
there appeared the Beghina, bearing or dragging a long package or
bundle—_un involto_—which she let fall into the flood.  And at this sight
the signore could not restrain a cry of rage, understanding it all,
whereat La Beghina fled in terror into the passage, leaving the door
unfastened behind her.  But the young man, unheeding her, cast himself
headlong into the river after the bundle, which he succeeded in bringing
to land, and on opening it found the body of a young gentleman of his
acquaintance, who was not, however, quite dead, as he had been merely
heavily drugged, and who with care was restored to life.  And truly he
had a strange tale to tell, how he had been inveigled mysteriously and
blindfolded, and introduced to some unknown house where there was a
handsome woman, who, after he had made love with her, drugged and robbed
him, after which he became unconscious.

The Signore Primo conveyed his friend to his own home, and after caring
for his comfort and earnestly recommending him to keep the whole matter a
secret, went back to the stone door, and finding it open, and having
already learned how the house was built, he entered, and concealed
himself where he could watch the mistress.

Early in the morning there came an elderly lady, who with many tears and
in great emotion told the Beghina that she had a son gone to the war, and
was in great fear lest he should be slain, and that she had prayed to the
Virgin that he might return safe and sound; and that if the Beghina by
her piety would bring this to pass, she would at once give her fifty gold
crowns, and a very much larger sum in case her son should come to her
again soon and well.  To which La Beghina replied that she could go home
with a happy heart, for in a few days she should have her son with her.
So the lady departed.

Then the Beghina went into a secret room [but the Signore Primo continued
to follow and observe her] and taking a pack of cards and a chain, she
threw them against the wall and beat on the ground, saying:

    “Diavoli tutti che siete nell’ inferno!
    Scatenatevi, e damme portatevi,
    Un comando
    Vi voglio dare
    Fino alla cittá
    Dov’é la guerra dovete andare,
    E salvare
    Il figlio della signora;
    Che pochanzi damme e venuta
    E portatelo subito a casa sua,
    In carne anima ed ossa,
    Se questa grazia mi farete
    L’anima di quel giovane l’avrete!”

    “All ye devils who are in hell,
    Loosen your chains, and come at once to me!
    I give you a command—
    Go to the city where the war is waged,
    And save the life of the son
    Of the lady who came to me of late,
    And bear him quickly to her in her home!
    Bear him in flesh, soul and bones!
    If ye do me this favour,
    Ye shall have the soul of that youth!”

And when this was sung many devils appeared and saluted her as a queen.

The Signore Primo was indeed amazed and terrified, for now he realized
that the Beghina was worse than he had supposed, or a witch of the most
malignant kind.  But he left the place, and going to the lady, told her
all he had witnessed.  Then she in great terror fainted, and when
restored to life declared that, if anyone could save the soul of her son,
he should have all her fortune.

Then the Signore Primo told her that if anyone could defeat the evil
witch it was a great magician who by lucky chance was in Arezzo, and that
she should seek him forthwith.  This great magician was no other than
Virgil.  And as soon as the lady appeared, Virgil said:

“I know why thou art come.”

Then he led her to the form of an angel clad in a rose-coloured garb,
and, kneeling before it, said:

    “O tu angelo del paradiso!
    Ma benche puro e innocente sei stato
    In questa terra confinata
    Per salvare tua madre de suoi peccati,
    Ma anche nel altro mondo
    Ne fa sempre di peggio,
    E per questo sarai liberato te
    E confinata nel tuo posto,
    La compagna e complice
    Di tua madre la Beghina
    La Beghina di Arezzo.
    Vai tu angelo beato!
    Da l’angelo custode!
    E dilli che invochi
    Lo spirito che di la ha piu comando,
    E potenza di volere salvare
    L’anima di quel giovane,
    Che la Beghina le ha venduta
    E cosi tu tu sarai in pace!”

    “Oh, thou angel of Paradise!
    Yet who, though pure and ever innocent,
    Hast been enchanted on this earth
    (Confined in the form which thou wearest),
    To save thy mother for her sins;
    Yet even in another world
    She will ever be worse.
    Therefore thou shalt now be freed,
    And thy mother and her accomplice
    Be enchanted in thy place.
    The Beghina of Arezzo,
    Go, thou blessed angel,
    To the angel who guards thee!
    Bid him invoke the spirit who has most power
    To save the soul of that youth
    Whom the Beghina has sold;
    Thus shalt thou be in peace.”

At that instant there was heard a clap of thunder, the sound of a roaring
storm, and there fell down before them two human beings like two corpses,
yet not dead, and these were La Beghina and her companion witch.

Then there entered a grand sun-ray, which flashed in light upon the angel
whom Virgil had summoned.  And it said:

“The youth is saved, and whoever doeth good shall find good even in
another world.  Farewell; I too am saved!”

Then the Beghina and her companion began to spit fire and flame, and they
were condemned to wander for ever, without resting, from one town to
another, ever possessed with a mad desire to do evil, but without the
ability, for Virgil had taken the power from them.

                                * * * * *

This story seemed to me in the original, after more than one reading, so
confused and high-flown, that I was on the point of rejecting it, when a
friend who had also perused it persuaded me that, under all its dialectic
mis-spellings, barbarous divisions of words, and manifest omissions (as,
for instance, what became of the Sieur Buridan of the Italian Tour de
Nesle, who was so nearly drowned), there was a legend which was
manifestly the mangled version of a far better original.  Therefore I
have translated it very faithfully, and would specify that there was from
me no suggestion or hint of any kind, but that it is entirely of the
people.

Firstly, it may be observed that the long-continued,
deliberately-contrived hypocrisy of the Beghina, as well as the Red
Indian-like vindictiveness of the hero, is perfectly Italian or natural.
The construction of secret passages and hiding-places in buildings is
almost common even to-day.  The idea of a holy spirit who undergoes a
penance, _confinata_, or enchanted and imprisoned in a statue to redeem
her mother, is also finely conceived, as is the final statement that the
Beghina and her mysterious accomplice, who is so abruptly introduced, are
condemned to wander for ever, tormented with a desire to do evil which
they are unable to satisfy.

The Beghina is an incarnation of hypocrisy, deceit, lust and treachery.
The four symbols for these were the serpent, wren, chameleon, and
goose—the latter because a certain Athenian named Lampon was wont to
swear “by the goose!” and then break his oath.  Possibly the origin of
the saying “He is sound upon the goose” is derived from this.

But I sometimes think that to decide between tradition or borrowing and
independent creation is beyond the folklore of the present day.




THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW OF COLLE ALTO. {134}


    “And hence, O virgin mother mild,
    Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
    Not only from the dreary strife
    Of winter, but the storms of life,
    Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
    Our Lady of the Snow.”

                                      WORDSWORTH: _Tour on the Continent_.

Once in the olden time, in Colle Alto, the snow fell in one night many
yards in depth, and the people were astonished and frightened when they
awoke in the morning at beholding it spreading far and wide.  Many tried
to shovel it away, but were discouraged, because, as they removed it, as
much came in its place, so that at last they all remained at home, for no
one could pass through the snow, and they were afraid of being buried in
it.

But the poor, who had but scant provision in their homes, suffered from
hunger.  And among these was a good man to whom his five children
pitifully cried:

“_Babbo-il pane_!”—Papa, give us bread!

And he replied:

“My children weep, and I must risk my life to save them.”  And looking
out, he cried unthinkingly:

    “And yet the snow is very beautiful!
    O Spirit of the Snow—no mortal knows
    How beautiful thou art.  Be kind to us!”

As he said this there appeared before the window, and then among them, a
lady of marvellous beauty and dazzling brightness, all clad in white, who
said:

“What wilt thou have, since thou hast invoked me?”

“Lady,” replied the astonished peasant, “I know not who thou art, nor did
I call thee!”

“Yes; in thy speech thou didst pronounce my name in invocation, and to
those who do that, and deserve it, I give my aid.  Follow me!”

The poor man was surprised and bewildered, but he followed, while
trembling, the lady.

And she spoke in a voice which was heard in every house far and near in
Colle Alto:

“Let him who will come forth without fear, for this good man hath opened
unto you the way.  But it is only the poor who can do this, because,
while they have suffered and starved in their homes, not one of the rich
who dwell here have made any effort to relieve the suffering, therefore
none of them shall come forth till the snow is gone.”

Then all the poor folk found that they could walk upon the snow, {135}
which was a pleasure, but the gentlefolk could not stir a step out of
doors till it melted.  And it vexed them sorely to stand at their windows
and see women and children running merrily over the snow, so that some of
them cursed their wealth, and wished that they were of the poor and free.

For fifteen days not a flake of snow disappeared, and then all at once it
went away, and the poor, on opening their windows in the morning, found
the sun shining, and a warm breeze blowing, which was scented as with
roses, and the streets and roofs all as clean as if new.  Then all the
poor gathered every man a stone, and meeting in one place, they there
built a little church (_chiesina_), and called it the Chapel of the
Goddess of the Snow, and adored her as if she had been the Madonna or a
saint.

Then for some time, as usually happens, there was great enthusiasm—_vie
un gran fanatismo_—and then again all was gradually forgotten.  So with
the Goddess of the Snow: as years went by people talked about her less
and less, and she was even ridiculed by those who were of evil hearts and
souls, such as abuse and ill-treat their benefactors—as was shown by a
certain waggoner, who found himself one day many miles afar from any
house, when snow began to fall.  And with it he began to curse, so as to
shock even a sinner; whereupon it drifted round him so deeply that he
with his waggon could get no further.  And so he kept on blaspheming.
His poor starved horses looked at him with meaning, as if calling his
attention, and then cast their glances to the wall or a shrine, whereon
was depicted an image of the Goddess of the Snow, as if begging him to
notice or to appeal to it.  And the wretch beholding it, swore worse than
ever, saying that she was an accursed (witch).

He had not time to pronounce the word ere he sank down (into the snow),
so that only his head remained uncovered.  And his horses also were in
the same place, but a warm wind began to blow.  And so the man remained
fast, freezing and starving, for three days, but it did not make him
repent, and he swore more than ever.

Then, on the third day, Virgil, the great magician, passed by, and was
amazed at seeing the horses quietly feeding on grass in the warm
sunshine, while a pleasant breeze was blowing, and close by them a man
buried to his neck in the snow.  And being questioned, the waggoner
replied that he was thus buried for blaspheming the Goddess of the Snow.

Virgil asked him if he repented it.

“I will repent,” replied the waggoner, “when I see it proved by a
miracle—but in miracles I put no faith.”

“Well,” said Virgil, “pray to the goddess to pardon you.  Pray with me
thus:

    “‘Dea della neve che sei candida,
    E pura la sera a lume di Luna,
    Un bel lenzuola candida sembra
    Distesa sulla terra e sui tetti:
    Col sol sei splendida e rilucente:
    E vero ti sprezzai, ma non fu io
    Fu il diavolo che mia ha tentato.
    E spero da oggi non mi tentera più,
    Perche amo essere in grazia tua e come,
    Stella tu sei bella, sei bianca,
    Sei candida e pura e sei l’unica
    Che fra le Dee non faccia altro
    Che bene, e mai male, bella dea!
    O dea della Neve tu che sei
    L’unico mio pensiero, unica speme,
    Unica mia speranza—da ora avanti,
    Tutti e tutti miei pensieri
    Saranna a te rivolti—neppur da casa
    Mi partero prima di fare a te
    Una preghiera che possa spiegar
    Il mio pensier al dar farsi
    Partir o restar a te domandero,
    A te domandero che devo far.
    Tutto questo a te rivago
    E sempre rivolgero se tu mi perdonerai
    E questa grazia mi farai
    Che son pentito assai
    Di farmi sortir di qui
    Che tanto sofro—farmi sortir—
    Sano e salvo che io posso tornar
    In braccio alla mia famiglia!
    Che da tre sere mi chiamami desidera!’”

    “O Goddess of the Snow, who art so white
    And pure that in the evening, in the light
    Of the full moon, thou seem’st to be
    A fair bright sheet spread over earth and roofs
    (That all may sleep beneath it and in peace),
    But who art splendid with a ruddy glow
    In the using sunlight—it is very true
    That I did scorn thee, yet it was not I.
    For ’twas the devil in truth who tempted me,
    And who, I hope, will never tempt me more,
    Because I fain would be in thy good grace!
    O Star, thou art most beautiful and white,
    Candid and pure, because thou truly art
    Among the goddesses the only one
    Who only doest good, and by no chance
    Art sullied with aught evil—O most fair!
    O Goddess of the Snow, who art indeed
    My only thought, my only hope in life,
    My only trust from now till ever on!
    My all and every thought shall turn to thee
    Nor will I ever from my house depart
    Till I have offered thee a fervent prayer,
    In which I’ll lay before thee all my soul,
    And ask of thee what ’tis that I must do,
    And if I must remain or mend my way!
    All this do I repeat to thee again,
    And ever will repeat if thou wilt but
    Pardon my sin and grant to me the grace,
    Having repented from my very heart,
    To draw me from this place of suffering,
    That safe and sound I may return again
    Unto the embraces of my family,
    Who for three nights have called to me in vain!”

He had hardly ended this invocation before a voice replied:

    “Alzati e cammina e porta con te
    Anche i tuoi animali ma non bestemmiare
    Mai più, perche questaltra voltra
    Sprafonderesti nell’ abisso dove
    Gnenti (niente) più bastarrebbe per levarti
    Dall’ inferno.” . . .

    “Rise and depart, and take away with thee
    Thy beasts in peace, but never more blaspheme,
    Because another time thou’lt sink so deep
    To the abyss that nothing will avail
    To draw thee out, for thou wilt fall to hell!”

Then the waggoner took his horses and rode home at double-quick speed.
He related to all what had happened, and the chapel was again restored
with the image of the goddess.  But even among the experienced
(_conoscenti_) none could tell him [for a long time] who was the one who
had taught him what to do.  But it was at last made known to them that it
was the great magician and the great poet Virgil, because the Goddess of
the Snow and Virgil are good spirits. {138}

So this waggoner, from being evil became so good that one could not find
his equal.

                                * * * * *

Our Lady of the Snow, or Maria vom Schnee, is one of the more familiar
avatars of the Madonna all over Middle and Northern Italy and Germany,
including Austria and Switzerland.  One of the commonest halfpenny or
_soldo_ pamphlets sold at corners in Florence is devoted to her.  A very
famous Madonna of the Snow is that of Laveno, to whom there is a special
festival.  Wordsworth has devoted a poem to her.

In the legend which I have given the general resemblance of the whole to
the Madonna tales, as in the building a chapel, the threat of hell, and
the punishment for profanity, suggest that it is borrowed from a Catholic
source.  This I doubt, for several reasons.  It is of the witch witchy,
and heathen, as shown by calling the lady a goddess, and especially by
the long _scongiurazione_ or evocations in which the sorcerer takes such
delight that for him they form the solid portion of the whole, possibly
because they are, if not actually prohibited, at least secret things,
cryptic or of esoteric lore.  Now, be it noted that wherever, as regards
other legends, as in that of the Madonna del Fuoco, given in my
“Etrusco-Roman Legends,” the witch claims that her tradition has been
borrowed by the priests, she is probably in the right.  But what gives
colour to the opinion that this Madonna is of heathen origin is the fact
that in the Old German mythology, as Friedrich declares, there is a deity
known as Lady Holde, Holle, or Hilda (who may be again found in the
Christian Maria), who is a kind and friendly being.  She was the Goddess
of the Snow, hence it is commonly said when it snows that Lady Holde is
making her bed and shaking out the feathers.  As there is no German
supernatural character, especially in the fairy mythology, which does not
exist in Northern Italy, it would be very remarkable indeed if such a
widely known and popular spirit as the Lady of the Snow had not been
known there long before the Christian Madonna.  I would add that this is
purely and literally a legend of the people, not asked for by me, and not
the result of any inquiry or suggestion.

The Madonna della Neve is especially honoured at Laveno, where there is
an annual procession in her honour.  I am indebted to the kindness of the
Rev. Arthur Mangles, who knew that I was interested in the subject, for
the following, translated by him from some small local book there
published:




THE LEGEND OF LA MADONNA DELLA NEVE.


In the fourth century there lived in Rome two devout people, husband and
wife, who, having no children, prayed to the Virgin that she would
indicate to them the best way in which to leave their money.

On the night of the fifth of August, A.D. 352, the Virgin appeared to
them and told them to build a church upon the summit of the Esquiline
Hill, in Rome, exactly upon the area then covered with snow.

The Pope had the same vision of the Virgin, with the same communication
as that of the husband and wife.  Therefore he sent to the place
indicated a messenger, accompanied by many priests, who found the snow.

The husband and wife forthwith built a handsome church upon the spot.

The church, which is now on the same hill, and on the foundation of the
early edifice, is that of Santa Maria Maggiore.

                                * * * * *

Snow in August is rather a thin miracle whereon to found a legend, or a
church, but it may pass.  The one which I have translated seems to me to
have a greater air of antiquity, with its retribution and beautiful
Latin-like invocation to the Spirit of the Snow.




THE MAGICIAN VIRGIL; A LEGEND FROM THE SABINE.


The following tale was obtained by Miss Roma Lister from the vicinity of
Rome, and from an old woman who is learned in sorcery and incantations.
It begins with the note that, on February 8, 1897, it was taken down as
given, literally word for word, and I translate it accordingly verbatim.

                                * * * * *

There were a husband, a wizard, and his wife (who was a witch), who had a
beautiful daughter, and a house with a fine garden which was full of
broccoli—oh, the finest broccoli in the world!

And opposite to this, or overlooking the garden, dwelt two women, and one
of these was _incinta_, or with child, and she said to the other woman:

“_Comare_, {140} how I would like to have two broccoli from the
magician’s garden.  They’re so nice!”

“Yes, _comare_, but how to get them?  It would be dangerous!”

“_La cosa si farà_—it can be done, at midnight when the sorcerer is
asleep, by stealing a little.”

And so they did, for at midnight both went with a sack, climbed over the
iron gate, and, having filled their bag, went away. {141a}

In the morning the magician Virgilio went to his garden and found that
many broccoli were gone.  In a rage he ran to his wife, and said: “What’s
to be done?”

She replied: “This night we’ll set the cat on guard upon the gate.”

Which was done.  That evening, _fra il lusco e il brusco_, {141b} the one
said:

“Ah, gossip, this night it can’t be done.”

“And why not, my dear?”

“Why!  Because they’ve set a guard.”

“Guard!  An old cat, you mean.  Are you afraid of her?”

“Yes, because she mews when she sees something.”

“I say, I’ll tell you what to do.  Take a bit of meat, and when she opens
her mouth to mew, pitch it in.  That’ll keep her jaws quiet while we pick
the broccoli.”

And so it was done, and they got away with another bagful of broccoli.

In the morning the _mago_ Virgil found that he had been robbed again.  He
complained again to his wife, who said:

“Well, to-night we will put the dog on.”

Said and done.  But the dame at the window was on the watch.  And seeing
all, she said:

“No broccoli to-night, gossip.  This time they’ve put the dog to look
out.”

“Oh, bother the dog!  When he opens _his_ jaws to bark, I’ll pitch in a
good bit of hard cheese.  That’ll keep him quiet.”

Said and done again.  The next morning the magician found a still greater
disappearance of broccoli from his garden.

“The thing is becoming serious,” he said.  “To-night I will watch
myself.”

With that he went to his gate and remained there, looking closely at all
those who passed by.  So he said to the first:

“What is your trade?”

“I’m a carpenter.”

“Pass on,” replied the magician.  “You’re not the man I want.”

There came another.

“What’s your calling?”

“I’m a tailor.”

“Pass on—_non fate per me_” (you won’t do).

There came a baker.  He was not wanted.  But the next was a digger of
ditches and of graves—a _fossaruolo_—and the wizard cried:

“Bravo!  You’re my man!  Come with me; I want you to dig a pit in my
garden.”

So the poor man went, for he was as much frightened at the terrible face
and stature of the wizard as he was in hope of being paid.  And being
directed, he dug a hole nearly as deep as the magician was tall.

“Now,” said the master, “get some light sticks and cover over the pit
while I stand in it, and then strew some twigs and leaves over it, with a
few leaves to hide the top of my head.”

It was done, and there he stood covered.  The ditcher, or sexton, hurried
away, glad that he had dug this strange grave for another, and not for
himself.

Evening came, and the gossip looked out.

“Good!  There is not even a dog on guard.  Come, let us hurry!  This time
we will take all that remains of the broccoli.”

Said and done.  And when they had gathered the last plant, the gossip
cried:

“See what beautiful mushrooms!  Let us pick them.”

She had seen the two ears of the sorcerer, which peeped out uncovered.
So she took hold of one and pulled.

“It will not come out!” she cried.  “Do thou pull at one, while I draw at
this.”

Each pulled, when the magician raised his awful face and glared at them.
_E sorte fuori la terribile testa del mago_!

“Now you shall die for robbing me!” he exclaimed.

They were in a fine fright.  At last Virgil said:

“I will spare thy life, if thou wilt give me all thou bearest—all within
thee.”

She consented, and they departed.  After a time she became a mother, and
the magician came and demanded the child.  And as she had promised it,
she consented to give it to him, but begged that it might be left to her
for a time.

“I will give it to thee for seven years,” he replied.  Saying this, he
left her in peace for a long time.  So the child, which was a boy, was
born, and as he grew older was sent every day to school.

One morning the magician met him, and said: “Tell thy mother to remember
her promise.”  Then he gave the child some sweets, and left him.  When at
home the boy said:

“Mamma, a gentleman met me to-day at the door of the school, and said to
me that I should tell you to remember your promise.  Then he gave me some
comfits.”

The poor mother was in a great fright.

“Tell him, when you next meet him,” she answered, “that you forgot to
give his message to me.”

The next day the boy met the magician, and said to him that he had
forgotten all about it, and told his mother nothing.

“Very well, tell her this evening, and be sure to remember.”

The mother heard this, and bade him tell the sorcerer the same thing
again.

When he met the magician Virgil again and told the same story, the latter
smiled, and said:

“It seems that thou hast a bad memory.  This time I will give thee
something by which to remember me.  Give me thy hand.”

The boy gave his hand; the magician bit into one finger, and as the child
screamed, he said: “This time thou wilt remember.”  The boy ran yelling
home.

“See what has happened to me, _brutta mammacia_—you naughty mamma—because
I did what you bade, and told the gentleman that I forgot.”

The poor woman, hearing herself called _brutta mammacia_, {143} was
overcome with grief and shame, and said, “_Vai bene_—I will tell him
myself.”  So the next day she took the child and gave him to the
magician, who led him to his home.

But when his wife, the witch, beheld the boy, she cried:

“Kill that child at once, for I read it in his face that he will be the
ruin of our daughter Marietta!”

But the magician declared that nothing would induce him to harm the boy,
so the little fellow remained, and was treated by the master like a son.
In due time he became a tall and handsome young man, and he was called
Antonuccio.  But the witch always said:

“We should kill and eat him, for he will be the ruin of our Marietta.”

At last the magician, weary of her complaints, said:

“_Bene_!  I will set him a task, and if he cannot accomplish it, that
same night shall he be slain.”

Now, Antonuccio, as he slept in the next room, had overheard all this.

The next morning the magician took the youth to a stable which was very
large and horribly filthy, such as no one had ever seen, and said:

“Now, Antonuccio, you must clean this stable out and out—_bene e
bene_—repave it on the ground, and whitewash all above it; and moreover,
when I speak, an echo shall answer me.” {144}

The poor youth went to work, but soon found that he could do next to
nothing.  So he sat down in despair.

At noon came Marietta, to bring him his lunch, and found him in tears.

“What’s the matter, Antonuccio?”

“If you knew that I am to be killed this evening—”

“What for?”

“Your father has said that unless I clean out the stable, and pave and
whitewash it to the echo—”

“Is that all?  _Sta allegro_—be of good cheer—I’ll attend to that.”

Marietta went home, and stealing in on tip-toe while the sorcerer slept,
softly carried away his magic wand, and with a few words cleaned out the
stable to the echo, and Antonuccio was delighted.

In the evening the magician came, and finding the stable clean as a new
pin, was much pleased, and kissed him and took him home.  The witch-wife
was furious at learning that the stable had been cleaned, and declared
that Marietta had done it, and ended by screaming for his life.  At last
the wizard said:

“To-morrow I will set him another task, and should he fail in that, he
shall surely die.”

The next morning he led the youth into a dense forest of mighty trees,
and said:

“Thou seest this wood?  In one day it must be all cut down and cleared
away to a clean field, in which must be growing all kinds of plants which
are to be found in the world.”

And Antonuccio began to hew with an axe, and worked well, but soon gave
up the task in despair.

At noon came Marietta with her basket.

“What, crying again!  What is the trouble to-day?”

“Only to clear away all this forest, make a clean field, and plant it
with all the herbs in the world.”

“Oh, well, eat your lunch, and I will see about it.  It is lucky that it
is not something difficult!”

She ran home, got a magic wand, and went to work.  Down the trees came
crashing—away they flew!  ’Twas a fine sight, upon my word!  And then up
sprouted all kinds of herbs and flowers, till there was the finest garden
in the world.

In the evening came the magician, and was well pleased at finding how
well Antonuccio had done the work.  But when his wife heard all, she
raged more than ever, declaring that it had all been done by Marietta,
who was destined to be ruined by the boy.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the wizard.  “If you will give me no peace, I
must put an end to this trouble.  I will give the boy nothing to do
to-morrow—he may remain idle—and in the evening I will chop off his head
with this axe.”

Antonuccio heard this speech as he had done the others, and this time was
in despair.  In the morning Marietta found him weeping.

“What is the matter, Antonuccio?”

“I am to do no work to-day, but this evening I am to have my head chopped
off.”

“Is that all?  Be of good cheer—_sta allegro_—I will see what can be
done.”

She put the pot on the fire to boil, and began to make the macaroni.
When she had cooked a great deal, they fed all the furniture, pots and
pans, chairs and tables, to please them, and induce them to be silent—all
except the hearth-brush, whom by oversight they forgot.

“And now,” said Marietta, “we must be off and away; it is time for us to
go!”

So away they ran.  After a while the wizard and his wife returned and
knocked at the door.  No answer.  They rapped and called, but got no
reply.  At last the hearth-brush cried:

“Who’s there?”

“Marietta, open the door—it is I.”

“I’m not Marietta.  She has run away with Antonuccio.  First they fed
everybody with ever so much macaroni, but gave me none.”

Then the witch cried to the wizard:

“Hurry—hasten—catch them if you can!”

The good man did as he was bid, and began to travel—travel far and fast.

All at once, while the lovers were on their way, Antonuccio turned his
head and saw afar their pursuer on a mountain-road, and cried:

“Marietta, I see your father coming.”

“Then, my dear, I will become a fair church and thou shalt be the fine
sexton (_sacristano_).  And he will ask thee if thou hast seen a girl and
youth pass, and thou shalt reply that he must first repeat the
Paternoster and not the Ave Maria.  And if he asks again, tell him to say
the Ave Maria and not the Paternoster.  And then, out of patience, he
will depart.”

So it came to pass, and the wizard was deceived.  When he had returned,
his wife asked him what he had seen.

“Nothing but a church and a sacristan.”

“Stupid that you are!  The church was Marietta—fly, fly and catch them!”

So he set forth again, and again he was seen from afar by Antonuccio.

“Marietta, I see your father coming.”

“Good.  Now I will become a beautiful garden, and thou the gardener.  And
when my father comes and asks if thou hast seen a couple pass, reply that
thou weedest lettuces, not broccoli.  And when he asks again, answer that
thou weedest broccoli, not lettuces.”

So it all came to pass, and the wizard, out of patience, returned home.

“Well, and what did you see?” inquired his wife.

“Only a garden and a gardener.”

“_Ahi—stupido_!  Those were the two.  Start!  This time I will go with
you!”

After a while Antonuccio saw the two following, and gaining on them
rapidly.

“Marietta, here come your father and mother.  Now we are in a nice mess.”
{147}

“Don’t be afraid.  Now I will become a fountain fair and broad, like a
small lake, and thou a pretty pigeon, to whom they will call; but for
mercy’s sake don’t let yourself be taken, for then all will be over with
us.”

The wizard and his wife came to the fountain and saw the dove, and tried
to inveigle and catch it with grain.  But it would not be caught, neither
could the witch quench her thirst with the water.  So, finding that both
were beyond her power, she cried in a rage:

    “When Antonuccio kisses his mother,
    He’ll forget Marietta and every other.”

So, when the parents were gone, the pair set forth again, till they came
to a place not far from where the mother of Antonuccio lived.

“I will go and see my mother,” he said.

“Do not go, for she will kiss thee, and thou wilt forget me,” replied
Marietta.

“But I will take good care that she does not kiss me,” answered
Antonuccio.  “Only wait a day.”

He went and saw his mother, and both were in great joy at meeting again,
but he implored her not to kiss him.  And being weary, he went to sleep,
and his mother, unheeding his request, kissed him while he slept.  And
when he awoke, Marietta was completely forgotten.

So the curse of the witch came to pass.  And he lived with his mother,
and in time fell in love with another girl.  Then they appointed a day
for their wedding.

Meanwhile, Marietta lived where she had been left, and made a fairy
friend who knew all that was going on far and near.  One day she told
Marietta that Antonuccio was to be married.

Marietta begged her to go and steal some dough (from the house of the
bride).  The friend did so, and Marietta made of the dough two cakes in
the form of puppets, or children, and one she called Antonuccio and the
other Marietta.

Then, on the day of the feast, the first day of the wedding, she begged
her friend to go and put the two puppets on the bridal table.

She did so, and when all were assembled, the puppet Marietta began to
speak:

    “Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
    How, when my father brought thee to his house,
    My mother wished to take away thy life?
    And how he bade thee sweep the stable clean?”

And the other replied:

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I remember the day.” {148}

Then Marietta sang:

    “Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
    How ’twas I aided thee to clear the field?”

He replied:

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I remember the day.”

She sang again:

    “Dost thou remember how thou hadst no work
    Upon the day when they would murder thee,
    And how we fled together to escape?”

He replied:

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I remember the day.”

Meanwhile the true Antonuccio, who was present, began to remember what
had taken place.  Then the puppet Marietta sang again:

    “Dost thou remember how I was the church,
    And thou of it becam’st the sacristan?”

He answered:

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I remember the day.”

    “Dost thou remember how I was a garden,
    And how thou didst become its gardener?”

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I now remember the day.”

    “Dost thou remember how I was a fountain,
    And thou a pigeon flying over it?”

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I now remember the day.”

    “Dost thou remember, Antonuccio,
    How ’twas my mother laid a curse on me,
    And how she said before she went away—
    When Antonuccio kisses his mother
    He’ll forget Marietta and every other?’”

    “Passing away, passing away,
    Well do I now remember the day.”

Then Antonuccio himself remembered it all, and rising from the table, ran
from the house to where Marietta dwelt—and married her.

                                * * * * *

This story, adds Miss Lister, is somewhat abbreviated, since in the
original the puppet Marietta, for the edification of all assembled,
repeats the whole story.

It will be at once observed that there is in all this no special
reference to Virgil as a character, as he appears in other legends, the
reason being that the old woman who narrated it simply understood by the
word Virgilio _any_ magician of any kind.  So in another tale a youth
exclaims, “Art thou what is called _a_ Virgil?”  This is curious as
indicating that the word has become generic in Italian folk-lore.  But
Virgil is even here, as elsewhere on the whole, a man of kind heart.  He
has had his garden robbed and his daughter stolen, but he displays at all
times a kindly feeling to Antonuccio.  It is his wife, the witch, who
shows all the spite.

Nor is this, like the rest, a witch-story which belongs entirely to
esoteric, unholy, or secret lore, specially embodying instruction and an
incantation.  It is a mere nursery legend, the commonest of Italian
fairy-tales, to be found in all collections in whole or in part.  It is
spread all over Europe, and has found its way through Canadian-French to
the Red Indians of North America—apropos of which I would remind a
certain very clever reviewer and learned folk-lorist that because many
French tales are found among the Algonkin tribes, it does not follow, as
he really intimates, that the said Redskins have no other traditions.

But even in this version there are classic traces.  The cleaning out of
the Augean stables by Hercules is one, and the spell of oblivion another.

I do not know what the origin may be of the head of the sorcerer rising
from the surface of the earth with ears like mushrooms, implying that
they were very large; but I find in an edition of the “Meditations of
Saint Augustin,” Venice, A.D. 1588, illustrated with rude, quaint
pictures, one in which the holy father is kneeling before a crucifix,
while there rises from the ground before him a great and terrible head
with one very long ear.  By it lies the usual skull, one-fifth its size.
Were two women substituted for the saint, it would be a perfect
illustration of the strange scene described in the story.  It is, to say
the least, a singular coincidence.

This story is therefore of some value as indicating that the general term
of sorcerer, magician or wizard, is used as a synonym for Virgil, or
_vice versâ_.  As Lucan writes in his “Pharsalia”: “Nec sua Virgilio
permisit nomina soli.” {150}

It is worth noting that there is in the Museum of Florence an Etruscan
mirror on which Mercury and Minerva are represented as looking at a human
head apparently coming from the ground.  It may be that of Orpheus lying
upon it; in any case, it is strangely suggestive of these tales.  I am
indebted for a tracing of this mirror to the Rev. J. Wood Brown, author
of the “Life of Michael Scott, the Magician and Philosopher,” wherein the
latter hath a dual affinity to Virgil, and it is very remarkable, as I
have elsewhere noted, that the splitting a hill into three is near Rome
ascribed to the Roman poet.

A curious book could be written on heads, decapitated, which have spoken.
There is, I believe, a legend to the effect that the caput of John the
Baptist thus conversed, and it may be that the New Testament only gives a
fragment of the original history.  The belief that Herodias was a
sorceress, and a counterpart of Diana as queen of the witches, was
generally established so early as the second century, but is far older,
the original Herodias having been a form of Lilith. {151}

It is specially to be noted in connection with this tale that one of the
older legends given in “Virgilius the Sorcerer of Rome” expressly
declares that

    “Virgilius made an iron head which could not only speak, but also
    foretell the future; and, as some say, it was by misinterpreting the
    oracle that Virgilius met his death in this wise.  Being about to
    undertake a journey, he asked the head if it would come to a good
    end.  The reply was: ‘Yes, if he took care of _his head_.’  Taking
    this to mean the oracle itself, Virgilius took every measure to
    secure it, and with light heart went his way, but while journeying,
    exposed to sunshine, he was seized with a fever in the head, of which
    he died.”

This is again like the death of Michael Scott.




VIRGIL, THE WICKED PRINCESS, AND THE IRON MAN.


    “An iron man who did on her attend,
    His name was Talus, made of yron mould,
    Immoveable, resistlesse—without end.”

                                        SPENSER: _Faerie Queene_, v. c. i.

There once lived a Princess who was beautiful beyond words, but wicked
beyond belief; her whole soul was given to murder and licentiousness; yet
she was so crafty as to escape all suspicion, and this pleased her best
of all, for deceit was to her as dear as life itself.  And this she
managed, as many another did in those days, by inveigling through her
agents handsome young men into her palace by night, where they were
invited to a banquet and then to a bed, and all went gaily till the next
morning at breakfast, when the Princess gave her victim in wine or food a
terrible and rapid poison, after which the corpse was carried away
secretly by her servants to be thrown into the river, or hidden in some
secret vault; and thus it was the lady sinned in secret while she kept up
a white name before the world.

Now it came to pass that a young man, who was a great friend of Virgil,
was taken in the snare by this Princess, and put to death and no more
heard of, when the great poet by his magic art learned the whole truth.
Then for revenge or punishment he made a man of iron with golden locks,
very beautiful to behold as a man, with sympathetic, pleasing air, one
who conversed fluently and in a winning voice; and yet he was all of
iron, and the spirit who was conjured into him was one without pity or
mercy.

Then Virgil bade the Iron Man walk to and fro past the palace of the
Princess, and she, seeing him, was more pleased than she had ever been
before, and at once sent out a messenger, who invited him to enter by a
secret gate, which he did, and was warmly received, and treated with a
great display of love.  And in the morning at breakfast, as the Princess
hesitated to give him the deadly drink, for she had at last fallen madly
in love, he said:

“Well, where is the poison?  Don’t keep me waiting!  Quick, that I may
drink!”

And when she heard that she was indeed terrified, thinking, “This man
knows all my secret.”  But as she hesitated, he took the deadly cup and
drained it to the last drop.  “And now,” she thought, “I am saved.”  But
the Iron Man said with scorn:

“Do you call _that_ stuff poison?  Why, it would hardly kill a mouse.
Give me stronger, I say—stronger!  I live on poison, and the stronger it
is the better I like it.”

Hearing this, the Princess felt from head to foot as if her blood were
all turned to ice, for now she knew that she was lost, and her punishment
at hand.

“And now,” said the Iron Man, “since all the poisoning and treachery and
putting away of young gentlemen is at an end, you must come with me;” and
with this he took her under his left arm and went forth.

At her screams all her retainers came armed, and after them twenty
soldiers, but all were of no avail against such an enemy, whom they could
neither pierce with steel nor restrain by strength; and escaping with
her, he mounted a black steed, which a Moor was holding outside, and with
his victim flew over the land till they came to a dark and savage place
in the mountains.  And here he bore her into a vast cavern, where many
men were seated round a table, and as she looked she saw that they were
all the lovers whom she had put to death.  Then they all cried:

“_Ecco la nostra moglie_!  Behold our wife!  Behold our Drusiana!”

And another said:

“Let us give her to drink, and let us drink to her!”

And they gave her a full goblet, which she could not help swallowing, and
the wine was like fire, the fire of hell itself in all her veins.  The
men assembled round burst into laughter at seeing her suffering, and one
shouted:

    “Drink, Princess, drink!
    Thou feelest the same fire,
    Only in greater measure,
    Hotter, wilder and fiercer,
    Which thou didst feel before,
    When thy blood boiled with passion,
    And with love of secret murder;
    Then thou didst feel it a little,
    Now thou shalt feel it greatly;
    Once it ran drop by drop,
    Now in full goblets and frequent.”

Then another gave her a glass of wine which she could not help
swallowing, and it was cold, and her blood again grew cold as ice, and
she shivered in an agony of freezing.  And so it went on, everyone giving
her first the scalding hot wine and then the cold, while all sang in
chorus:

    “We give thee again in thy heart
    What thou didst give to us:
    The heat of love which burned in us,
    Burned in us and in thee,
    And the cold of desire when satisfied.
    Thou hadst no mercy on us:
    We have as little for thee.”

                                * * * * *

The connection of Virgil with the classic Talus, or Iron Man, and so many
other ancient legends, as shown in these which I have gathered, renders
the more striking the assertion that “after the sixteenth century the
Vergilian legends disappear, and become known only to scholars,” as
worded by E. F. M. Beneche in his translation of Comparetti’s work.  The
truth is, that as the age of credulity and mere marvels passed away among
the higher classes, the learned ceased to collect or take an interest in
heaping up “wonders upon wonders.”  But the people went on telling and
making tales about Virgil, just as they had always done.  And the full
proof that there was not a soul who for centuries took the least interest
in folklore or popular tradition in Central and Northern Italy is to be
found in the fact that, while such material _abounds_ in the English,
French, and especially German literature of later ages, there is hardly a
trace of it in a single Roman or Tuscan writer till of late years.  Even
at the present day there is small search or seeking in Northern Italy for
the rich treasures of old Roman tradition which still exist among the
people.




GIOVANNI DI BOLOGNA AND THE GOD MERCURY.


“Mercurium omnium Deorum antiquorum vigilantissimum ac maxime negotiis
implicatum, scribit Hesiodus in Theogonià.”—NATALIS COMITIS:
_Mythologia_, lib. v., 1616.

In the old times in Florence the Tuscans worshipped the idols of Jupiter,
and Bacchus, and Venus, and Mercury in their temples.  And sometimes
those gods when conjured {155a} came down to earth.

In those times there was in Florence {155b} a sculptor of Bologna named
Giovanni, the same who made the Diavolino in the Mercato Vecchio.  He was
tormented by the desire to make a statue of such beauty that there should
not be its like in all the world; and he, moreover, desired that this
statue should be as if living, one not stiff and fixed, but one like
Mercury, all activity, and he was so full of this thought that he had no
rest even by night, for a certain gentleman had said to him:

“All in vain dost thou intoxicate thyself by studying statues, saying,
‘This one is beautiful, that still more so; this sculptor—_é bravo_—has
talent, that even cleverer;’ but, after all, the best of their work is
motionless, and produces on me the effect of a corpse.  I should call him
a clever sculptor who could make a statue inspired with motion like a
living man—_che caminasse o magari saltasse_—who runs and hops, but not a
piece of marble merely carved.”

And this moved Giovanni to make a statue which should not have its equal
in the world.  And thinking of Mercury, the liveliest and quickest of all
the gods, who is ever flying like a falcon, he said:

    “If I could behold him,
    Though ’twere but for once,
    I should have the model
    Of a wondrous statue
    Inspired unto life!”

One evening Giovanni found himself in the Temple of Mercury, that which
is to-day called the Baptistery of Saint John [and there he found
Virgilio], to whom he said that he so greatly longed to see Mercury
living and in flight.

Virgilio replied:

“Go at midnight to the hill of Vallombrosa when the moon is full, and
call the fairy Bellaria, who will aid thee.”

Giovanni went to the hill and called to Bellaria, but she made no reply.
So he returned to Virgilio, who said:

“It is not enough to simply call to her, she must be _scongiurata_—called
by an incantation.”

Then Giovanni, having learned this, thus conjured her:

    “Stella lucente,
    Ed aria splendente,
    Col tuo splendor,
    Bell’ Aria infiamma
    Mercurio, e fa lo scendere
    In terra che io posso
    Levarne il modello!
    Tu che siei bella,
    Bella quanto buona,
    Fa mi questa grazia;
    Perche io sono molto,
    Molto infelice,
    Se non faro una statua
    Come il desiderio mio,
    Vedi Bellaria.
    Finquaseù in questo monte,
    Son venuto per potermi
    A te raccomandare;
    Tù prego non indugiare
    A far mi questa grazia,
    Perche sono infelice.”

    “Shining star!
    Resplendent glowing air, {156}
    With thy burning splendour,
    Bell’ Aria, inflame,
    Inspire great Mercury,
    Make him descend to earth
    That he may copied be.
    Thou who art beautiful,
    As beautiful as good,
    Grant me, I pray, this grace,
    For I am lost in grief
    Because I cannot make
    A statue as I wish.
    Behold, Bellaria!
    I’ve come unto this hill
    To beg this thing of thee!
    I pray thee grant my prayer,
    For I am suffering.”

Then Bellaria thus evoked Mercury:

    “Mercurio mio, bel Mercurio,
    Per quell’ acqua corrente,
    E cel (cielo) splendente,
    E tu risplendi, risplendi amor
    Di bellezza, e come il vento,
    Come il fulmine lesto siei,
    Io sono stata
    Scongiurata,
    Scongiurata pel mio splendor,
    Per infiammarti
    Del mio calor
    Che tu scenda in terra
    Che vié Giovanni
    Gian di Bologna,
    Primo scultore, vuol prendere da te
    Il modello,
    Ti prego di scendere
    Come un baleno
    Perche fino che non sarai sesato,
    Ne pure a me tornerebbe
    La mia pace perche
    Mi hanno scongiurata per te;
    Se questa grazia mi farai
    Non per me, ma per Giovanni,
    Tre segni mi darai—
    Lampo, tuono e fulmine
    Se questa grazi mi farai,
    I tre seguali mi darai!”

    “Mercury, beauteous God!
    By the rushing water!
    By the glowing heaven!
    As thou shinest, reflecting again
    Their beauty, and as the wind
    Or the lightning thou art fleet.
    Even so am I
    Conjured and compelled
    Even by mine own splendour
    To inspire, inflame
    Thee by mine own heat!
    That thou descend to earth,
    That Giovanni, born
    In Bologna, may
    As sculptor copy thee!
    I pray thee to descend,
    Even like lightning’s flash,
    Since till thou art measured,
    I shall not be in peace,
    Being myself invoked.
    If thou wilt grant this grace,
    Yet not for me but _Gian_,
    Accord to me three signs:
    The flash, the crash and bolt;
    Even as lightning comes,
    I pray thee grant me this!”

And in an instant there came all together in one the flash and roar and
thunderbolt, and Giovanni di Bologna beheld Mercury flying in the heaven,
and said:

    “E troppo leggiadro, troppo bello!
    Non posso dipingere una Stella
    Ne il vento, ne un balén,
    E finito la mia speranza.  Amen!”

    “Thou art too little and light, by far!
    I cannot paint a shining star,
    Nor the wild wind or lightning—then
    All hope is lost, ah me!  Amen!”

Then the beautiful Bellaria said:

“If thou canst not depict Mercury flying through the air, it may be that
thou canst make him passing over the waves, for then his speed is not so
great.”  [So she invoked Mercury again, and he was seen flitting over the
ocean.] {158}

But when Giovanni di Bologna beheld Mercury leaping from wave to wave
like a dolphin, he cried:

    “Bel Mercurio, sempre _vale_!
    Io non sono che un mortale,
    Io non posso tanto fare,
    Ne le tue grazzie combinare.”

    “Farewell, fair Mercury, all is o’er,
    I’m but a mortal and no more,
    I cannot give again thy face,
    And least of all thy wondrous grace.”

Bellaria said to him:

“Thou hast asked too much; it is not possible for thee to make fire and
water to the life.  Yet be at ease, for what may not be done in water or
in air may come to pass with ease upon the earth.”

Bellaria again invoked Mercury, who descended like the wind in a leap,
even as a man leaps down and alights on earth.

Then Giovanni cried:

    “Grazia à Dio!
    Io ho l’ ideà!”

    “Thanks to God divine!
    The _idea_ is mine!”

And so Giovanni made the beautiful statue of Mercury in bronze; and so
long as the Tuscans worshipped their idols it was wont to dance, but
after they ceased this worship, it danced no more.  [At present, the
beautiful statue of Mercury in bronze is in the Bargello.]

It is said that Bellaria is the sister of Mercury, and that both fly in
the air.  When the _Fate_ or fairies, or good witches die, Bellaria
descends, and then bears their souls to heaven.

Mercury is the god of all people who are in haste, who have occasion to
go rapidly—as, for instance, those who wish to send a letter quickly and
receive a speedy reply.  To do this, you must have an image of Mercury
cast in bronze, and it must be made to shine like silver, with a bright
colour like a looking-glass; {159} and this should be worshipped before
going to bed, and on rising in the morning adore it again.  And to invoke
Mercury, this is the manner: You must have a basin full of water, taken
from a stream when agitated (_i.e._, running water), and in the evening,
as in the morning, take that basin and make a cross on the earth where
you kneel down, and then say:

    “Acqua corrente
    E vento furente,
    Avanti la statua di Mercurio
    Mi inghinnocchio, perche Mercurio,
    E il mio idole, Mercurio!
    E il mio dio;
    Acqua corrente
    E vento furente,
    Infuriate Mercurio
    A farmi questa grazia!”

    “Running water, raging wind!
    Before the form of Mercury I kneel,
    For Mercury is my idol and my god!
    Running water, raging wind,
    Inspire great Mercury
    To do what I desire!”

Then you shall pause and sing again:

    “Mercurio, Mercurio!
    Tu che siei il mio Dio!
    Fammi questa grazia
    Che io ti chiedo,
    Se questa grazia a me concedi
    Tre cose fammi vedere;
    Tuono, lampo e vento infuriato!”

    “Mercury, Mercury divine!
    Who ever art a god of mine!
    Grant me that which I do need,
    And if’t be given me indeed,
    Cause me then three things to see—
       The lightning’s flash,
       The thunder crash,
    And the wind roaring furiously!”

And where the water from the running stream has been poured it must be
carefully covered over, so that no one can tread thereon, or else from
that time the favour of Mercury will cease.

                                * * * * *

It would seem as if this story were originally intended to imply that the
sculptor, unable to give a higher conception of vivacity or motion,
represented the mobile god as in the moment of descending on earth, still
preserving the attitude of flight.  This conception was probably too
subtle for the narrator, who describes the image as having been a kind of
marionette, or dancing Jack.  “Whate’er it be, it is a curious tale.”

The connection of Mercury with moving water is also remarkable.  He bears
serpents on his _caduceus_ or wand; and among other ancient myth-fancies,
a rushing river, from its shape or windings and its apparent life, was a
symbol of a serpent.

It is hardly worth while to note that Giovanni di Bologna was really a
Frenchman—Jean de Boulogne.  The bronze Mercury by him described in this
story, and now in the Bargello Museum, is supposed to have suggested the
allusion to the god as

          “just alighted
    On a heaven-kissing hill,”

and the probability is indeed of the strongest.  Many judges good and
true are of the opinion that, as regards motive or conception, this is
the best statue ever made by any save a Greek, as there is assuredly none
in which the lightness of motion is so perfectly expressed in matter.  I
believe, however, that Giovanni di Bologna was indebted for this figure
to some earlier type or motive.  There is something not unlike it among
the old Etruscan small bronze _figurini_.




THE DOUBLE-FACED STATUE, OR HOW VIRGILIO CONJURED JANUS.


    “Now by two-headed Janus!
    Nature hath formed strange fellows in her time!”

                                                              SHAKESPEARE.

    “There were in Rome many temples of Janus, some unto him as
    _bifrons_, or double-faced.  Caylus has published pictures of Greek
    vases on which are seen two heads thus united, the one of an elderly
    man, the other of a young woman.”—_Dizionario Mitologico_.

There was once in Florence, in the Tower della Zeccha, a statue of great
antiquity, and it had only one body, or bust, but two heads; and one of
these was of a man and the other of a woman, a thing marvellous to
behold.

And Virgil, seeing this when it was first found in digging amid old
ruins, had it placed upright and said:

“Behold two beings who form but a single person!  I will conjure the
image; it shall be a charm to do good; it shall teach a lesson to all.”

Thus he conjured:

    “Statua da due faccie
    Due, e un corpo solo,
    Due faccie ed avete
    Un sol cervello.  Siete
    Due esseri l’ uno per altro,
    Dovete essere marito e moglie,
    Dovete peccare con un sol pensiero.

    “Avete bene quattro occhi
    Ma una sol vista,
    Come tutti i mariti,
    E moglie dorebbere essere,
    E dovete fare la buona fortuna
    Di tutti gli inamorati.”

    “Statue gifted with two faces,
    Two and yet a single body!
    Two and but one brain—then art thou
    Two intended for each other—
    Two who should be wife and husband,
    Acting by the same reflection.

    “Unto you four eyes are given,
    And but a single sight—ye are then
    What indeed all wives and husbands
    Ought to be if they’d be happy;
    Therefore shalt thou bring good fortune
    Unto all devoted lovers!”

Then Virgil touched the statue with his rod, and it replied:

    “Tutti quelli che mi pregherano.
    Di cuore sincera, amanti o sposi,
    Tutti quelli saranno felice!”

    “All of those who’ll come here to adore me,
    Be they lovers, be they married couples,
    I will ever make them truly happy.”

                                * * * * *

The conception of a head with two faces, one male and the other female,
is still very common in Italy.  In the cloister of Santa Maria Novella in
Florence the portraits of a husband and wife are thus united on a marble
monumental tablet.  And in Baveno, among the many _graffiti_ or sketches
and scrawls made by children on the walls on or near the church, there is
one which is evidently traditional, representing Janus.  This
double-headed deity was continued in the Baphomet of the Knights
Templars.

In the older legends are two tales declaring that Virgil made and
enchanted two statues.  This appears to be a variation of the story of
Janus.




VIRGIL AND HIS COURTIERS.


    “Virgilius also made a belfry.”—_The Wonderful History of Virgilius
    the Sorcerer of Rome_.

    “To be a crow and seem a swan,
    To look all truth, possessing none,
    To appear a saint by every act,
    And be a devil meanwhile at heart,
    To prove that black is white, in sooth,
    And cover up the false with truth;
    And be a living lie, in short—
    Such are the lives men lead at court.”

        _Old Italian saying cited by_ FRANCESCO PANICO _in his_ “_Poetiche
                                     Dicerie_” (1643); article, Courtiers.

    “Above all lying is the lie as practised by evil _courtiers_, it
    being falsehood _par excellence_.  For they are the arch architects,
    the cleverest of artists at forming lies, pre-eminent in cooking,
    seasoning, serving them with the honey of flattery or the vinegar of
    reproof.”—FRANCESCO PANICO (1643).

On a time Virgilio remained for many weeks alone at home, and never went
to court.  And during this retirement he made seven bells of gold, and on
every one there was engraved a name or word.

On the first there was “Bugiardo” (or lying), on the second “Chiacchiera”
(or tattling gossip), on the third “Malignità” (or evil spite), on the
fourth “Chalugna” (or calumny), on the fifth “Maldicenza” (or
vituperation), on the sixth “Invidia” (or envy), and on the seventh
“Bassezza” (or vileness).

And these he hung up in a draught of air, so that as they swung in the
breeze they rang and tinkled, first one alone, and then all.

One day the Emperor sent a messenger to Virgilio, asking him why he never
came to court as of old.  And Virgilio wrote in reply:

    “MY DEAR EMPEROR,

    “It is no longer necessary that I should come to court to learn all
    that is said there.  For where I am at home I hear all day long the
    voices of Falsehood, Tattling, Evil Spite, Calumny, Vituperation,
    Envy, and Vileness.”

And then he showed the bells to the messenger.  The Emperor, when he had
read the letter and heard all, laughed heartily, and said:

“So Virgilio keeps a court of his own!  Yes, and a finer one than mine,
for all his courtiers are clad in gold.”




VIRGIL AND THE THREE SHEPHERDS.
A LEGEND OF THE MONTE SYBILLA, NEAR ROME.


    “And, warrior, I could tell to thee
    The words which split Eildon Hill in three,
    And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone;
    But to speak them were a deadly sin,
    And for having but thought them my heart within
    A treble penance must be done.”—SCOTT.

Miss Roma Lister, when residing in Florence, having written to her old
nurse Maria, in Rome, asking her if she knew, or could find, any tales of
Virgil, received after a while the following letter, written out by her
son, who has evidently been well educated, to judge by his style and
admirable handwriting:

                                                “ROME, _January_ 28, 1897.

    “MIA BUONA SIGNORINA,

    “I have been seeking for some old person, a native of the Castelli
    Romani, who knew something relative to the magician Virgil, and I
    found in a street of the new quarters of Rome an old acquaintance, a
    man who is more than eighty years of age; and on asking him for what
    I wanted, he, after some reflection, recalled the following story:

    “‘I was a small boy when my parents told me that in the Montagna
    della Sibilla there was once an old man who was indeed so very old
    that the most ancient people had ever known him as appearing of the
    same age, and he was called the magician Virgilio.

    “‘One day three shepherds were in a cabin at the foot of the
    mountain, when the magician entered, and they were at first afraid of
    him, knowing his reputation.  But he calmed them by saying that he
    never did harm to anyone, and that he had come down from the mountain
    to beg a favour from them.

    “‘“There is,” he continued, “half-way up the mountain, a grotto, in
    which there is a great serpent which keeps me from entering.
    Therefore I beg you do me the kindness to capture it.”

    “‘The shepherds replied that they would do so, thinking that he
    wanted them to kill the snake, but he explained to them that he
    wished to have it taken in a very large bottle (_grandissimo
    boccione_) {165} by means of certain herbs which he had provided.

    “‘And the next day he came with the bottle and certain herbs which
    were strange to them, and certainly not grown in the country.  And he
    said:

    “‘“Go to the grotto, and lay the bottle down with its mouth towards
    the cavern, and when the serpent shall smell the herbs he will enter
    the bottle.  Then do ye close it quickly and bring it to me.  And all
    of this must be done without a word being spoken, else ye will meet
    with disaster.”

    “‘So the three shepherds went their way, and after a time came to the
    grotto, which they entered, and did as the magician had ordered.
    Then, after a quarter of an hour, the serpent, smelling the herbs,
    came forth and entered the bottle.  No sooner was he in it than one
    of the shepherds adroitly closed it, and cried unthinkingly:

    “‘“Now you’re caught!”

    “‘When all at once they felt the whole mountain shake, and heard an
    awful roar, and crashing timber round on every side, so that they
    fell on the ground half dead with fear.  When they came to their
    senses each one found himself on the summit of a mountain, and the
    three peaks were far apart.  It took them several days to return to
    their cabin, and all of them died a few days after.

    “‘From that time the magician Virgil was no more seen in the land.’

    “This is all which I could learn; should I hear more I will write at
    once to you.”

This is beyond question an imperfectly-told tale.  What the sorcerer
intended and effected was to divide a mountain into three peaks, as did
Michael Scott, of whom legends are still left in Italy, as the reader may
find by consulting the interesting work by the Rev. J. Wood Brown. {166}
In the Italian tale the three shepherds who were together find themselves
suddenly apart on the tops of three peaks, which clearly indicates the
real aim of the narrative.

An old Indian woman, widow of an Indian governor, told me, as a thing
unknown, that the three hills of Boston had been thus split by Glusgábe
or Glooscap, the great Algonkin god.  As this deity introduced culture to
North America, it will be at once perceived that there was something
truly _weirdly_, or strangely prophetic, in this act.  As Glooscap was
the first to lay out Boston—_à la Trinité_—he certainly ought to be
regarded as the patron saint of that cultured city, and have at least a
library, a lyceum, or a hotel named after him in the American Athens.
The coincidence is very singular—Rome and Boston!

Eildon Hill, by which, as I have heard, Andrew Lang was born, is one of
the picturesque places which attract legends and masters in folk-lore.
Of it I have a strange souvenir.  While in its vicinity I for three
nights saw in a dream the Fairy Queen, and the “vision” was remarkably
vivid, or so much so as to leave a strong or haunting impression on my
waking hours.  It was like a glimpse into elf-land.  Of course it was
simply the result of my recalling and thinking deeply on the legend of
“True Thomas,” but the dream was very pleasant and sympathetic.




THE GOLDEN PINE-CONE.


    “Quid sibi vult, illa _Pinus_, quàm semper statis diebus in deum
    matris intromittis sanctuarium?”—ARNOBIUS, i. 5.

There was once a young man named Constanzo, who was blessed, as they say,
in form and fortune, he being both fair in face and rich.  Now, whether
it was that what he had seen and learned of ladies at court had
displeased him, is not recorded or remembered, but one thing is certain,
that he had made up his mind to marry a poor girl, and so began to look
about among humble folk at the maids, which indeed pleased many of them
beyond belief, though it was taken ill by their parents, who had but
small faith in such attentions.

But the one whom it displeased most of all was the mother of Constanzo,
who, when he said that he would marry a poor girl, declared in a rage
that he should do nothing of the kind, because she would allow no such
person to come in the house.  To which he replied that as he was of age,
and the master, he would do as he pleased.  Then there were ill words,
for the mother had a bad temper and worse will, and had gone the worst
way to work, because of all things her son could least endure being
governed.  And she was the more enraged because her son had hitherto
always been docile and quiet, but she now found that she had driven him
up to a height which he had not before dreamed of occupying and where he
would now remain.  But she vowed vengeance in her heart, saying: “Marry
or not—this shall cost thee dear.  _Te lo farò pagare_!”

Many months passed, and no more was said, when one day the young
gentleman went to the chase with his friends, and impelled by some
strange influence, took a road and went afar into a part of the country
which was unknown to him.  At noon they dismounted to rest, when, being
very thirsty, Constanzo expressed a desire for water.

And just as he said it there came by a _contadina_, carrying two jars of
water, cold and dripping, fresh from a fountain.  And the young signor
having drunk, observed that the girl was of enchanting or dazzling
beauty, with a charming expression of innocence, which went to his heart.

“What is thy name?” he asked.

“Constanza,” the girl replied.

“And I am Constanzo,” he cried; “and as our names so our hearts shall
be—one made for the other!”

“But you are a rich lord, and I am a poor girl,” she slowly answered, “so
it can never be.”

But as both had loved at sight, and sincerely, it was soon arranged, and
the end was that the pair were married, and Constanza became a signora
and went to live in the castle with her lord.  His mother, who was more
his enemy than ever, and ten times that of his wife, made no sign of
anger, but professed love and devotion, expressing delight every day and
oftener that her son had chosen so fair a wife, and one so worthy of him.

It came to pass that Constanza was about to become a mother, and at this
time her husband was called to the wars, and that so far away that many
days must pass before he could send a letter to his home.  But his mother
showed herself so kind, though she had death and revenge at her heart,
that Constanzo was greatly relieved, and departed almost light of heart,
for he was a brave man, as well as good, and such people borrow no
trouble ere it is due.

But the old signora looked after him with bitterness, saying, “Thou shalt
pay me, and the hour is not far off.”  And when she saw his wife she
murmured:

    “Now revenge shall take its shape;
    Truly thou canst not escape;
    Be it death or be it dole,
    I will sting thee to the soul.”

Then when the hour came that the countess was to be confined, the old
woman told her that she herself alone would serve and attend to all—_e
che avrebbe fatto tutto da se_.  But going forth, she found a pine-tree
and took from it a cone, which she in secret set to boil in water,
singing to it:

    “Bolli, bolli!
    Senza posa.
    Che nel letto
    Vi é la sposa,
    Un fanciullo
    Alla luce mi dara,
    E una pina diventera!

    “Bolli, bolli!
    Mio decotto
    Bolli, bolli!
    Senza posa!
    Il profumo
    Che tu spandi,
    Si spanda
    In corpo alla
    Alla sposa e il figlio,
    Il figlio che fara
    Pina d’ oro diventera!”

    “Boil and boil,
    Rest defying!
    In the bed
    The wife is lying;
    Soon her babe
    The light will see,
    But a pine-cone
    It shall be!

    “Boil and boil,
    And well digest!
    Boil and boil,
    And never rest!
    May the perfume
    Which you spread
    Thrill the body
    To the head,
    And the child
    Which we shall see,
    A golden pine-cone
    Let it be!”

And soon the countess gave birth to a beautiful daughter with golden
hair, but the old woman promptly took the little one and bathed it in the
water in which she had boiled the pine-cone, whereupon it became a golden
pine-cone, and the poor mother was made to believe that this was her
first-born; and the same was written to the father, who replied to his
wife that, whatever might happen, he would ever remain as he had been.

The mother-in-law took the pine-cone and placed it on a mantelpiece, as
such curious or odd things are generally disposed of.  And when her son
returned she contrived in so many ways and with craft to calumniate his
wife that the poor lady was ere long imprisoned in a tower.

But a strange thing now happened, for every night the pine-cone, unseen
by all, left like a living thing its place on the chimney-piece and
wandered over the castle, returning at five o’clock to its place, but
ever going just below the lady’s window, where it sang:

    “O cara madre mia!
    Luce degli occhi miei!
    Cessa quel pianto,
    E non farmi più soffrir!”

    “O mother, darling mother,
    Light of my eyes, I pray
    That thou wilt cease thy weeping,
    So mine may pass away.”

Yet, after he had shut his wife up in the tower, Constanzo had not an
instant’s peace of mind.  Therefore, to be assured, he one day went to
consult the great magician Virgil.  And having told all that had
happened, the wise man said:

“Thou hast imprisoned thy wife, she who is pure and true, in a tower, and
all on the lying words and slanders of that vile witch your mother.  And
thou hast suffered bitterly, and well deserved it, as all do who are weak
enough to believe evil reports of a single witness; for who is there who
may not lie, especially among women, when they are jealous and full of
revenge?  Now do thou set free thy wife (and bid her come to me and I
will teach her what to do).”

So the count obeyed.

Then the mother took the pine-cone and threw it up three times into the
air, singing:

    “Pina, mia bella pina!
    Dei pini tu sei regina!
    Dei pini sei prottetrice,
    D’ un pino pianta la radice!
    E torna una fanciulla bella
       Come un occhio
       Di sole in braccio
       A tuo padre
       Ed a tua madre!

    “Pine, the fairest ever seen,
    Of all cones thou art the queen!
    Guarding them in sun or shade,
    And ’tis granted that, when planted,
    Thou shalt be a charming maid,
    Ever sweet and ever true
    To thy sire and mother too.”

And this was done, and the cone forthwith grew up a fair maid, who was
the joy of her parents’ life.  But the people in a rage seized on the old
witch, who was covered with a coat of pitch and burned alive in the
public square.

                                * * * * *

This legend was gathered in and sent to me from Siena.  As a narrative it
is a fairy-tale of the most commonplace description, its incidents being
found in many others.  But so far as the pine-cone is concerned it is of
great originality, and retains remarkable relics of old Latin lore.  The
pine-tree was a favourite of Cybele, and it was consecrated to Silvanus,
who is still known and has a cult in the mountains of the Romagna
Toscana.  This rural deity often bore a pine-cone in his hand.
Propertius also assigns the pine to Pan.  The cone was pre-eminently a
phallic emblem, therefore specially holy; in this sense it was placed on
the staff borne by the specially initiated to Bacchus.  It was incredibly
popular as an amulet, on account of its supposed magical virtues,
therefore no one object is more frequently produced in ancient art.  A
modern writer, observing this, and not being able to account for it, very
feebly attributes it to the fact that the object is so common that it is
naturally used for a model.  “Artists,” he says, “in fact prefer to use
what comes ready to hand, and to copy such plants as are ever under their
eye.”  So writes the great dilettante Caylus, forgetting that a thousand
objects quite as suitable to decoration as the pine-cone, and quite as
common, were not used at all.

The pine typified a new birth, according to Friedrich; this was because
it was evergreen, and therefore sacred as immortal to Cybele.  Thus Ovid
(“Metamorphoses,” x. 103) writes, “_Pinus grata deum matri_.”  The French
Layard, in the new “Annales de l’Institut Archæologique,” vol. xix., has
emphatically indicated the connection of the pine-cone with the cult of
Venus, and as a reproductive symbol.  It is in this sense clearly set
forth in the Italian or Sienese legend, where the pine-cone planted in
the earth grows up as the girl with golden locks.  This is very probably
indeed the relic of an old Roman mythical tale or poem.

The golden pine-cone appears in other tales.  Wolf (“Zeitschrift für
deutsche Mythologie,” vol. i., p. 297) says that in Franconia there were
once three travelling _Handwerksburschen_, or craftsmen, who met with a
beautiful lady, who when asked for alms gave to each a pine-cone from a
tree.  Two of them threw the gifts away, but the third found his changed
to solid gold.  In order to make an amulet which is kept in the house,
pine-cones are often gilded in Italy.  I have seen them here in Florence,
and very pretty ornaments they make.




VIRGIL’S MAGIC LOOM.


    “I heard a loom at work, and thus it spoke,
    As though its clatter like a metre woke,
    And echoed in my mind like an old song,
    Rising while growing dimmer e’en like smoke.

    “And thus it spoke, ‘God is a loom like me,
    His chiefest weaving is Humanity,
    And man and woman are the warp and woof,
    Which make a mingling light of mystery.’”

                                                      _The Loom_: C. G. L.

Gega was a girl of fifteen years of age, and without parents or friends,
with nothing in the world but eyes to weep and arms to work.  Yet she had
this luck, that an old woman who was a fellow-lodger in the place where
she lived, {172} moved by compassion, took the girl to live with her,
though all she had was a very small room, in which was a poor bed and a
little loom, so crazy-looking and old that it seemed impossible to work
with it.

Nunzia, {173} for such was the old woman’s name, took Gega indeed as a
daughter, and taught her to weave, which was a good trade in those days,
and in that place where few practised it.  So it came to pass that they
made money, which was laid by.  [This was no great wonder, for the old
loom had a strange enchantment in it, by which marvellous work could be
produced.]

The old woman very often bade Gega take great care of the loom, and the
girl could not understand why Nunzia thought so much of it, since it
seemed to her to be like any other.  [For it never appeared strange to
her that when she wove the cloth seemed to almost come of itself—a great
deal for a little thread—and that its quality or kind improved as she
applied herself to work, for in her ignorance she believed that this was
the way with all weaving.]

At last the old Mamma Nunzia died, and Gega, left alone, began to make
acquaintances and friends with other girls who came to visit her.  Among
these was one named Ermelinda, who was at heart as treacherous and
rapacious as she was shrewd, yet one withal who, what with her beauty and
deceitful airs, knew how to flatter and persuade to perfection, so that
she could make a simple girl like Gega believe that the moon was a pewter
plate, or a black fly white.

Now, the first time that she and several others, who were all weavers,
saw Gega at work, they were greatly amazed, for the cloth seemed to come
of itself from a wretched old loom which appeared to be incapable of
making anything, and it was so fine and even, and had such a gloss that
it looked like silk.

“How wonderful!  One would say it was silk!” cried a girl.

“Oh, I can make silk when I try,” answered Gega; and applying her will to
it, she presently spun from cotton-thread a yard of what was certainly
real silk stuff.

And seeing this, all present declared that Gega must be a witch.

“Nonsense,” she replied; “you could all do it if you tried as I do.  As
for being a witch, it is Ermelinda and not I who should be so, for she
first said it was like silk, and made it so.”

Then Ermelinda saw that there was magic in the loom, of which Gega knew
nothing, so she resolved to do all in her power to obtain it.  And this
she effected firstly by flattery, and giving the innocent girl
extravagant ideas of her beauty, assuring her that she had an
attractiveness which could not fail to win her a noble husband, and that,
having laid by a large sum of money, she should live on it in style till
married, and that in any case she could go back to her weaving.  But that
on which she laid most stress was that Gega should leave her old lodging
and get rid of her dirty old furniture, and especially of that horrible,
crazy old loom, persuading her that, if she ever should have occasion to
weave again, she, with her talent, could do far better with a new loom,
and probably gain thrice as much, all of which the simple girl believed,
and so let her false friend dispose of everything, in doing which
Ermelinda did not fail to keep the loom herself, declaring that nobody
would buy it.

“Now,” said the latter, “I am content.  Thou art very beautiful; all that
thou needest is to be elegantly dressed, and have fine things about thee,
to soon catch a fine husband.”

Gega assented to this, but was loth to part with her old loom, which she
had promised Nunzia should never be neglected; but Ermelinda promised so
faithfully to keep it carefully for her, that she was persuaded to let
her have it.  Then the young girl took a fine apartment, well furnished,
and bought herself beautiful clothes, and, guided by her false friend,
began to go to entertainments and make fashionable friends, and live as
if she were rich.

Then Ermelinda, having obtained the old loom, went to work with it, in
full hope that she too could spin silk out of cotton, but found out to
her amazement and rage that she could do nothing of the kind—nay, she
could not so much as weave common cloth from it; all that she got after
hours of fruitless effort was a headache, and the conviction that she had
thrown away all her time and trouble, which made her hate Gega all the
more.

Meanwhile the latter for a time enjoyed life as she had never done
before; but though she looked anxiously to the right and the left for a
husband, found none, the well-to-do young men being quite as anxious to
wed wealth as she was, and all of them soon discovered on inquiry that
she had little or nothing, despite her style of living, and her money
rapidly melted away, till at last she found that to live she must
work—there was no help for it.  With what remained she bought a fine loom
and thread, and sat down to weave; but though she succeeded in making
common stuff like others, it was not silk, nor anything like it, nor was
there anyone who would buy what she made.  In despair she remembered what
Mamma Nunzia had solemnly said to her, that she must never part from the
old loom, so she went to Ermelinda to reclaim it.  But her false friend,
although she could do nothing with the loom herself, was not willing that
Gega, whom she hated with all her heart, should in any way profit, and
declared that her mother had broken up and burned the rubbishy old thing,
and to this story she adhered, and when Gega insisted on proof of it,
drove her in a rage out of the house.

While Mamma Nunzia was living she, being a very wise woman, had taught
Gega with care the properties and nature of plants, roots, herbs, and
flowers, saying that some day it might be of value to her, as it is to
everyone.  So whenever they had a holiday they had gone into the fields
and woods, where the girl became so expert that she could have taught
many a doctor very strange secrets; and withal, the Mamma also made her
learn the charms and incantations which increase the power of the plants.
So now, having come to her last coin, and finding there was some profit
in it, she began to gather herbs for medicine, which she sold to chemists
and others in the towns.  And finding a deserted old tower in a wild and
rocky place, she was allowed to make it her home; and indeed, after all
she had gone through, and her disappointment both as to friends and
lovers, she found herself far happier when alone than when in a town,
where she was ashamed to meet people who had known her when she lived in
style.

One evening as she was returning home she heard a groaning in the woods
as of someone in great suffering, and, guided by the sound, found a poor
old woman seated on a stone, who told her that she had hurt her leg by
slipping from a rock.  And Gega, who was as strong as she was kind and
compassionate, carried the poor soul in her arms to the tower, where she
bound an application of healing herbs to the wound, and bade her remain
and welcome.

“I have nothing to give you for it all,” said the old woman on the
following day.

“Nor did I do it in the hope of aught,” replied Gega.

“And yet,” said the sufferer, “I might be of use to you.  If, for
example, you have lost anything, I can tell you how to recover it or
where it is.”

“Ah!” cried Gega, “if thou canst do that, thou wilt be a friend indeed,
for I have lost my fortune—it was a loom which was left to me by Mamma
Nunzia.  I did not regard her advice never to part with it, and I have
bitterly repented my folly.  I trusted it to a friend, who betrayed me,
for she burned it.”

“No, my dear, she did nothing of the kind,” replied the old woman; “she
has it yet, and I will make it return to thee.”

Then she repeated this invocation:

    “Telaio!  Telaio!  Telaio!
    Che per opera e virtú
    Del gran mago Virgilio
    Fosti fabricato,
    E di tante virtù adornato
    Ti prego per opera e virtu
    Del gran mago Virgilio
    Tu possa di una tela
    Di oro di argento
    Essere ordito.
    E come il vento,
    Dalla casa di Ermelinda,
    Tu possa sortire,
    Sortire e tornare
    Nella vecchia sofitta
    Della figlia mia
    Per opera e virtú
    Dal gran mago Virgilio!”

    “Loom!  Loom!  O loom!
    Who by the labour and skill
    Of the great magician Virgil
    Wert made so long ago,
    And gifted with such power!
    I pray thee by that skill
    And labour given by
    Virgil, the great magician,
    As thou canst spin a web
    Of silver or of gold,
    Fly like the wind away
    From Ermelinda’s house
    Into the small old room
    Where once my daughter dwelt,
    All by the skill and power
    Of great Virgilius!”

When in an instant they were borne away on a mighty wind and found
themselves in the old room, and there also they found the loom, from
which Gega could now weave at will cloth of gold or silver as well as
silk.

Then the old woman looked steadily at Gega, and the girl saw the features
of the former change to those of Nunzia, and as she embraced her, the old
woman said:

“Yes, I am Mamma Nunzia, and I came from afar to restore to thee thy
loom; but guard it well now, for if lost thou canst never recover it
again.  But if thou shouldst ever need aught, then invoke the grand
magician Virgil, because he has always been my god.” {177}

Having said this, she departed, and Gega knew now that Nunzia was a white
witch or a fairy.  So, becoming rich, she was a lady, and ever after took
good care of her loom and distrusted flattering friends.

                                * * * * *

This legend exists as a fairy-tale in many forms, and may be found in
many countries; perhaps its beginning was in that of the princess who
could spin straw into gold.  To have some object which produces food or
money _ad libitum_ when called on, to be cheated out of it, and finally
be revenged on the cheater, is known to all.

Virgil is in one of these tales naïvely called a saint, and in this he is
seriously addressed as a god, by which we, of course, understand a
classical heathen deity, or any spirit powerful enough to answer prayer
with personal favours.  But Virgil as the maker of a magic loom which
yields gold and silk, and as a _god_ at the same time, indicates a very
possible derivation from a very grand ancient myth.  The reader is
probably familiar with the address of the Time Spirit in Goethe’s
“Faust”:

    “In Being’s flood, in action’s storm,
    I work and weave, above, beneath—
    Work and weave in endless motion
    Birth and Death—an infinite ocean,
       A-seizing and giving
       The fire of the Living.
    ’Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply,
    And weave for God the garment thou see’st Him by.”

Thomas Carlyle informs us, in “Sartor Resartus,” that of the thousands
who have spouted this really very intelligible formula of pantheism, none
have understood it—implying thereby that to him it was no mystery.  But
Carlyle apparently did not know, else he would surely have told the
reader, that the idea was derived from the Sanskrit myth that Maya
(delusion or appearance), “the feminine half of the divine primitive
creator (Urwesen), was represented as weaving the palpable universe from
herself, for which reason she was typified as a spider.” {178}  Hence
Maia of the Greeks; and it is a curious coincidence that Maia in the
Neapolitan legends is the mother of Virgil, all of which is confused, and
may be accidental, but there may also be in it the remains of some
curious and very ancient tradition.  The spider was, however, certainly
the emblem of domestic, stay-at-home, steady industry, as Friedrich
illustrates, therefore of prosperity, hence it is believed to bring luck
to those on whom it crawls, as set forth in the novel of “The Red
Spider.”  And it is evident that the moral of this tale of Virgil’s loom
is to the effect that the heroine gained her good fortune by hard work at
home, and came to grief by gadding abroad and playing the belle.

That Maia, or Illusion or Glamour, should, according to our tradition, be
the mother of the greatest thaumaturgist, wonder-worker, poet, and
sorcerer of yore is curious.  That the original Maya of India should be
the living loom from which the universe is spun, and that in another tale
the _same_ magician, her son, is a god who makes a magic loom which spins
gold, silver, and silk, may be all mere chance coincidence, but, if so,
it is strange enough to rank as a miracle _per se_.

The name Gega, with _g_ the second soft, is very nearly _Gaia_, the
Goddess of the Earth, who was one with Maia, as a type of the Universe.

As I regard this as a tradition of some importance, I would state that it
owes nothing whatever to any inquiry, hint, or suggestion from me; that
it was gathered from witch authority by Maddalena, near Prato; and,
finally, that it is very faithfully translated, with the exception of the
passages indicated by brackets, which were inserted by me to make the
text clearer—a very necessary thing in most of these tales, where much is
often palpably omitted.  I have seldom had a story so badly written as
this was; it appears to have been taken down without correction from some
illiterate old woman, who hardly understood what she was narrating.

It is to be observed that in a number of these tales the proper names are
strangely antique and significant.  They are not such as are in use among
the people, they would not even be known to most who are tolerably well
read.  I have only found several after special search in mythologies,
etc.; and yet they are, I sincerely believe, in all cases appropriate to
the tradition as in this case.




VIRGIL AND THE PRIEST.


    “Beware, beware of the Black Friar,
    Who sitteth by Norman stone.”—BYRON.

    “Seven times shall he be accursed who returns evil for good, and
    seven times seven he who lives for himself alone, but seventy times
    seven the one who wrongs the orphan, the weak, the helpless, the
    widow or the young!”—_The Ladder of Sin_.

There is in Arezzo a lonely old lane or silent street where few people
care to go after dark, nor do they love it much even by daylight, the
reason being that it is haunted, for many have seen walking up and down
in it after midnight the form of a ghostly friar, who is ever muttering
to himself.  So he wanders, speaking to none, but now and then he seems
to be in great distress, and screams as if in agony, when light dim
flames fly from his mouth and nostrils, and then he suddenly vanishes.

It is said that long, long ago there lived in or near Arezzo a poor young
orphan girl who had no relations, and had been taken in charity as a
servant in a farmer’s family, where she was not unkindly treated, but
where everything was in harsh contrast to the life which she had led at
home, for her parents, though poor, were gentle folk, and had brought her
up tenderly.

So it happened that when at Easter she was ordered to kill for the usual
feast a pet lamb, because all the rest were too busy to attend to it, she
could not bring herself to do it, and wept bitterly when the lamb looked
at her, which the master and mistress could not understand, and thought
her very silly.  And being deeply grieved at all this, she could eat
nothing, and so went along weeping, wishing that her life were at an end.
And while walking she met a priest, who was indeed a black sheep of the
flock, or rather a wolf, for he was a hardened villain at heart, and
ready for any knavery; and he, seeing that the girl, whose name was
Ortenzia, was in distress, drew from her all her sad story, and was very
much interested at learning that she had some small store of money and a
few jewels and clothes, which her mother had charged her not to part
with, but to keep till she should be married or for dire need.

Then the priest, pretending great sympathy and pity, said that the farm
was no place for her, and that he himself was in great need of a
maid-servant, and if she would come and live with him she should be to
him as a daughter, and treated like a lady, with much more honeyed talk
of the kind, till at last she assented to his request, at which he
greatly rejoiced, and bade her be careful to bring with her all her
property; whereupon he lost no time in inducing her to sign a paper
transferring it all to him, which she in her ignorance very willingly
did.

The poor child found very soon indeed that she had only changed the
frying-pan for the fire, for the same night the priest made proposals to
her, which she rejected in anger, when he attempted force, which she
resisted, being strong and resolute, and declared that she would leave
his house at once.  But when she asked for her money and small property
he jeered at her, saying that she had _given_ it to him, and all the law
in the land could not take it away.  And more than this, he declared she
was possessed by a devil, and would certainly be damned for resisting
him, and that he would excommunicate and curse her.  Hearing all this,
the girl became mad in fact, and rushed forth.  For a long time she went
roaming about the roads, in woods, and living on what people gave her in
pity; but no one knew what it was that had turned her brain, and the
priest, of course, said all that was ill and false of her.

One day, as the poor lunatic sat in a lonely place singing and making
bouquets of wild-flowers, the priest passed, and he, seeing her still
young and beautiful, was again inspired by passion, and threw his arms
about her.  She, seized with horror, again resisted, when all at once a
voice was heard, and there stood before them a tall and dignified man,
who said to the priest:

“Leave untouched that poor girl, who is all purity and goodness, thou who
art all that is vile and foul!”

Then the priest, in great terror and white as death, replied:

“Pardon me, Signore Virgilio!”

“What thou hast deserved, thou must endure,” replied Virgil, “and long
and bitter must thy penance be; but first of all restore to this poor
creature all that of which thou hast robbed her, and make a public avowal
of her innocence and of all thy crimes.”

And this he did; when Virgil said:

“Now from this hour thy spirit shall haunt the street where thou hast
lived, and thou shalt never leave it, but wander up and down, thinking of
all the evil thou hast wrought.  And when thou wouldst curse or rage, it
shall come forth from thy mouth in flames, and therewith thou shalt have
some short relief.”

As for the girl, she was restored to health, and Virgil made for her a
happy life, and she married well, and after a long and prosperous life
passed away, having founded a great family in the land.

But the goblin friar still haunts the street in Arezzo, for he has not
yet fully and truly repented, and a life as evil as his leaves its stain
long after death.




IL GIGLIO DI FIRENZE, OR THE STORY OF VIRGIL AND THE LILIES.


    “The lily is the symbol of beauty and love.  By the Greeks it was
    called Χαρμα Αφροδιτης, the joy of Venus, and according to Alciatus,
    Venus Urania was represented with a lily in her hand.”—J. B.
    FRIEDRICH: _Die Symbolik der Natur_.

This story is of the lily, or the _stemma_, or crest of Florence.  One
day Virgilio went forth to walk when he met with a Florentine, who
saluted him, saying:

“Thou truly shouldst be a Florentine, since thou art by name a _vero
giglio_”—a true lily (_Ver_’-_giglio_).

Then the poet replied:

“Truly I am entitled to the name, since our first ancestors were as the
lilies of the field, who toiled not, neither did they spin, hence it came
that they left me nothing.”

“But thou wilt leave a lordly heritage,” replied the nobleman, smiling;
“the glory of a great name which shall honour all thy fellow-citizens,
and which will ever remain in the shield as the flower of Florence.”
{182}

                                * * * * *

This is a pretty tale, though it turns on a pun, and has nothing more
than that in it.  Much has been written to prove that the lilies in the
shields of France and Florence and on the ends of sceptres are not
lilies, but there can be no reasonable doubt of its Latin symbolical
origin.  Among the Romans the lily was the emblem of public hope, of
patriotic expectation, hence we see Roman coins with lilies bearing the
mottoes: _Spes Publica_, _Spes Augusta_, _Spes Populi Romani_, and Virgil
himself, in referring to Marcellus, the presumed heir to the throne of
Augustus, makes Anchises cry: “Bring handfuls of lilies!”

This did not occur to me till after translating the foregoing little
tradition, and it is appropriate enough to suggest that it may have had
some connection with the tale.  The idea of its being attached to power,
probably in reference to the community governed, was ancient and widely
spread.  Not only was the garment of the Olympian Jupiter adorned with
lilies, {183a} but the old German Thor held in one hand the lightning and
in the other a lily sceptre {183b} indicating peace and purity, or the
welfare of the people.  The lily was also the type of purity from its
whiteness, the origin of which came from Susanna the Chaste, who during
the Babylonian captivity remained the only virgin.  Susan is in Hebrew
_Shusam_, which means a lily.  “This was transferred to the Virgin Mary.”
Hence the legend that Saint Ægidius, when the immaculateness of the
Virgin was questioned, wrote in sand the query as to whether she was a
maid before, during, and after the Conception, whereupon a lily at once
grew forth out of the sand, as is set forth in a poem by the German
Smetz—of which lily-legends of many kinds there are enough to make a book
as large as this of mine.

The cult of the lily in a poetical sense was carried to a great extent at
one time.  The Dominican P. Tommaso Caraffa, in his “Poetiche Dicerie,”
or avowed efforts at fine writing, devotes a page of affected and
certainly florid Italian to the “Giglio,” and there are Latin poems or
passages on it by Bisselius, P. Laurent le Brun, P. Alb. Ines, given by
Gandutius (“Descriptiones Poeticæ”), Leo Sanctius and A. Chanutius.
There is also a passage in Martial eulogizing the flower in comparing to
it the white tunic given to him by Parthenio:

    “Lilia tu vincis, nec adhuc dilapsa ligustra,
    Et Tiburtino monte quod albet ebur.
    Spartanus tibi cedit color, Paphiæque columna
    Cedit Erithræis eruta gemma vadis.”

I saw once upon a time in Venice a magnificent snow-white carpet covered
with lilies—a present from the Sultan to the well-known English diplomat
and scholar, Layard—to which it seems to me that those lines of the Latin
poet would be far more applicable than they could have been to what was
in reality about the same as an ordinary clean shirt or blouse—for such
was in fact the Roman tunic.  It must, however, be candidly admitted that
he does good service to humanity who in any way renders romantic, poetic,
or popular, clean linen or personal purity of any kind.




VIRGIL AND THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF THE LILY.


    “Ecce tibi viridi se _Lilia_ candice tollunt,
    Atque humiles alto despactant vertice flores
    Virginea ridente coma.”

                                      P. LAURENCE LE BRUN, _El._ 50, 1. 7.

Once the Emperor went hunting, when he heard a marvellously sweet voice
as of a lady singing, and all his dogs, as if called, ran into the
forest.

The Emperor followed and was amazed at seeing a lady, beautiful beyond
any he had ever beheld, holding in one hand a lily and wearing a broad
girdle as of steel and gold, which shone like diamonds.  The dogs fawned
round her when the Emperor addressed her, but as he spoke she sank into
the ground, and left no trace.

The Emperor came the second day also, alone, and beheld her again, when
she disappeared as before.

The third day he told the whole to Virgil, and took the sage with him.
And when the lady appeared Virgil touched her with his wand, and she
stood still as a statue.

Then Virgil said:

“Oh, my lord, consider well this Lady of the Lily, and especially her
girdle; for in the time when that lady shall lose that girdle Florence
will gain more in one year than it now increases in ten.”

And with this the lady vanished as before, and they returned home.




VIRGIL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE EMPEROR OF ROME.


    “As the lily dies away
    In the garden, in the plain,
    Then as beautiful and gay
    In the summer comes again;
    So may life, when love is o’er,
    In a child appear once more.”

The following strange legend, which was taken down by Maddalena from some
authority to me unknown, near Arezzo, is so imperfectly told in the
original, and is, moreover, so evidently repieced and botched by an
ignorant narrator, that I at first rejected it altogether; but finding on
consideration that it had some curious relations with other tales, I
determined to give it for what it may be worth.

                                * * * * *

Once the Emperor of Rome was in his palace very melancholy, nor could he
rally (_ralegrarla_), do what he might.  Then he went forth into the
groves to hear the birds sing, for this generally cheered him, but now it
was of no avail.

Then he sent a courier to Florence, and bade him call Virgil with all
haste.

Virgil followed the messenger at full speed.

“What wilt thou of me?” asked the sorcerer of the Emperor.

“I wish to be relieved from the melancholy which oppresses me.  I want
joy.”

“Do like me, and thou wilt always have a peaceful mind:

    “‘I work no evil to any man;
    I ever do what good I can.
    He who acts thus has ever the power
    To turn to peace the darkest hour!’”

“Nor do I recall that I ever did anything to regret,” replied the
Emperor.

“Well, then, come with me, for I think that a little journey will be the
best means of distracting your mind and relieving you from melancholy.”

“Very well,” replied the Emperor.  “Lead where you will; anything for a
change.”

“We will take a look at all the small districts of Tuscany,” answered
Virgil.

    “Going from the Florentino,
    Through Valdarno to Casentino;
    Where’er we see the olives bloom,
    And smell the lily’s rich perfume,
    And mountains rise and rivulets flow,
    Thither, my lord, we two will go.”

To which the Emperor replied:

    “Where’er you will, all things to see,
    High or low—’tis all one to me,
    If I can only happy be.”

So they travelled on through many places, but the Emperor was ever dull
and sad; but when in Cortona he said that he felt a little better, and
went forth with Virgil to look about the town.

[And it was unto this place and to a certain end that Virgil led his
lord.]

Passing along a street, they saw at a window a girl of extraordinary
beauty, who was knitting. . . . {187a}

The girl instead of being angered, laughed, showing two rows of beautiful
teeth, and said:

“Thou mayst become gold, and the skein a twist of gold.”

The girl was utterly surprised and confused at this, and knew not whether
to accept or refuse (the gift offered).

The Emperor said to Virgil:

“Just see how beautiful she is.  I would like to win her love, and make
her mine.”

“Always the same song,” replied Virgil.  “You never so much as say, ‘I
wish she were my daughter.’”

“She can never be my daughter,” answered the Emperor; “but as she is as
poor as she is beautiful, she may very easily become my love.  Honour is
of no value to a poor person.”

“Nay,” replied Virgil, “when the poor know its value, it is worth as much
to them as gold to you who are wealthy. {187b}  And it is from your
neglecting this that you have so long suffered, you knew not why [but an
evil deed will burn, though you see no light and know not what it is].
For thus didst thou once betray a poor maid, and then cast her away
without a further thought, not even bestowing aught upon her.  And thou
hadst a daughter, and her mother now lies ill and is well nigh to death.
And it is this which afflicted thee [for every deed sends its light or
shadow at some time unto the doer].  And now, if thou dost not repair
this wrong, thou wilt never more know peace, and shalt ever sit in the
chair of penitence.”

“And where is my daughter and her mother?” asked the Emperor.

“That girl is the daughter, and if you would see her mother, follow me,”
replied Virgil.

When they entered the room where the dying woman lay, the Emperor
recognised in her one whom he had loved.

“Truly,” he said, “she was the most beautiful to me of all.”

And he embraced and kissed her; she was of marvellous beauty; she asked
him if he recognised their daughter.

“I recognise and acknowledge her,” he replied.  “Wilt thou live?”

“No,” she replied; “for I have lived to the end, and return to life.  [I
am a fairy (_fata_) who came to earth to teach thee that fortune and
power are given to the great not to oppress the weak and poor, but to
benefit.”]

Saying this she died, and there remained a great bouquet of flowers.

The Emperor took his daughter to the palace, where she passed for his
niece, and with her the flowers in which he ever beheld his old fairy
love, and thus he lived happy and contented.

                                * * * * *

To supply a very important omission in this legend, I would add that the
bouquet was certainly of lilies, as occurs in other legends, and the real
meaning of the whole is a very significant illustration of the history
and meaning of the flower.  Old writers and mythic symbolism, as
Friedrich and many more have shown, believed that Nature taught, not
vaguely and metaphorically, but directly, many moral lessons, and that of
the lily was purity and truth.  By comparing this with the other stories
relating to this flower which I have given, it will hardly be denied that
my conjectural emendations formed part of the original, which the
narrator had not remembered or understood.

There is something beautifully poetical in the fancy that spirits,
_fata_, assume human form, that they by their influence on great men,
princes or kaisars, may change their lives, and teach them lessons by
means of love or flowers.  This makes of the tale an allegory.  It was in
this light that Dante saw all the poems of Virgil, as appears by passages
in the “Convito,” in which curious book (p. 36, ed. 1490) there is a
passage declaring that the world is round and hath a North and South
Pole, in the former of which there is a city named Maria, and on the
other one called Lucia, and that Rome is 2,600 miles from the one, “more
or less,” and 7,500 miles from the other.

    “And thus do men, each in his different way,
    From fancies unto wilder fancies stray.”

Or as the same great poet expresses it in the same curious book: “Man is
like unto a weary pilgrim upon a road which he hath never before
travelled, who every time that he sees from afar a house, deems that it
is the lodging which he seeks, and finding his mistake, believes it is
the next, and so he erreth on from place to place until he finds the
tavern which he seeks.  And ’tis the same, be it with boys seeking apples
or birds, or their elders taking fancies to garments, or a horse, or a
woman, or wealth, ever wanting something else or more and so ever on.”

The lily in Italian tales is the flower of happy, saintly deaths; it
fills the beds of the departing, it sprouts from the graves of the holy
and the good.  In one legend it is the white flower of the departing soul
which changes into a white bird.  But in this story it has a doubly
significant meaning, as the crest of Florence and as conveying a
significant meaning to its ruler.

The “Convito” of Dante is not nearly so well known as the “Commedia,” but
it deserves study.  The only copy which I have ever read is the editio
princeps of 1490, which I bought of an itinerant street-vendor for 4
soldi, or twopence.




VIRGIL AND POLLIONE, OR THE SPIRIT OF THE PROVERB.


    “A Proverb is a relic or remain of ancient philosophy, preserved
    among many ruins by its brevity and fitness.”—ARISTOTLE AP. SYNESIUS.

    “I Proverbi e la sapienza dell uomo
    El Proverbio no fale.”

                                       _Proverbi Veneti_, _da_ PASQUALIGO.

    “He who leaves money leaves what may be lost,
    But he who leaves a _Proverb_ keen and true
    Leaves that wherein his soul will never die.”

                                                             C. G. LELAND.

    “Tremendo leone, destriero animoso
    Che in lungo riposo giaceste al suo pié.
    Mostrate agli audaci cui grato e l’ errore
    Che ’l vostro vigore scemato non è.”

                                                  GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1832).

There was once a young man of genius, and honest; he was a true gentleman
(_vero galantuomo_), with a good heart.

At that time there was also in Rome a great magician who was called the
Poet, but his real name was Virgilio.  And the honest youth, whose name
was Pollione, was a student with Virgilio, and also his servant.

Everybody may have heard who Virgilio was, and how he was a sorcerer
above all others.  He had a custom of giving to his friends sayings and
proverbs, or sentences {190a} wherein there was always wisdom or a moral.
His friends did not know it, but with every one of these sayings there
went a spirit, and if they gave heed to the saying {190b} the spirit took
care that from it some good resulted to them.

One day when Virgil gave sayings to his friends, he said to Pollione:

“When a man speaks to you, hear to the end all that he has to say before
answering.”

After a while Pollione left Rome, and went to Florence.  While wandering,
he found himself not far from Lucca, in a solitary forest.  And while
resting he observed a stone, almost hidden under the grass, on which
stone were letters, and, clearing it away, he read the word “Lift.”  So
he raised the stone, and found under it a small ancient vase, in which
was a gold ring.  Then he took the ring, and went his way.

And after weary wandering he found a small house, empty, into which he
entered.  It was one of the cabins in which peasants store chestnuts or
grain or their implements for work.  Therein was a partition of boards,
and the youth lay down behind it and went to sleep.

After a little time there entered two friars, who never suspected there
was anybody behind the screen, so they began to talk freely.  And
Pollione, awaking, listened to them.

One friar said to the other:

“It is now a year since old Father Girolamo died, who on his deathbed
left to us both, to wear by turns, the gold ring which is hid somewhere
in this wood in a vase under a stone on which is the word ‘Lift.’  Pity
that he died before he could tell us just where it is.  So we have sought
and sought in vain, and so we must seek on, seek ever.”

When Pollione heard that, in the honesty of his heart, he was about to
show himself and cry out, “Here is your ring!” when all at once he
recalled the proverb of Virgilio to always hear all that a man has to say
before answering.  So he kept quiet, while the other friar said:

“Thou knowest that with that ring one can turn any man or woman into any
kind of an animal.  What wouldst thou do with it if it were thine?”

“I,” replied the other, “would at once change our Abbot into an ass, and
beat him half to death ten times a day, because he put me _in penitenza_
and in prison because I got drunk.”

“And I,” answered the second friar, “would change the proud, beautiful
daughter of the count who lives in the castle yonder into a female dog,
and keep her in that form till she should consent to be my mistress.
Truly, I would give her a good lesson, and make her repent having scorned
me.”

When Pollione heard such talk as this he reflected:

“I think I would do well to keep the ring myself.”

Then he took a piece of paper and wrote on it:

    “L’ anello non avrai,
    Ma asinello tu sarai,
    Tu asinello diventerai
    E non l’Abate,
    Cosi dicono le Fate.”

    “The ring of gold is not for thee,
    For thou thyself an ass shalt be;
    Not the Abbot, but thou in truth,
    This the Fairies say in sooth.”

This poem he placed on the stone which had covered the ring.  And when
the two friars found and read it, and discovered that the ring was gone,
they verily believed that the fairies had overheard them and taken away
the ring, and so, full of sorrow, returned to their convent.

Then Pollione, ever travelling on, one day met in Verona a clever,
bold-looking young man, who was playing marvellous juggler’s tricks in a
public place.  And, looking closely at one another, each recognised in
his observer the wizard who knew hidden things.

“Let us go together,” said Pollione.  “We shall do better by mutual aid.”

So they went into partnership.

One evening they found themselves in a castle, where the signore treated
them very kindly; and this lord had a beautiful daughter, who looked at
Pollione with long glances, nor were his at her one whit shorter.

But the father seemed to be dying with some great sorrow; and at last he
said to Pollione:

“Thou art a gentleman, and a man who is learned in books and wise.  It
may be that thou canst give me good advice and save me.  If thou canst,
there is nothing of mine which I will not give thee.  And this is the
story:

“A year ago I was sent on State affairs to Constantinople, where the
Sultan promised me that within a certain time he would send me a lion as
a gift for our Grand Duke.

“And after I had returned to Italy I told the Duke of this, at which he
was greatly pleased.  But when the time had come to an end the lion did
not arrive.  Then several of the courtiers who were my envious enemies
made the Duke believe that the tale of the lion was all a lie, and a mere
boast of mine.

“Then the Duke said to me that if the lion did not arrive within six
months I should lose my head, and the allotted time is nearly past.”

“I believe that I can save you,” replied Pollione.  “I will do it, if
only to please your daughter.”

“Do it, and she shall be thine,” answered the father.

And the daughter smiled.

So the signore wrote to the Grand Duke that on a certain day the lion
would be his, and invited him with all the court to his castle to see it.

Then there was at the time appointed a grand pavilion, in which was the
Grand Duke, with all the courtiers and music.

The sorcerer Jannes, who was the companion of Pollione, had formed a deep
attachment to the signore, as the latter had to him.  Then the magician
asked the lord to point out carefully to him all those who were his
enemies.

And then from a tent there came forth a great lion.  It was the magician,
who had been touched by the ring.

The music sounded, and the people cried, “_Evviva il lione_!”  Hurrah for
the lion!

But when the lion, running round the course, came to the courtiers, he
roared and became like a raging devil.  He leaped over the barrier, and,
attacking the courtiers, tore them limb from limb, and did terrible
things.  Nor could the Duke say anything, for it was his own fault.

Then the lion bounded away and was seen no more.

So the signore was saved, and Pollione wedded his daughter, and became
very wealthy and a great lord.

And it is a true thing that there are wizards’ sayings or proverbs which
cause good luck—_buona fortuna_; and if such a proverb remains always in
the memory the spirit of the proverb will aid him who knows it.  And to
secure his aid one should repeat this spell:

       “Spirito del proverbio!
       Ti prego di stampare
    Questo proverbio corretamente
    Per sempre nella mia mente,
       Ti prego di aiutarlo,
       Sempre cosi la detta sara
       Cagione della felicità.”

    “Spirit of the proverb,
    I pray thee to impress
    This proverb exactly
    And for ever in my mind,
    So that it may ever be
    A blessing and a joy to me.”

And this done, the proverb or poem will become a living spirit, which
will aid you to become learned and wise. {194}

                                * * * * *

As the _Jatakas_ of Buddha, which perhaps give the origin of the fable,
were all intended to set forth the great doctrine of the immortality of
the soul in transmigrations, so most stories like the preceding have for
an aim or object the teaching of a spell.  That which is here explained
is very singular, yet the idea is one which would naturally occur to a
student of magic.  It is that in a deep meaning or moral there is a
_charm_, and every charm implies a spirit.  Hence a spirit may go with a
proverb, which in its form is like a spell.  It is simply a perception of
the similarity of a saying or proverb to a charm.  As the Pythagoreans
and Neo-Platonists believed there were spirits in numbers and ideas, so a
believer might even more rationally conceive of a soul in a wise saying.




VIRGIL AND MATTEO, OR ANOTHER PROVERB OF VIRGILIO.


    “Proverbi, noti spontaneamente, e quasi inconsciamente sulle labbre
    del popolo, oltre contenere una profonda sapienza . . . manifestano
    la prontezza, il brio.”—DA AUGUSTO ALFANI: _Proverbi e Modi
    Proverbiali_ (1882).

The following story is translated from the Romognola, or mountain
dialect, also called Bolognesa, which is a rude, strange patois, believed
to be very ancient.  It was written by a native of Rocca Casciano, near
Forli.  The beginning of it in the original is as follows:

“_Un Eter proverbi di Virgilio_.—Ho iera una volta un om co des a
Verzeglie che un su usen lera un ledre e vieva rube quaicosa, e é bon om
ed nom Matei, e pregheva Verzeglie ed ulei de un det, ho proverbi,
incontre a e le der.”

There was once a man who said to Virgil that one of his neighbours was a
thief, who had stolen something from him, and the man, whose name was
Matteo, begged Virgil to give him a saying or a proverb against the
thief.

Virgil replied: “Truly thou hast been robbed; but be of good cheer, and
thou mayst regain thine own again if thou wilt remember this saying:

    “Se un dievele ti disprezza,
    Tu guent un dievele e mezza,
    E quan e lup la e tu agnel,
    L’ e temp et tolá su pel.”

    “If a devil should injure thee,
    Doubly a devil thou shouldst be;
    And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
    ’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”

Matteo had learned that the thief, whose name was Bandelone, was in the
habit of sitting by a pool or pond, and whenever any traveller came by he
would cry that he had let fall a bag of gold into the water, and, being
very lame and ill, could not dive for it.  So he would promise a great
reward to him who would recover it.

Then the traveller, deluded by the tale, would strip himself and dive
into the pool, which was very deep, with steep banks.  And while he was
under water the crafty thief would seize on his clothes, arms, and money,
mount his horse, and ride away.

Matteo reflected on this.  Then he got a small bag and filled it with
nails, so that it seemed to be heavy, as if with money.  So he went to
the pool, where Bandelone was waiting like a spider for flies, and seeing
Matteo, whom he did not recognise, because the latter was disguised, he
began to cry:

“Oh, kind sir, have pity on a poor man who has lost his whole fortune!”
And so he went on to tell how he had dropped his bag full of gold in the
water, and was too weak to dive for it, with all the rest of the tale.

Then Matteo consented to dive for the purse; but first of all put his
horse, with all his arms and clothes, on the opposite bank, where they
would be in safety.

Bandelone was angry enough at this, and cried:

“Why do you do that?  Do you think I am a thief?”

“No, friend,” answered Matteo.  “But if a thief should come to take my
things thou wouldst be too weak to defend them, and he might do thee
harm.  It is all for thy good that I take such care.”

Bandelone wished all this kind care to the devil, but he had to submit.
Then Matteo dived twice or thrice, and then came out of the water as if
overjoyed, crying, as he held his bag of nails {196} on high:

“Ech!  Ho alo trovè e sac d’ oro!  Com le grand!”—Behold, I have found
the bag of gold!  How large it is!

Bandelone was indeed surprised at this; but, believing that Matteo had by
chance really found a treasure, he cried:

“Yes, that is mine!  Give it to me!”

“_Zentiment_!  Fair and softly, friend,” replied Matteo.  “Give me half,
or I will keep it all.”

Bandelone would by no means consent to this.  At last Matteo said:

“Well, as I do not know what is in the bag, I will take a risk.  Give me
your horse and sword and cloak for the bag.  That is my last word, and if
you utter another I will ride away with the bag and keep all.”

So Bandelone gave him his horse and cloak and a fine sword.  And Matteo,
when mounted, pitched him the bag, and rode away singing merrily:

    “If a devil should injure thee,
    Doubly a devil thou must be;
    And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
    ’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”




VIRGILIO AND THE FATHER OF TWELVE CHILDREN.
A LEGEND FROM COLLE DI VAL D’ELSA, TUSCANY.


    “In the earliest form of the legend, Virgil appears not only as doing
    no harm, but also as a great benefactor.”—COMPARETTI: _Virgil in the
    Middle Ages_.

Once when Virgil was in Colle di Val d’Elsa, he found that the utmost
poverty and wretchedness prevailed among the people.  Everywhere were men
and women wailing and weeping because they could not get food for their
children.

Virgil began by giving alms right and left, but was obliged to cease,
finding that all his means would be but a trifle towards relieving such
suffering.  Therefore he resolved to go to the Emperor and beg him to use
his authority in the matter.  But while in the first furlong of his
journey he met a man wailing bitterly, and on asking the cause, the one
who wept replied:

“_Caro Signore_, I weep in despair not for myself, but for my twelve
children, who, starving, lie on the bare ground.  And this day we are to
be turned out of the house because I owe for the rent.  And I have gone
hither and thither to seek work and found none, and now thou knowest
all.”

Then Virgil, who was kind of heart, replied:

“Be not afraid of the future.  Holy Providence which takes care of the
birds of the air will also provide for you.”

“My dear lord,” replied the poor man, “I trust it is true what you tell
me, but I have waited a long time now for Holy Providence without seeing
it.”

“Hope yet a little longer,” answered Virgil.  “Just now I will go with
you to your house and see how I can aid you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied the poor man, whose doubts in a Holy
Providence began to weaken.  So they went together, and truly found
twelve children with their mother, well-nigh dying from cold, hunger, and
exposure.

Then Virgil, having relieved them, thought deeply what could be done to
help all this wretchedness, and invoked a certain spirit in whom he
trusted—_un spirito di sua fiducia_—asking how he could aid the suffering
_Colligiani_.

And the spirit replied:

    “Sorti da quella casa,
    E passa disotto a una torre,
    E nel passare
    Si senti a chiamare
    A nome, alze il capo,
    Ma non videte nessuno,
    Soltanto senti una voce,
    Una voce che le disse
    ‘Sali su questa torre!’”

    “Leave this house, in going,
    Thou’lt pass beneath a tower,
    And hear a voice which calls thee,
    Yet looking, thou’lt see nothing,
    Yet still will hear it crying,
    ‘Virgil, ascend the tower!’”

Virgil did this, and heard the Voice call him, when he ascended the tower
and there beheld a small red goblin, who was visible to him alone,
because Virgil had invoked him.  And the Spirit said to him:

“Behold this little dog.  Return with it to the house whence thou hast
come, and go forth with the poor man, and take the dog with you.  And
where the dog stops there dig!”

And they did so.  And they went away, and at last the dog stopped at a
place, and the poor man began to dig.  And lo! ere long the earth became
red, and he came to iron ore.  And from this discovery resulted the iron
factory of Colle, and by it that of glass; wherever the dog led they
found minerals.  So from that time there was no more suffering because
there was work for all.

                                * * * * *

This legend is a full confirmation of what I have elsewhere remarked,
that these “witch-stories” have almost invariably a deeper meaning or
moral than is to be found in the “popular tales” generally prevalent
among peasants and children.  Thus, while we find in this the magician
Virgil, his invocation to a familiar spirit, the apparition of the Red
Goblin of the Tower and the mystical dog of the Kobold, or goblins of the
mines, there is with it a noble reflection that the best way to relieve
suffering is to provide work.  In an ordinary fairy-tale the magician
would have simply conjured up a treasure and have given it to the poor.

Apropos of the word _goblin_, which is generally supposed to be from the
German _Kobold_, I would observe that the Greek κοβαλι or _cobali_ are
defined in a curious old French work as _lutins_, “household spirits, or
domestic fairies.”




VIRGILIO AS A PHYSICIAN, OR VIRGIL AND THE MOUSE.


    “Now to signify destruction and death they paint a _mouse_.  For it
    gnaweth all things, and works ruin.”—HORI APOLLI: _Hieroglyphica_;
    _Rome_, 1606.

There once lived in Florence a young gentleman—_un gran signore_—who
wedded a beautiful young lady to whom he was passionately attached, as
she indeed was for a time to him.  But “fickle and fair is nothing rare,”
and it came to pass that before long she gave her love again to an
intimate friend of her husband.  And the latter did not indeed perceive
the cause, but he was much grieved at the indifference to him which his
wife began to show.

Then the wife began to tell her lover how her husband had scolded her for
her neglect, and how much afraid she was lest their intrigue would be
discovered, and that she was so uneasy that she was ready to poison her
spouse “if she could only get rid of him!”

The lover replied that there were many ways to get rid of a man without
really killing him, for that a violent death would lead to suspicion,
inquiry, scandal, and perhaps legal punishment.  And then he hinted that
a better method would be to consult a witch.

The lady lost no time in running to one, to whom she told her whole
story, and what she wanted, and as she began by paying a large fee, the
sorceress promised she should have her wish.

Then the witch prepared with magic skill a flask of water, and a powder.
The water she gave to the wife, and bade her sprinkle it over her
husband’s clothes.  But she changed herself into a mouse, and having been
carried to the bedroom which the married couple occupied, she gnawed a
hole in the mattress, and crawling in, dragged after her the bag, and so
remained hidden.

When the husband went to bed, there came over him an utter weakness and
sickness, so that he lay in pain as if dead, and this grew worse day by
day.  His parents in vain called in the first physicians, and every
remedy was resorted to without result.

Then Virgilio, who knew much and suspected all the rest of this affair,
was angry that so vile a woman and her gallant should inflict such
torture on an excellent and innocent man, and resolved to have a hand in
the affair.

Therewith he dressed himself as a _medico_, or doctor, from some distant
land, saying that he had heard of this extraordinary case of illness, and
would like to see the sufferer.  To which the parents replied that he was
welcome to do so, since all the professors of medicine in Florence could
make nothing of it.

The doctor looked steadily for some time at the patient, who appeared to
be in such utter prostration and misery as might have moved the hardest
heart.  By him sat his wife, pretending to weep, but counting to herself
with pleasure the time which would pass before her husband should
die—giving now and then a suspicious glance at the new-comer.

Then Virgilio said to the wife:

“Signora, I beg you to leave the room for a while.  I must be alone with
this man!”

Whereupon she, with a great show of tears and passion, declared she would
not leave the room, because her husband might die at any minute, and she
could never forgive herself were she to be absent, and so on.  To which
Virgilio angrily replied, that she might depart in peace, with the
assurance that her husband would be cured.  So she went out, cursing him
in her heart, if there was a chance that he could do as he declared.

Then Virgilio took a mirror which he had brought with him, and placing it
before the eyes of the invalid, bade him look at it as steadily and as
long as he could.  The young man did so, and then said, as if in despair:

“For me there is no remedy, O doctor, for what you show me is worse than
my disorder, as I supposed it to be.  Truly I see death, and not myself.”

“Courage!” replied Virgilio.  “You shall be cured.”

“Cure me,” he answered, “and you shall have all that I possess.”

“Nay, I will cure you first,” said Virgilio, “and then settle on easier
terms.”

The patient looked steadily at the mirror.  Virgilio rapped thrice with a
wand, when there suddenly leaped from the bed a mouse, which uttered
three horrible, piercing screams.  The doctor bade the invalid continue
to look steadily at himself in the mirror, and for his life not to cease
doing so.  Without turning round, the doctor ordered the mouse to enter
the bed and lick up and bring away with her on her tongue all the water
which the wife had sprinkled on the clothes.  And this done, he bade her
bring again out of the bed all the powder which she had placed there.
Which being effected, he ordered the mouse to make of it a pellet, and
devour it; but here she resisted, for to do that meant death to her and a
cure to the invalid.

But the doctor was inflexible, and she had to obey.  Nor had she begun to
eat it before he bade the husband rise, which he did, feeling perfectly
recovered, though much confused at such a sudden change.

Then Virgilio ordered the mouse to mount the bed, and lo! she changed to
a woman, for she was, of course, the witch who had done all this devil’s
work.  And the sorceress bade them call parents and wife and all.  And
when they came the witch said:

“Evil my life has been, and evil will be the death which in a few minutes
will come to me; yet am I not so evil as this woman, who would have
killed by the worst suffering the husband who loved her.  For hell hath
many who are bad, but the worst are they who return evil for good.  And
he who hath ended this thing by his power is the great Virgilio, who is
the lord of magic in all this land.”

Then she told, step by step, how the wife had turned her heart from her
husband, almost as soon as she was married, and wished to kill him, and
had paid her to bewitch him.  Then Virgilio opened the window and the
witch indeed died, or it was the last seen of her, for with a horrible
howl she vanished in the night, flying away.

The husband recovered, and would have given Virgilio all his wealth, but
he would accept nothing but the young man’s friendship.  And the guilty
wife was imprisoned for life in a castle, far away in the mountains and
alone.

                                * * * * *

Virgil appears as a _physician_ so distinctly in this and other tales as
to induce the question whether he had not, quite apart from his
reputation as poet and magician, some fame as professor of the healing
art.  And in fact, as I have shown in the legend of Virgil and the Spirit
of Mirth, he on one occasion at least is, by Pæonia, identified with
Esculapius.  The latter is described as having “a countenance bright with
joy and serenity,” and being very benevolent and genial—wherein he agrees
with the poet.  The God of Medicine, it is expressly stated, used “sweet
incantations,” or poetical spells, which is also significant.  He was
also associated with Apollo and the Muses, as in the temple of Messina.
The author of the great “Dizionario Storico Mitologico” (1824) plainly
declares that “Esculapius is another form of Apollo, in whom poetry and
medicine were combined.  In the temple devoted to him in Sycione,
Esculapius is associated with Diana.  In a Roman bas-relief he appears
with the Three Graces; in one of these legends Virgil is associated with
four Venuses.”  Making every allowance, it must be admitted that,
comparing all that is known of the God of Medicine with what appears in
these legends of the Mantuan bard, there is a remarkable general likeness
between the two.  Virgil is also, here and there, curiously identified
with the serpent and the staff, which were the symbols of Esculapius;
and, as I have before noted, Buddha, who had so much in common with
Virgil, was in his first incarnation a physician.




THE ONION OF CETTARDO.


    “On, Stanley, on!”—MARMION.

    “Were I in noble Stanley’s place,
    When Marmion urged him to the chase,
    The word which you would then descry
    Might bring a tear to every eye.”—ANONYMOUS.

Virgil is introduced, I may say, almost incidentally in the following
tale, not by any means as _coryphæus_ or hero, as is indeed the case in
several other stories, which fact, on due reflection, is of importance,
because it indicates unmistakably that he is so well known in popular
tradition as to be recognisable even in a minor rôle.  It is as when one
swears by a saint, or Bacchus—in Florence one hears the latter invoked
forty times where a Christian deity is apostrophized once—’tis not to
form a portion of the sentence, but to give it force, as Chinese
artillerymen, when they fire a ball at an enemy, sometimes grease the
mouth of a gun, to increase the loudness of the report and thereby
frighten the foe.  Which figure of a saint is not that of Saint
Malapropos, because, as the reader may note in another tale, Virgil is
very seriously described as a santo.

Now to the narrative.  _Sancte Virgile_, _ora pro nobis_!

                                * * * * *

In very ancient times there were few families in Cettardo, and these were
all perfectly equal, there being among them neither rich nor poor.  They
all worked hard in fields or forests for a living, and were like a
company of friends or brothers.

And of evenings, when they were not too weary, they met many together in
some house, all in love and harmony, to talk about the crops, and their
children, or repeat the _rosario_, {203} or discuss their clothing, or
cattle, or whatever interested them.

These people were all as one, and had no head or chief. {204a}  But one
evening a very little girl came out with a thing (_sorti con una cosa_)
which astonished all who were present, because the child had received no
instruction, and did not know what a school meant.  And what she said was
this:

“_Babbo_—papa—I wish to tell thee something in presence of all who are
here assembled, with all due respect to them, since there are certainly
so many here who could with greater propriety set it forth. {204b}
Therefore, I trust you will pardon and bear with me, because I am but an
infant.”

Then all exclaimed in chorus: “Speak, and we will listen to thee!”

And then the infant, in this fashion, spoke:

“Know that this night I have spoken with a spirit, the _bel Folettino col
beretta rossa_—the beautiful fairy with the red cap—and it told me that
for this our land we have no name or coat of arms.  But the time has come
to have that which shall represent the country, and therefore we should
choose a chief who will open commerce for us, and found a school so that
our young people shall escape from ignorance.”

“Truly, thou hast spoken well!” cried all present.  “_Evviva il
capo_—hurrah for a chief!—and that chief shall be thy father, dear
child!”

“Moreover,” added the good girl, “I will, to show my gratitude, give you
the design for the armorial bearings, and in due time tell you all that
is needful to be done.  All of that will I find out, and also a name for
the country.”

“Do so, and deserve our gratitude.”

“I thank you again,” said the girl, “and I will pay attention to the
subject, since you show such sympathy.”

The next day she went to herd a flock of sheep, as was her custom; and
then, lying down on the ground as wild boars are wont to do, {204c} said:

    “Spirito, capo di tutti i spiriti!
    Re dei ré dei Maghi!
    Portami qui presenti un hoggetto
    Che possa servirmi per rappresentare
    Un arme.”

“Una voce le rispose:

    “Chiama e chiama più forte.
    E chiama ancora per tre volte
    E chiama il tuo prottetore,
    Chi é con te a tutte le ore
    E mai non ti lascera se sempre
    Lui invochera.”

    “Spirit, who art the chief of all the spirits!
    Who art the king of all the sorcerers!
    Bring unto me some object which may serve
    To represent our land, and be its crest.”

“To which a voice replied:

    “Call out aloud, then more forcibly,
    And yet again three times, and unto him
    Who is thy guardian and ever with thee,
    And who will never leave thee—call to him!”

“And who art thou who speakest to me?” asked the girl.

“I am the Spirit of the Red Cap.”

“And who is my protector?”

“The magician Virgil,” replied the Voice.

Then she invoked Virgil, who appeared in person, and asked what she would
have.

She replied that she had been charged to find a name and object to
represent the land.

“It is well,” answered Virgil.  “I have already written the name on a
leaf; now take this thing in thy hand”—here he gave her an onion—“and
cast it into yonder cavern, from which there is an underground way.”

The girl obeyed; the onion spun round and rolled away; she followed it
afar, till at last it stopped at a leaf on which was written “Cettardo.”
And it was in this spot where the onion stopped that the town in after
time was built, and where the girl found the leaf is now the municipal
palace.  And so, one by one, great buildings rose.  Thus came the name
and arms of Cettardo.

In due time the maid had a lover, and it was said that these two were the
only ones who could go through the subterranean passage.

And it hath been, and may be still, proved that any person attempting
this passage will after a few steps be suffocated, and can go no further.

                                * * * * *

If we compare this legend with other traditions, there can be little
doubt that it is at least of Roman origin.  The great veneration for the
onion among the Egyptians—“Happy people,” wrote Juvenal, “to have gods
growing in their gardens!”—which passed to the Romans, probably, in later
days through the priests of Serapis and Isis, {206} and the many
mysteries connected with it, fully account for its being chosen as the
symbol of a city.  Its traditions were greatly mingled and confused with
those of the garlic and the leek, but it was above all other plants a
protector against sorcery; that is, against _all_ evil influence.  Where
onions could not help, nothing availed, or as it was expressed, _bulbus
nihil profuerit_.  It would appear from the conjectures of Nork
(_Andeutung eines Systemes der Mythologie_, p. 125) that the onion was
the sign or crest of the pyramid of Cheops, as it is of Cettardo.

It is, however, in the mention of a subterranean passage full of mephitic
vapour, which seems to have no connection with the tale whatever, that
the clue to the whole tradition may be found.  The people wanting a name
and a site for a city, receive them from a pythoness or sibyl, the two
being identified in many legends.  The grotto of the Sybil near Naples is
approached by a long subterranean road, over which I have myself
passed—being carried on the back of a strong peasant-guide.  Just in the
middle of the wet, winding cavern, I said: “You are a good horse.”

“I am particularly good at eating macaroni,” he replied, and stopped.
This was equivalent to begging.

“Horses who talk need the spur,” I replied, giving him a gentle reminder
with my heel.  He laughed, and trotted on.  However, he got his
“macaroni.”

That the pythoness, or female oracle, was first intoxicated with the
vapour of carbonic acid gas in a cavern, and that her utterances were
recorded on leaves which blew about loosely and were then gathered and
put together, is well known, and it is this, apparently, which is meant
in this tale by the flying leaf bearing the name of Cettardo.  Plutarch,
in his “Treatise on Abandoned Oracles,” declares that “the terrestrial
effluvium was the conductor of the god into the body of the Pythia.”  As
the vapours disappeared, the oracle became dumb, or, as Cicero expresses
it:

    “They ceased because this terrestrial virtue, which moved the soul of
    the Pythia by divine inspiration, disappeared in time, as we have
    seen rivers dried up or turned away into other beds.”

The onion was a symbol of fertility and increase of population, therefore
it was well adapted to serve as a fetish for a new city.  It was also
among the Egyptians _par eminence_ typical of the resurrection, so that
no woman was buried without one. {207}

It may be observed that in this legend Virgil appears as a guardian
spirit or god, certainly not as a mortal.

It would almost seem as if there were an undercurrent of genial satire or
mockery in the part where the young Pythia graciously assures the simple
peasants that, out of sheer gratitude and to oblige them, she will
consult with—of all the gods—the Robin Good-fellow, or goblin of the
red-cap! who in all tales, Italian as well as English, is ever a tricksy
sprite, more given to teasing and kissing servant-girls, and playing with
children and cats, than aught more dignified.  When we remember that the
object of this gracious benevolence is to make her father chief or king,
it verily appears as if the whole were a “put-up job” between parent and
child.

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END.

                                * * * * *

             _Elliot Stock_, 62, _Paternoster Row_, _London_.




FOOTNOTES.


{0a}  Of which there is an English translation by E. F. M. Benecke
entitled “Virgil in the Middle Ages.”  London, Swan Sonnenschein and Co.

{0b}  Comparetti.

{0c}  Alexandra Dumas also used this book very freely for his “Mille et
Une Fantômes”—in fact, the latter work may be said to be based on it.
The “Histoire des Fantômes” was the first and principal source from which
French lovers of the supernatural derived the interest in were-wolves and
vampires which manifested itself during the time of Napoleon and more
recently.

{0d}  “Pioneers of Evolution.”

{12}  Possibly meaning that it was the first time when he recognised his
power as a sage or sorcerer.

{13}  Horus Apollo, “Hieroglyph.,” II. 32.

{18}  Simply an _omelette aux truffes_, the common fashion of eating
truffles among the peasants.  It is possibly an old Roman dish, and may
be in Apicius.

{21a}  “Egli ha la lupa” (_i.e._, fame); also “Ho una fame ch’io la
veggio.”—“Proverbi Italiani da Orlando,” Pescetti, 1618.

{21b}  In the Italian MS.: “I figlii erano al letto del padre che
sapevano alla fine, ma non una lacrima sortiva dal loro ciglio.”

{23}  “Morto io, morto il porco.”  Latin: “Me mortuo terra misceatur
incendio” (Suetonius in “Vitâ Neronis”)—“When I shall be dead, the devil
may take everything!”

{32}  Published by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh, 1897.

{34}  _Male a far ti mangiare da qualche orco_—_Orco_ is from _Orcus_,
the Spirit of Hell.

{39}  Swearing by the body or any part thereof implied the destruction or
forfeiture of it, _i.e._, death or slavery in case the oath should be
broken.

{40}  The same was believed of Diana.  I have omitted here much needless
verbiage and repetition, and abbreviated what follows.

{41a}  I conjecture that this is wild poppy.

{41b}  A play on _paura_ (fear) and the name of the plant.

{46}  Quaintly spelled _quo prire_ in the original MS.

{47}  London, D. Nutt, 1844, price 1s., Mediæval Legends, No. II.

{49}  “Legends of Florence,” collected from the people, etc., by Charles
Godfrey Leland.  London, David Nutt, 1896.

{50a}  This is certain proof that the columns had been brought from the
East.

{50b}  This is mentioned by many writers.  I read it last in a very
curious old manuscript History of Florence, written apparently about
1650, which—though it was in good condition, and well bound in
parchment—I purchased for four _soldi_, or twopence, from an itinerant
dealer.  Finding by a note that the work belonged to the library of the
Liceo Dante, I restored it to that institution.  I also found in this
manuscript an account of the miracle of the blooming of the elm-tree of
San Zenobio.

{52}  It is worth noting _en passant_ that, according to Max Nordau, one
of the Ibsenites, modern Illuminati or Naturalists—I forget to which
division of the great body of reformers he belongs—has seriously proposed
this creation of _donne artificiale_.  _Vide_ Nordau, “Degeneration.”

{55}  This is finely conceived to give an idea of the great effect of the
agony expressed in the face of the spectre.  Adelone would naturally be
so deeply impressed by it as to be unable to maintain the interview.

{57}  E ne un luogo sporco.

{58} Evidently the Belsàbo of a preceding tale.

{60}  In the MS.: “‘Many are deluded, or get a thumb at the nose,’ says
the proverb.”  “Maxima sero delusi, ho sia con un palma di’ naso cosi,
dice il proverbio.”  This expressive sign of the thumb is represented in
an Irish Gospel of St. Mark of the sixth century.

{61}  This superlative is rendered in the original manuscript by the very
original expression: “They were so near being killed, that they were
almost at the point of death.”

{62a}  “Lo spirito del vaso che era quel santo Virgilio.”  Here Virgil is
for once fairly sainted or canonized.

{62b}  “Bevve un barile pieno di vino, e divenne ubbriaco come un tegolo
o quattro suonatori di violini.”  This recalls “tight as a brick”
(Manuscript).

{63}  “Virgiglio e la Donna di Diaccio” (Title in MS.).

{64}  In allusion, probably, to the “Madonna del Fuoco,” whose festival
is annually celebrated at Forli, in the Toscana Romagna.  The writer of
this story was from the neighbourhood of Forli.  “The Madonna del Fuoco
is probably Vesta” (_vide_ “Etrusco-Roman Legends,” by C. G. Leland).

{67}  Four antique marble statues of women.  Any ancient female statue is
commonly called a _Venus_ by the people at large in Italy.

{68}  Here there is a hiatus, or blank in the manuscript.  By crown is
here meant a fillet or tiara, as will be shown anon.

{72}  “Tutto era artificiale,” meaning very artistic or æsthetic.

{77}  “Alla _sua_ religione.”

{78a}  “La testa d’un uomo piena di vermi e puzzolente,” a parody of the
decayed cabbage.

{78b}  I may here note that the ruined castle of the dreaded Falkenstein
is in sight of the rooms where I am now writing in Homburg-les-Bains.

{80}  Singer or minstrel, one who sings his poems, and not merely a
writer of poems, is understood by _poeta_ in all these legends.

{88}  So given in the text for Seneca.

{89a}  “Cosi moriva e tutta Roma piangeva.”

{89b}  _Vampa_.

{89c}  _Capitalisti_, bankers.

{90}  “Il più grande birbone.”

{98a}  “E cosi tutti facevano l’amore nel buio, senza sapere chi era
quello che facevano. . . .”

{98b}  _Vide_ “Etrusco-Roman Remains.”

{98c}  By inadvertence or a blunder in the original manuscript, the
wizard or witch is made male and female, and the victim alternately the
young lady and the lover.  It would make no difference as regards the
plot.

{99}  “Serratura o luchetta.”

{100} Florentine _folar_, or _follo_, from _foglio_, a leaf.  I
conjecture that this is the original of the English slang _vogel_, a silk
handerchief, and not the German _vogel_, a bird.

{106}  It may be noted that any clever modern juggler could perform the
miracle of the fish as here described.

{109}  The original reduces this to a minimum—“Non più grande del dito
mignole di un’ bimbo di nascita.”

{110a}  This is exactly like a small tambourine, but more strongly made.

{110b}  _The Boston Comic Annual_, 1828.

{114}  Signore Cosino, or Cosimo.  This name appears here for the first
time in the story.

{126}  _Vide_ “Algonkin Tales of New England,” by Charles G. Leland.

{134}  In the original “La Dea della Neve.”  In Italy the word “goddess”
is more familiarly and frequently used than it is by peasants in England,
but rather with application to great and good spirits of any kind than to
deities.

{135}  This was probably due to the very rapid formation of a frozen
crust.  _Vide_ Nansen’s work.

{138}  Anime.

{140}  _Comare_, godmother, gossip, a familiar form of address.  In
French _commère_; Scotch, _cummer_.

{141a}  “Andiede bene”—Cut their lucky.

{141b}  “I find this is a peasant’s expression for the ‘gloaming.’
_Verso sera_ was the explanation” (Roma Lister).  Literally “between the
dim and the dark.”  “Entre chien et loup”—the owl’s light.

{143}  Literally “ugly mammy.”

{144}  This conveys the idea of complete cleanliness, as well-scoured
bare walls and floors are most easily vibrated by currents of air, and
consequently most echoing.

{147}  “Ora siamo belli fritti.”

{148}  “Passegiando, passegiando,
Me ne vengo, ricordando,”

or “walking away.”

{150}  M. Annæi Lucani, “De Bello Civili, vel Pharsaliæ,” Liber X., 225.

{151}  The reader will find this Herodias-Lilith fully described in a
little work entitled “Aradia; or, The Gospel of the Witches,” by Charles
Godfrey Leland.  London: D. Nutt.

{155a}  “Scongiurati”—evoked.

{155b}  The sentence is twice repeated in the original.

{156}  “Ed aria resplendente,” a play on the name Bell’ Aria.

{158}  This I have supplied to fill a blank.

{159}  Evidently with quicksilver or mercury—_similia similibus_.

{165}  Bottles for wine are sometimes made to contain several gallons.

{166}  “An Enquiry into the Life and Legend of Michael Scott,” by the
Rev. J. Wood Brown, M.A.  Edinburgh, David Douglas, 1897.

{172}  “Pigionale come si dei ebbe volgarmente” (original text).

{173}  Annunziata.

{177}  “Perche e stato sempre il mio dio.”

{178}  Vollmer, “Wörterbuch der gesammten Mythologie,” p. 1162.

{182}  “Anche dopo morte rimarrai la stemma di Firenze, ovunque si
trovera il Giglio.”

{183a}  Pausanias, v. ii.

{183b}  “Christliche Kunstsymbolik,” p. 28; Frankfort, 1839, _apud_
Friedrich.

{187a}  Here there is a manifest omission.  It would appear that the
Emperor made love to the girl, and that the first speech which follows
was by him and not by her.

{187b}  Here the remark and answer are run together in absurd confusion,
but I believe that I have correctly restored the original.

{190a}  “Sentenze,” as defined by D’Ambra, “Apothegms.”

{190b}  Avviso, “Quando l’ amico guardara (o), ricordava bene l’ avviso,
cosi lo spirito lo guardava, e cosi quella persona diveniva buona.”

{194}  “Il proverbio o poema divena
Uno spirito vivente,
Che ti aiutera
A divenire savio e sapiente.”

{196}  The Bag of Nails was once a tavern sign in England.  It was
conjectured to be a corruption of _Bacchanals_—a very unlikely
derivation.

{203}  This means here the recitation of five prayers, after which
stories are told or traditions imparted and discussed.  An immense amount
of folklore can be gathered on such occasions.

{204a}  “Ne avevano un capo e ne gnente”—No head and no nothing—in the
original.

{204b}  The speech as given by the precocious maiden in the original text
is an amusing effort at fine talk or elevated language by an illiterate
person, its object being to strengthen the marvel of the child’s
inspiration.

{204c}  That is, on her face.  To do this in a pig-sty was a special
means of invoking dreams or inspirations, as described in Norse sagas.
It is fully illustrated in my “Etrusco-Roman Remains.”

{206}  Their temples were the last which were abandoned in Rome, as
Wilkie Collins has minutely described in a novel.

{207}  “Wegen ihrer erregenden Eigenschaft wurde die Zwiebel ein
erotisches Symbol; deshalb _salaces_ genannt; daher in die Schamtheile
weiblicher Mumien als Sinnbilder der Auferstehung gelegt
wurden.”—Friedrich, “Symbolik.”