Chapter I: Gatti DI San Lorenzo (1)

"In the cloisters of San Lorenzo there are many cats, and every evening people may be seen who go there to feed them, among whom are many old men and women. But these cats were long ago themselves human, that is to say, they were once all wizards and witches, who bear their present form for punishment of an evil deed.

"There was once a very wealthy and powerful family in Florence, at the head of which was a gentleman and lady who had an only daughter, in whom was all their love and hope. Among their servants in a higher position was an old woman, who was very vindictive and easily offended, so that she could brood over deadly revenge for years for the least affront, and she fancied she had a great many, because when she had neglected her duty at times she had been scolded by her mistress or master.

"Now this old woman knew that death or disaster to the daughter would drive the parents mad; and so having recourse to witchcraft, she put into the drink of the young lady a decoction, the result of which was that she began to waste away, growing weaker and paler, without feeling any pain.

"Then her parents, in great fear, consulted the best physicians, who did no good, for indeed it was a case beyond their skill. And at last, beginning to believe that there was something unearthly in it all, they sent for an old woman who cured by occult art. {171} And when she came she looked steadily at the girl, then frowned and shook her head, and asked for a ribbon or cord, no matter what, so that it were one which the young lady had worn about her waist. With this she measured accurately the height of the patient from head to foot, and then the width from hand to hand, it being desirous that the arms be of equal length; but there was the disproportion of the thickness of a piece of money. Then the witch said:

"'This is none of my affair as regards the cure. Your daughter is bewitched, and I can indeed make the witch appear, but to beat her and compel her to remove the spell depends on you alone.'

"Now they, suspecting the old servant, sent for her, but she had disappeared and could not be found. Then the doctress took a caldron, and put into it hot water and the undergarments of the girl and certain herbs, and boiled them all together, singing an incantation, and, taking a knife, sharpened it on the table, whetting it on the chemise of the young lady.

"Then the old servant woman appeared at the door, against her will, forced by the power of the spell, in an agony of rage and bitterness; but she was at once seized and beaten, whereupon she consented to unbewitch the girl, who speedily recovered.

"Now Florence was at that time fearfully afflicted with evil witches, who defied all authority, and spread disease and death far and wide; but this affair of the bewitched lady being made known, both priests and laymen rose up in wrath, and the sorceress fled for sanctuary to the cloisters of San Lorenzo.

"Then to save their lives the _Strege_ made a compromise with the priests, and it was agreed that they should no longer live as witches, or do any harm, but all live and die as cats in the cloister, where they should be regularly fed, and exist in peace. Which agreement has been duly carried out to this day, and among these cats are many who were once witches in human form hundreds of years ago."

* * * * *

This narrative is not so much a story as an account of the manner in which bewitchment is undone by another witch. The reader will find the incantations in the chapter entitled "The Spell of the Boiling Clothes," in my work on "Etruscan-Roman Remains." One of the most serious riots which has occurred in Milan for many years took place March 3, 1891, when the populace tortured terribly and tried to kill a witch, who had, it was believed, been detected by this spell.

* * * * *

"_Haec fabula docet_," adds the wise Flaxius, "this story suggests a reason why a certain kind of ladies of ecclesiastical proclivities are always called tabbies. And that there is something in it I can well believe, knowing one who, when she calls her rector or bishop '_De-ar man_!' does so in a manner which marvellously suggests the purring of a cat. And the manner in which the tabby pounces on the small birds, mice, and gold-fish of others--_i.e._, their peccadilloes, and small pets or pleasures, which in good faith do her no harm--seems like literally copying the feline--upon line. . . .

"Oh! ye who visit the cloister, and see the cats, think well on this legend, and especially on the deep identity of witches with tabbies!

"And for a moral, note that, with all their sins, what the witches and cats aimed at above all things was _food_, with which they have remained content, according to the exquisite lyric by the divine Shelley, p. 661, Dowden's edition:--

"'This poor little cat
Only wanted a rat,
To stuff out its own little maw,
And it were as good
Some people had such food
To make them _hold their jaw_.'"

LEGEND OF THE PIAZZA SAN BIAGIO

"For by diabolical art he assumed varied forms, even the human, and
deceived people by many occult tricks."--FROMANN, _Tractatus de
Fascinatione_, 1675.

This is a slight tale of light value, and not new, but it has assumed local colour, and may amuse the reader.

"It was a great art of witches and sorcerers of old to give a man or woman by art the appearance of another person, and this they called 'drawing white lines with charcoal,' and there is many a fine tale about it. Now it was about the time when Berta spun and owls wore silk cloaks that a Signore Nannincino lived in the old Piazza San Biagio. He had many small possessions in Florence, but the roast chickens of the supper, or his great piece, was an estate in the country called the Mula a Quinto, for which all his relations longed, like wolves for a fat sheep. And Nannincini, being sharp to a keen edge, and knowing how to lend water and borrow wine, had promised this estate in secret to everybody, and got from them many a gratification, and supped and dined with them for years, yet after this died without leaving a will.

"Then six of his relations assembled and resolved to secure the property, though they invoked the devil. And to aid them they took a certain scamp named Giano di Selva, who somewhat resembled the departed Nannincino, and he, calling in a witch of his acquaintance, was made by sorcery to look as much like the defunct as two beads of the same rosary. So Nannincino was removed and Giano put in his place, where he lay still for an hour, and then began to show signs of life. And after a time he called for a notary and began to make his will. First he left a house to one, and his sword to another, and so on, till it came to the Mula a Quinto.

"'And who shall have the Mula a Quinto, dear good uncle?' asked a nephew.

"'That,' replied the dying man, 'I leave to my good friend, the only true friend I ever had, the noblest of men--'

"'But what is his _name_?' asked the nephew.

"'Giano di Selva,' gasped the dying man. And it was written down by the notary, and the will was signed, and the signer died immediately after. All their shaking could not revive him.

"The tale ends with these words: _E cosi ingannati gli ingannatori_, _rimase Giano herede del podere_--And thus the biters being bit, d'ye see, Giano took a handsome property."

"And does his ghost still promenade the palace?"

"To oblige you, Signore, for this once--_place a lei il comandare_--it does. The ghost walks--always when the rent fails to come in, and there is no money in the treasury--_cammina_, _cammina per un fil di spada_--walks as straight as an acrobat on a rope. But I cannot give you a walking ghost of a rascal to every house, Signore. If all the knaves who made fortunes by trickery were to take to haunting our houses in Florence, they would have to lie ten in a bed, or live one hundred in a room, and ghosts, as you know, love to be alone. _Mille grazie_, Signore Carlo! This will keep _our_ ghost from walking for a week."

"Of which remark here made that '_the ghost doth walk_,'" comments the sage Flaxius, "when money is forbidden unto man (which is so commonly heard in theatrical circles when the weekly salary is not paid), I have no doubt that it comes from the many ancient legends which assign a jealous guardian sprite to every hoard. And thus in Spenser's wondrous 'Faerie Queene' the marvellous stores in Mammon's treasury, 'embost with massy gold of glorious guifte,' were watched by

"'An ugly feend more fowle than dismall day;
The which with monstrous stalk behind him stept,
And ever as he went dew watch upon him kept.'

"The which quotation is in its turn otherwise curious since it gave, I doubt not, the original suggestion to Coleridge of the verse wherein mention is made in simile of one who walks in tear and dread, and dares not turn his head--

"'For well he knows a griesly fiend
Doth close behind him tread.'

"'More or less accurately, my masters, more or less.' ''Tis sixty years since'--I read the original."

THE SPIRIT OF THE PORTA SAN GALLO

"And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him:
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight."

--WORDSWORTH, _Poems of the Imagination_.

The reader should never at once infer that a legend is recent because it is attached to a new place. Spirits and traditions are like the goblin of Norse tale, who moved with the family. The family changed its home to get rid of him, but on the way the elf popped his head out and remarked, "_Wi flutten_" ("We're flitting" or moving). The ghost of Benjamin Franklin long haunted the library which he had founded in Philadelphia, and when the library or books were transferred to a new building, the ghost went with them and his statue. And in like manner the legend of the religious person, male or female, who is also a _fish_ has travelled over many lands, till it came to the _vasca_ or basin of the Porto San Gallo. Thus Leonard Vair, in his charming _Trois Livres des Charmes_, _Sorcelages ou Enchantemens_, Paris, 1583, tells us that "there is a cloister in Burgundy, by which there is a pond, and in this pond are as many fish as there be monks in the cloister. And when one of the fish swims on the surface of the water and beats with its tail, then one of the monks is ever ill." But there is a mass of early Christian or un-Christian folklore which identifies "Catholic clergy-women" with fish, even as Quakers are identified in Philadelphia with shad. In Germany all maids just in their teens are called _Backfisch_, that is, pan-fish or _fritures_, from their youth and liveliness, or delicacy. We may read in Friedrich that the fish is a common Christian symbol of immortality, which fully accounts for all legends of certain of them living for ever. The story which I have to tell is as follows:--

LO SPIRITO DELLA VASCA DELLA PORTA SAN GALLO.

"In this fountain-basin is found a pretty little fish, which is always there, and which no one can catch, because it always escapes with great _lestezza_ or agility.

"And this is the queen of all the other fish, or else the Spirit of the Fountain.

"This spirit, while on earth, was a beautiful girl who loved an official, and he fell ill and was in the military hospital.

"The parents of the maid opposed her marriage with this official, though he was so much in love with her that it and anxiety had made him ill. Then the maid became a nun so that she might be near him in illness, and nurse him in his last moments, which indeed came to pass, for he died, nor did she long survive him.

"Then her mother, who had magic power (_essendo stata una fata_ {177}), regretted having opposed her daughter's love and that of the young man, since it had caused the death of both. And to amend this she so enchanted them that by night both became _folletti_ or spirits haunting the hospital, while by day the maid becomes a little fish living in the fountain. But when seen by night she appears as a pretty little nun (_una bella monachina_), and goes to the hospital to nurse the invalids, for which she has, indeed, a passion. And if any one of them observes her, he feels better, but in that instant she vanishes, and is in the arms of her lover. But sometimes it happens that he becomes jealous of a patient, and then he vexes the poor man in every way, twitching off his covering, and playing him all kinds of spiteful tricks."

* * * * *

It is otherwise narrated, in a more consistent, and certainly more traditionally truthful manner, that both the lovers are fish by day and _folletti_ by night. This brings the legend to close resemblance with the undying fish of Bowscale Tarn, recorded in Wordsworth's beautiful song at the feast of Brougham Castle in the "Poems of the Imagination."

* * * * *

"'Tis worth noting," pens the observant Flaxius on this, "that in days of yore fish, feminines, and fascination were considered so inseparable that Dr. Johannes Christian Fromann wrote a chapter on this mystical trinity, observing that music was, as an attractor, connected with them, as shown by dolphins, syrens, Arions, and things of that sort. And he quoted--yea, in the holy Latin tongue--many instances of fishers who entice their finny prey by playing flutes:

"'Which thing I doubted till I saw that Doubt
Pursued, its refutation oft begets,
When in America I once found out
That shad were caught by means of castin' nets!'"

STORY OF THE PODESTA WHO WAS LONG ON HIS JOURNEY A LEGEND OF THE DUOMO

"Were I ten times as tedious, I would find it in my heart to bestow
it all on you."--_Dogberry_.

This little tale is told by the Florentine Poggio, who was born in 1380 and died in 1459, yet lived--in his well-known _Facezie_. But as it ever was and is a folk-story, independently of the great jester, I think it worthy of a place in this collection.

"There was once a podesta sent from Rome to govern Florence, and truly he was of that kind who to a farthing's worth of sense have ten ducats' value in self-conceit; for if vanity could have kept a man warm, he never would have had need to buy blankets. And this was most shown in his belief that he was a great orator, though he was so intolerably stupid and slow that his speeches were like the post-rider of Giordano, who in good weather sometimes got as far as five miles a day.

"Now he was to be inducted into office in the Cathedral, in the presence of the _priori_, or notables of the city of Florence, and so begun a discourse in which he first of all described how great a man he had been as senator in Rome, and what he had done, and what everybody else connected with him had done, and all the details of his departure from the Eternal City; and then depicted a banquet given to him at Sutro, and so went on, telling everything about everybody, till, after several hours of terribly tiresome discourse, he had got no farther than Siena.

"Now by this time, as Poggio words it, 'This excessive length of wearisome narration had so exhausted his auditors that they began to fear that the entire day would be spent on the road,' and at last, as the shades of night began to fall, one who was present rose and said:

"'Monsignore, I beg you to remember that it is growing late, and you must really get on a little faster in your journey, for if you are not in Florence to-day, the gates will be shut, and unless you get here in time you will not be allowed to enter, and thus you will miss being ordained, and cannot enter on your office.'

"Which having heard, the man of many words promptly concluded his speech by saying that he was really in Florence."

* * * * *

Southey, in "The Doctor," has narrated a number of instances of tedious discourse, but none, I think, quite equal to this.

There is a shadow under every lamp, a devil's chapel close by every church, and even of the venerable and holy Duomo of Florence there are such tales as the following:

LA MESSA DE' VILLANI.

"If there is any faith to be put in old stories and ancient books, even the ladies and gentleman, to say nothing of priests, used such language in their ordinary conversation, in good old Medici times, as would not be heard among any but the lowest people now-a-days. Well, as the saying is:

"'Ne di tempo, ne di Signoria,
Non ti dar malinconia.'

"'Fret not thyself for time long past away,
For weather, nor for what the great may say.'

"Well, it happened one morning in Florence that a _gentil donna_, who, I take it, was more _donna_ than truly _gentil_, whatever her rank may have been, meeting at the door of the Duomo a very ordinary and rough figure of her acquaintance, who had only made himself look more vulgar by new and gaudy clothes, asked him as he came out:

"'Is the Cads' Mass {180} over already?'

"To which he, in nowise put out, promptly replied:

"'Yes, Madonna, and that of the Demireps is just going to begin; {181} only hurry, and you'll be there in time with the rest of 'em!'

"And that lifted him to celebrity, for in those famous days a small joke often made a great reputation. Ah! Signore--a great many of us have been born into this world four hundred years too late--more's the pity! However, the lady learned the truth of the old proverb, '_Guardati del villan_, _quando ha la camicia bianca_'--'Look out for a vulgar fellow when he has a clean shirt on,' for then he thinks himself fine enough to say anything saucy.

"And there is yet another story of the same sort, Signore; indeed, I think that while the world lasts there will always be a few of them left for steady customers, under the counter, like smuggled goods in Venice; and it is this: It befell once that a Florentine fell in love with a lady, who was like her mother, _come il ramo al tronco s'assomiglia_--'as the bough to the tree, or very much worse than she ought to be;' for the dear mamma was like the Porta San Niccolo, only not so well famed.

"However, the gentleman wedded her, never heeding the proverb:

"'Let every wooer be afraid
To wed a maiden not a maid;
For sooner or later, as 'tis said,
She'll turn again unto her trade.'

"However, in this case the proverb got the lie, for the lady after she was married behaved with great propriety, and yet was often reminded that she had better have repented before she sinned than after; for many would not speak to her, for all her wealth, till she was well convinced that _Che profitta ravedersi dopo il fatto_?

"'When the deed has once been done,
What is the use of repenting, my son?'

"So it befell one morning that the poor soul was praying in the Cathedral or Duomo, as many another poor sinner had done before her (doubtless on the same spot), when a noble lady, who had never been found out in any naughtiness (some people are certainly very lucky in this world, Signore Carlo!), came by, and seeing the penitent, drew in her robe, turned up her nose, and retreated as if the other had the plague. To which the Magdalen replied, in a sad but firm voice, 'Madonna, you need not be afraid to touch me, for I assure you that the malady (of which I have, I trust, been thoroughly cured) attacks none save those who wish to have it.'"

* * * * *

When standing in the Cathedral, the visitor may remember that here Santo Crescenzio, who died in 424, once wrought a miracle, thus recorded in his "Life" of the fourteenth century:

"A poor man had come into the Cathedral and saw no light (_i.e._, was
blind), and going to where Saint Crescentius was, implored him with
great piety that he would cause the light to return unto him. And
being moved to pity, he made the sign of the cross in the eyes of the
blind man, and incontinently the light was restored unto him. Saint
Crescentius did not wish this to be made known, and pretended to know
nothing about it, but he could not conceal such miracles."

Of which the immortal Flaxius remarks, that "it is singular that so many saints who wished to keep their miracles unknown had not the forethought to make silence a condition of cure. Also, that of all the wonder-working once effected by the holy men of the Church, the only gift now remaining to them is the miraculous power of changing sons and daughters into nephews and nieces; the which, as I am assured, is still as flourishing as ever, and permitted as a proof of transubstantiation." Thus it is that simple heretics deride holy men. And Flaxius is, I bid ye note, a sinner, in whose antique, unsanctified derision I most assuredly do take no part, "it being in bad form in this our age to believe or disbelieve in anything," and therefore in bad style to laugh at aught.

It may be worth recalling, when looking out on the Cathedral Square, that it was here that San Zenobio performed another great miracle, recorded in all his lives, but most briefly in the poetical one:

"Then did he raise an orphan from the dead,
The only son of a poor widow, he,
A cart with oxen passing o'er his head,
Died in the Duomo Square in misery;
But though all crushed, the Saint restored his life,
And, well and gay and bright as stars do shine,
He went to his mother, and the pious wife
Gave thanks to God for mercy all divine."

Which being witnessed, says the _Vita San Zenobii_, all who were present began to sing, "_Gloria tibi Domine qui mirabilia per servos tuos in nobis operari dignatus es_, _gloria sit tibi-i et laus in saecu-la--sec-u-lo-o-o-rum_, _A-men_.

Which, if they sung it as I heard it sung yesterday in the Cathedral of Siena, must have had an extremely soporific effect, lulling all others to sleep, and causing them to see beatific visions beyond all belief. I had in my boyhood a teacher named Professor Sears C. Walker, who was wont to tell how he had once heard in a rural New England village a church congregation sing:

"Before thy throne the angels bow-wow-wow-ow!"

But to hear the _bow-wow_ in perfection, one must go to Rome. A pack in full cry or a chorus of owls is nothing to it. But let us pass on to a fresh story.

LEGENDS OF THE BOBOLI GARDENS: THE OLD GARDENER, AND THE TWO STATUES AND THE FAIRY

"He found such strange enchantment there,
In that garden sweet and rare,
Where night and day
The nightingales still sing their roundelay,
And plashing fountains 'neath the verdure play,
That for his life he could not thence away;
And even yet, though he hath long been dead,
'Tis said his spirit haunts the pleasant shade."

--_The Ring of Charlemagne_.

A great showman, as I have heard, once declared that in establishing a menagerie, one should have the indispensable lion, an _obligato_ elephant, a requisite tiger, an essential camel, and imperative monkeys. One of the "indispensable lions" of Florence is the Boboli Gardens, joining the Pitti Palace, which, from their careful preservation in their original condition, give an admirable idea of what gardens were like in an age when far more was thought of them than now as places of habitual resort and enjoyment, and when they entered into all literature and life. Abraham a Santa Clara once wrote a discourse against gardens, as making life too happy or simple, basing his idea on the fact that sin originated in the Garden of Eden.

The Boboli Gardens were planned by Il Tribolo for Cosimo di Medici. The ground which they occupy is greatly varied, rising high in some places, from which very beautiful views of Florence, with its "walls and churches, palaces and towers," may be seen. Of their many attractions the guide-book remarks poetically in very nearly the following words:--

"Its long-embowered walks, like lengthened arbours,
Are well adapted to the summer's sun;
While statues, terraces, and vases add
Still more unto its splendour. All around
We see attractive statues, and of these
A number really are restored antiques,
And many by good artists; best of all
Are four by mighty Michel Angelo,
Made for the second Julius, and meant
To decorate his tomb. You see them at
The angles of the grotto opposite
The entrance to the gardens. Of this grot
The famous Redi sang in verse grotesque:

"Ye satyrs, in a trice
Leave your low jests and verses rough and hobbly,
And bring me a good fragment of the ice
Kept in the grotto of the Garden Boboli.
With nicks and picks
Of hammers and sticks,
Disintegrate it
And separate it,
Break it and split it,
Splinter and slit it!
Till at the end 'tis fairly ground and rolled
Into the finest powder, freezing cold."

There are also, among the things worth seeing, the Venus by Giovanni of Boulogne (called di Bologna); the Apollo and Ceres by Baccio Bandinelli; the group of Paris carrying off Helen by V. de' Rossi, and the old Roman fountain-bath and obelisk. The trees and flowers, shrubbery and _boschetti_, are charming; and if the reader often visits them, long sitting in the sylvan shade on sunny days, he will not fail to feel that strange enchantment which seems to haunt certain places, and people them with dreams, if not with elves.

The fascination of these dark arbours old, and of the antique gardens, has been recognised by many authors, and there are, I suppose, few visitors to Florence who have not felt it and recalled it years after in distant lands as one recalls a dream. Therefore, I read with interest or sympathy the following, which, though amounting to nothing as a legend, is still valuable as setting forth the fascination of the place, and how it dates even from him who gave the Boboli Gardens their name:

IL GIARDINO BOBOLI.

"The Boboli Garden is the most beautiful in Europe.

"Boboli was the name of the farmer who cultivated the land before it was bought by Cosimo de' Medici and his wife Eleanora.

"After he had sold the property he remained buried in grief, because he had an attachment for it such as some form for a dog or a cat. And so great was his love for it that it never left his mind, nor could he ever say amen to it; for on whatever subject he might discourse, it always came in like one who will not be kept out, and his refrain was, 'Well, you'll see that my place will become _il nido degli amori_ (the nest of loves), and I myself after my death will never be absent from it.' His friends tried to dissuade him from thinking so much of it, saying that he would end by being lunatic, but he persevered in it till he died.

"And it really came to pass as he said; for soon after his death, and ever since, many have on moonlight nights seen his spirit occupied in working in the gardens."

* * * * *

The story is a pretty one, and it is strangely paralleled by one narrated in my own Memoirs of the old Penington mansion in Philadelphia, the gardens of which were haunted by a gentle ghost, a lady who had lived there in her life, and who was, after her death, often seen watering the flowers in them by moonlight. And thus do--

"printless footsteps fall
By the spots they loved before."

The second legend which I recovered, relating to the Boboli Gardens, is as follows:

LE DUE STATUE E LA NINFA.

"There are in the Boboli Gardens two statues of two imprisoned kings, and it is said that every night a beautiful fairy of the grotto clad in white rises from the water, emerging perfectly dry, and converses with the captive kings for one hour, going alternately from one to the other, as if bearing mutual messages, and then returns to the grotto, gliding over the ground without touching the grass with her feet, and after this vanishes in the water."

"This tale is, as I conceive," writes the observant Flaxius, "an allegory, or, as Petrus Berchorius would have called it, a _moralisation_, the marrow whereof is as follows: The two captive kings are Labour and Capital, who have, indeed, been long enchained, evil tongues telling each that the other was his deadly foe, while the fairy is Wise Reform, who passes her time in consoling and reconciling them. And it shall come to pass that when the go-betweens or brokering mischief-makers are silenced, then the kings will be free and allied."

"Then indeed, as you may see,
All the world will happy be!"

_Vivat Sequenz_! Now for the next story.

HOW LA VIA DELLA MOSCA GOT ITS NAME

"Puer--abige Muscas!"

--_Cicero de Orat._, 60.

The following story contains no new or original elements, as it is only an ordinary tale of transformation by witchcraft, but as it accounts for the origin of the name of a street in Florence I give it place:--

LA VIA DELLA MOSCA.

"This is the way that the Via della Mosca, or the Street of the Fly, got its name. There once dwelt in it, in a very old house, a family which, while of rank, were not very wealthy, and therefore lived in a retired manner. There were father, mother, and one daughter, who was wonderfully beautiful--_un vero occhio di sole_.

"And as the sun hath its shadow, so there was a living darkness in this family in a _donna di servizio_, a servant woman who had been many years with them, who had a daughter of her own, who was also a beauty of a kind, but as dark as the other was fair; the two were like day and night, and as they differed in face, so were they unlike in soul. For the young signora had not a fault in her; she would not have caused any one pain even to have her own way or please her vanity, and they say the devil will drop dead whenever he shall meet with such a woman as _that_. However, he never met with this young lady, I suppose, because he is living yet. And the young lady was so gentle of heart that she never said an ill word of any one, while the maid and her mother never opened their mouths save for gossip and slander. And she was so occupied with constant charity, and caring for poor children, and finding work for poor people, that she never thought about her own beauty at all, and when people told her that _chi nasce bella_, _nasce maritata_ (Whoever is born pretty is born to be married), she would reply, 'Pretty or ugly, there are things more important in life than weddings.'

"And so far did she carry this, that she gave no heed at all to a very gallant and handsome yet good-hearted honourable wealthy young gentleman who lived in a palazzo opposite, and who, from watching and admiring her, had ended by falling desperately in love. So he made a proposal of marriage to her through her parents, but she replied (having had her mind, in truth, on other things) that she was too much taken up with other duties to properly care for a husband, and that her dowry was not sufficient to correspond to his wealth, however generous he might be in dispensing with one. And as she was as firm and determined as she was gentle and good, she resolutely kept him at arm's length. But firmness is nothing against fate, and he 'who runs away with nimble feet, in the war of love at last will beat.' {189}

"Now, if she was indifferent to the young signore, the dark maid-servant was not, for she had fallen as much in love with him as an evil, selfish nature would permit her, and she planned and plotted with her mother by night and by day to bring about what she desired. Now, the old woman, unknown to all, was a witch, as all wicked women really are--they rot away with vanity and self-will and evil feelings till their hearts are like tinder or gunpowder, and then some day comes a spark of the devil's fire, and they flash out into witches of some kind.

"The young signore had a great love for boating on the Arno, which was a deeper river in those days; he would often pass half the night in his boat. Now, the mother and daughter so contrived it that the young signorina should return very late on a certain night from visiting the poor, accompanied by the old woman. And when just in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio the mother gave a whistle, and lo! there came a sudden and terrible blast of wind, which lifted up the young lady and whirled her over the bridge into the rushing river underneath.

"But, as fate would have it, the young man was in his boat just below, and fortune fell down to him, as it were, from heaven; for seeing a form float or flit past him in the water and the darkness, he caught at it and drew it into the boat, and truly Pilate's wife was not so astonished when the roast capon rose up in the dish and crowed as was this boatman at finding what he had fished up out of the stream.

"There is a saying of a very unlucky contrary sort of man that _casco in Arno ed arse_ (He fell in the Arno and burnt himself). But in this case, by luck, the falling of the young lady into the river caused her heart to burn with love, for so bravely and courteously and kindly did the young signore behave, conveying her promptly home without a sign of love-making or hint of the past, that she began to reconsider her refusal, and the end thereof was a betrothal, by which the mother and daughter were maddened to think that they had only hastened and aided what they had tried to prevent.

"Now, it is true that bad people put ten times as much strong will and hard work into their evil acts as good folk do into better deeds, because the latter think their cause will help itself along, while the sinners know perfectly well that they must help themselves or lose. So the witch only persevered the more, and at last she hit on this plan. With much devilish ado she enchanted a comb of thorns, so that whoever was combed with it would turn into a fly, and must remain one till the witch bade the victim assume his or her usual form.

"Then on the bridal morn the old woman offered to comb out the long golden locks of the young lady, and she did so, no other person being present, so she began her incantation:

"'Earthly beauty fade away,
Maiden's form no longer stay,
For a fly thou shalt become,
And as a busy insect hum,
_Hum--hum--brum--brum_!
_Buzz-uz-uz_ about the room!

"'Ope thine eyes and spread thy wings,
Pass away to insect things.
Now the world will hate thee more
Than it ever loved before
When it hears thy ceaseless hum,
_Buzz-uz-uz_ about the room!'

"And hearing this, the bride sank into a deep sleep, during which she changed into a fly, and so soared up to the ceiling and about the room, buzzing indeed.

"Now, with all her cleverness, the witch had missed a stitch in her sorcery, for she had not combed hard enough to _draw blood_, being afraid to wake the maid; hence it came to pass that instead of a small common fly she became a very large and exquisitely beautiful one, with a head like gold, a silver body, and beautiful blue and silver wings like her bridal dress. And she was not confined to buzzing, for she had the power to sing one verse. However, when the change took place, the old woman rushed from the room screaming like mad, declaring that her young mistress was a witch who had turned into a fly as soon as she had touched her with a consecrated comb which had been dipped in holy water, and to this she added many lies, as that a witch to avoid the holy sacrament of marriage always changed her form, and that she had always suspected the signorina of being a witch ever since she had seen her fly in the wind over the Arno to the young signore.

"But when they went to look at the fly, and found it so large and beautiful, they were amazed, nor were they less astonished when they heard it begin to buzz with a most entrancing strangely sweet sound, and then sing:--

"'Be ye not amazed that I
Am enchanted as a fly,
Evil witchcraft was around me,
Evil witches' spells have bound me:
Now I am a fly I know,
But woe to her who made me so!'

"And when the young signore stretched out his hand, the fly came buzzing with joy and lighted like a bird on his finger, and this she did with great joy whenever any of the poor whom she had befriended came to see her, and so she behaved to all whom she had loved. And when it was observed that the fly had no fear of holy things, but seemed to love them, all believed in her song.

"Till one day the young signore, calling all the family and friends together, said: 'This is certainly true, that she who was to have been my wife is here, turned into a fly. And as for her being a witch, ye can all see that she fears neither holy water nor a crucifix. But I believe that these women here, her nurse and daughter, have filled our ears with lies, and that the nurse herself is the sorceress who hath done the evil deed. Now, I propose that we take all three, the fly, the mother, and daughter, and hang the room with verbena, which I have provided, and sprinkle the three with much holy water, all of us making the _castagna_ and _jettatura_, and see what will come of it.'

"Then the two witches began to scream and protest in a rage, but as soon as they opened their mouths, holy water was dashed into their faces, whereat they howled more horribly than ever, and at last promised, if their lives should be spared in any manner, to tell the whole truth, and to disenchant the bride. Which they forthwith did.

"Then those present seized the witches, and said: 'Your lives shall indeed be spared, but it is only just that ere ye go ye shall be as nicely combed, according to the proverb which says, "Comb me and I'll comb thee!"'

"Said and done, but the combing this time drew blood, and the mother and daughter, shrinking smaller and smaller, flew away at last as two vile carrion-flies through the window.

"And as the story spread about Florence, every one came to see the house where this had happened, and so it was that the street got the name of the _Via della Mosca_ or Fly Lane."

* * * * *

There is a curious point in this story well worth noting. In it the sorceress lulls the maiden to sleep before transforming her, that is, causes her death before reviving her with a comb of thorns. Now, the thorn is a deep symbol of death--naturally enough from its dagger-like form--all over the world wherever it grows. As Schwenck writes:

"In the Germanic mythology the thorn is an emblem of death, as is the
nearly allied long and deep slumber--the idea being that death kills
with a sharp instrument which is called in the Edda the sleep-thorn,
which belongs to Odin the god of death. It also occurs as a person
in the Nibelungen Lied as Hogni, Hagen, 'the thorn who kills
Siegfried.' The tale of Dornroschen (the sleeping beauty), owes its
origin to the sleep-thorn, which is, however, derived from the
death-thorn, death being an eternal sleep."

This is all true, and sleep is like death. But the soothing influence of a comb produces sleep quite apart from any association with death.

Apropos of flies, there is a saying, which is, like all new or eccentric sayings, or old and odd ones revived, called "American." It is, "There are no flies on him," or more vulgarly, "I ain't got no flies on _me_," and signifies that the person thus exempt is so brisk and active, and "flies round" at such a rate, that no insect has an opportunity to alight on him. The same saying occurs in the _Proverbi Italiani_ of Orlando Pescetti, Venice, 1618, _Non si lascia posar le mosche addosso_ (He lets no flies light on him).

When I was a small boy in America, the general teaching to us was that it was cruel to kill flies, and I have heard it illustrated with a tale of an utterly depraved little girl of three years, who, addressing a poor fly which was buzzing in the window-pane, said:

"Do you love your Dod, 'ittle fy?"

"Do you want to _see_ your Dod, 'ittle fy?"

"Well" (with a vicious jab of the finger), "you SHALL!"

And with the last word the soul of the fly had departed to settle its accounts in another world. Writing here in Siena, the most fly-accursed or Beelzebubbed town in Italy, on July 25th, being detained by illness, I love that little angel of a girl, and think with utter loathing and contempt of dear old Uncle Toby and his "Go--go, poor fly!" True, I agree with him to his second "go," but there our sentiments diverge--the reader may complete the sentence for himself--out of Ernulphus!

On which the wise Flaxius comments as follows on the proof with his red pencil:

"It hath been observed by the learned that the speed of a fly, were
he to make even a slight effort to go directly onwards, would be from
seventy to eighty miles an hour, during which transit he would find
far more attractive food, pleasanter places wherein to buzz about,
and more beautiful views than he meets with in this humble room of
mine, wherein I, from hour to hour, do with a towel rise and slay his
kind. Oh, reader! how many men there are who, to soaring far and
wide in life amid honeyed flowers and pleasant places, prefer to buzz
about in short flights in little rooms where they can tease some one,
and defile all they touch as domestic gossips do--but, 'tis enough!
_Mutato nomine de te fabula narratur_!"

THE ROMAN VASE A LEGEND OF BELLOSGUARDO

"From Tuscan Bellosguardo
Where Galileo stood at nights to take
The vision of the stars, we have found it hard,
Gazing upon the earth and heavens, to make
A choice of beauty."--ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Bellosguardo is an eminence on a height, crowned with an ancient, castle-like monastery, from which there is a magnificent view of Florence. It is a haunted legendary spot; _fate_ and witches sweep round its walls by night, while the cry of the _civetta_ makes music for their aerial dance, and in the depths of the hill lie buried mystic treasures, or the relics of mysterious beings of the olden time, and the gnome of the rocks there has his dwelling in subterranean caves. Of this place I have the following legend from Maddalena:

IL VASO ROMANO.

"There was, long ago, in the time of Duke Lorenzo di Medici, a young gardener, who was handsome, clever, and learned beyond the other men of his kind, a man given somewhat to witchcraft and mysteries of ancient days, for he had learned Latin of the monks and read books of history.

"And one day when he was working with his companions in the garden of Bellosguardo, taking out stones, they came to an old Roman vase, which the rest would fain have broken to pieces as a heathenish and foul thing, because there was carved on it the figure of a beautiful Pagan goddess, and it was full of the ashes of some dead person. But the young man suddenly felt a great passion, a desire to possess it, and it seemed as if something said to him, '_Con questo vaso cie un mistero_.'

"'Mine own in truth that vase shall ever be,
For there is in it some strange mystery.'

"So he begged for it, and it was readily granted to him. And looking at it, he perceived that it was carved of fine marble, and that the figure on it was that of a beautiful nymph, or a Bellaria flying in the air, and there came from the ashes which it held a sweet odour of some perfume which was unknown to him. Now as he had, _sentito ragionare tanto di fate_, heard much talk of supernatural beings, so he reflected: 'Some _fata_ must have dwelt here in days of old, and she was here buried, and this vase is now as a body from which the spirit freely passes, therefore I will show it respect.'

"And so he hung round the neck of the vase a wreath of the most beautiful and fragrant roses, and draped a veil over it to shield it from dust, and set it up under cover in his own garden, and sang to it as follows:

"'Vaso! o mio bel vaso!
Di rose ti ho contornato.
La rosa e un bel fior,
Piu bello e il suo odor."

"'Vase, oh lovely vase of mine!
With roses I thy neck entwine;
The rose is beautiful in bloom,
More beautiful its sweet perfume,
The finest rose above I place,
To give the whole a crowning grace,
As thou dost crown my dwelling-place
Another rose I hide within,
As thou so long hast hidden been,
Since Roman life in thee I see,
Rosa Romana thou shalt be!
And ever thus be called by me!
And as the rose in early spring
Rises to re-awakening,
Be it in garden, fair, or plain,
From death to blooming life again,
So rise, oh fairy of the flowers,
And seek again these shady bowers!
Come every morning to command
My flowers, and with thy tiny hand
Curve the green leaf and bend the bough,
And teach the blossoms how to blow;
But while you give them living care,
Do not neglect the gardener;
And as he saved your lovely urn,
I pray protect him too in turn,
Even as I this veil have twined,
To guard thee from the sun and wind:
Oh, Fairy of the Vase--to you,
As Queen of all the Fairies too,
And Goddess of the fairest flowers
In earthly fields or elfin bowers,
To thee with earnest heart I pray,
Grant me such favour as you may.' {196}

"Then he saw slowly rising from the vase, little by little, a beautiful woman, who sang:

"'Tell me what is thy desire,
Oh youth, and what dost thou require?
From realms afar I come to thee,
For thou indeed hast summoned me,
With such sweet love and gentleness,
That I in turn thy life would bless,
And aye thy fond protectress be.
What would'st thou, youth, I ask, of me?'

"And the young man replied:

"'Fair lady, at a glance I knew,
Thy urn and felt thy spirit too,
And straight the yearning through me sped,
To raise thee from the living dead;
I felt thy spell upon my brow,
And loved thee as I love thee now.
Even as I loved unknown before,
And so shall love thee evermore,
And happiness enough 'twould be
If thou would'st ever live with me!'

"Then the spirit replied:

"'A debt indeed to thee I owe,
And full reward will I bestow;
The roses which thou'st given me
With laurel well repaid shall be;
Without thy rose I had not risen
Again from this my earthly prison,
And as it raised me to the skies,
So by the laurel thou shalt rise!'

"The youth answered:

"'Every evening at thy shrine
Fresh roses, lady, I will twine;
But tell me next what 'tis for fate
That I must do, or what await?'

"The fairy sang:

"'A mighty mission, youth, indeed
Hast thou to fill, and that with speed,
Since it depends on thee to save
All Florence from a yawning grave,
From the worst form of blood and fire,
And sword and conflagration dire.
Thou dost the Duke Lorenzo know;
Straight to that mighty leader go!
The Chieftain of the Medici,
And tell him what I tell to thee,
That he is compassed all about
With armed enemies without,
Who soon will bold attack begin,
Linked to conspiracy within;
And bid him ere the two have crossed,
To rise in strength or all is lost,
Ring loud the storm-bell in alarms,
Summon all Florence straight to arms:
Lorenzo knows well what to do.
Take thou thy sword and battle too!
And in the fray I'll look to thee:
Go forth, my friend, to victory.'

"Then the young man went to the Duke Lorenzo, and told him, with words of fire which bore conviction, of the great peril which threatened him. Then there was indeed alarming and arming, and a terrible battle all night long, in which the young man fought bravely, having been made captain of a company which turned the fight. And the Grand Duke, impressed by his genius and his valour, gave him an immense reward.

"So he rose in life, and became a _gran signore_, and one of the Council in Florence, and lord of Bellosguardo, and never neglected to twine every day a fresh wreath of roses round the Roman vase, and every evening he was visited by the fairy. And so it went on well with him till he died, and after that the spirit was seen no more. The witches say that the vase is, however, somewhere still in Florence, and that while it exists the city will prosper; but to call the fairy again it must be crowned with roses, and he who does so must pronounce with such faith as the gardener had, the same incantation."

* * * * *

What is remarkable in the original text of this tale is the rudeness and crudeness of the language in which it is written, which is indeed so great that its real spirit or meaning might easily escape any one not familiar with such composition. But I believe that I have rendered it very faithfully.

There seems to be that, however, in Bellosguardo which inspires every poet. Two of the most beautiful passages in English literature, one by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and another by Hawthorne, describe the views seen from it. The castle itself is deeply impressed on my memory, for during the past nine months I have never once raised my eyes from the table where I write without beholding it in full view before me across the Arno, even as I behold it now.

I cannot help observing that the mysterious sentiment which seized on the hero of this tale when he found his virgin relic, was marvellously like that which inspired Keats when he addressed his Ode to a Grecian Urn:

"Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,
Sylvan historian who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape?"