Chapter II: Part 2

“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_.