VIRGIL AND THE SPIRIT OF MIRTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Psellus held that there was a soul in all statues.

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

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

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

“This Seneka, of which that I devise,Because Nero had of him swiché drede,For he fro vices wold him ay chastiseDiscretely, as by word, and not by dede.‘Sire,’ he wold say, ‘an Emperor mote nedeBe vertuous, and haten tyrannie.’For which he made him in a bathe to bledeOn both his armès till he mustè die.”Chaucer:The Monke’s Tale:Nero.“Già tra le infamie delle regie saleDue uomini vedevansi soltantoA cui volera orribilmente male,Questo amatore delle stragi, e pianto,Uno di questi è Seneca, ch’ egualeIn Roma non aver per nobil vantoNelle dottrine di filosofia,E nel fare una bella poesia. . . .Nerone che non vuol d’ogni folliá,Avere appreso un rigido censore,Fece morir, con modi scellerati,Tanto costui, che Seneca, svenati!”Storia di Nerone:A Florentine Halfpenny Ballad.“Alteri vivere oportet si vis tibi vivere.”“Thou must live for others if thou wouldst live for thyself.”—Seneca:Epistolæ.

Chaucer:The Monke’s Tale:Nero.

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

Storia di Nerone:A Florentine Halfpenny Ballad.

“Alteri vivere oportet si vis tibi vivere.”

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

Seneca:Epistolæ.

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

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

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

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

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

Thus he wrote to Nerone:

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

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

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

So he died, and all Rome wept.[89a]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am avenged, and thou art punished.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Che vuoi? What wilt thou have?”

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

“Would you not prefer wealth?” asked Virgil.

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

“Chi ha eloquenza,Ad ogni cosa ha pretenza.”“He who hath but eloquenceHath unto everything pretence.”

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

“He who hath but eloquenceHath unto everything pretence.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What day of the week is this?”

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

“Friday,” replied Cicero; “because it is the only one which bears a woman’s name or that of Venus.Evviva Venere,evviva le donne!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a voice from the depth of the temple replied:

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

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

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

Sunday

Sun day.

Monday

Moon day.

Tuesday

Tuisco’s day.

Wednesday

Woden or Odin’s day.

Thursday

Thor’s day.

Friday

Frey’s day.

Saturday

Seater’s day.

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

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

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

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

To the reader who would seriously study Cicero, yet in a deeply interesting form, I commend “Cicero and his Friends,” by Gaston Bussier (London: A. D. Innes and Co., 1897). According to this genial and vigorous French writer, there is a great deal of mystery as to the manner in which the noble orator acquired the money to purchase estates and villas, when he was notoriously devoid of income. It is true that a great deal of public money was passing through his hands just then, but as he was as incorruptible and pure as an average Americansenator, of coursethiscannot account for his acquisitions. Here the legend comes to our aid and meets the difficulty. Having the Seven Days to draw upon, which probably means infinite extension of time and renewal of his notes, the great Roman, borrowing, like his friend Cæsar, by millions, got along very comfortably. In fact, they borrowed so much that all Rome was interested in their prosperity, and helped to make them rich that they might pay.

“Put out the light, and then—put out the light!”“Ut inquit Hecateus in Genealogiis: Enim vero cùmduæessent Vestæ, per antiquiorem Saturni matrem; terram; at per juniorem ignem purum ætheris significarunt.”—Mythologia Natalis Comitis,A.D.1616.

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

“Ut inquit Hecateus in Genealogiis: Enim vero cùmduæessent Vestæ, per antiquiorem Saturni matrem; terram; at per juniorem ignem purum ætheris significarunt.”—Mythologia Natalis Comitis,A.D.1616.

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

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

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

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

“Chiudo la catena,Ma non chiudo la catena,Chiudo il corpo e l’animaDi questo bel signor ingrato,Chi non ha voluto,Corrispondermi in amore,[98c]Ha preferito un’ altra a me,E questa io l’odioCome odio la signorina,Pure catena che incateniTanti diavoli tieni!Tengo incatenata questo signorFino a mio comandoChe nessuno la possa disciogliereE incatenato possa stare,Fino che non si decideraDi sposarmi. . . .”“Now here I close the lock,Yet ’tis not a lock which I close;I shut the body and soulOf this ungrateful lord,Who would not meet my love,But loves another instead,Another whom I hate,Whom I here lock and chainWith devil’s power again.I hold this man fast boundThat none shall set him freeUntil I so command,And bound he shall remainTill he will marry me.”

“Now here I close the lock,Yet ’tis not a lock which I close;I shut the body and soulOf this ungrateful lord,Who would not meet my love,But loves another instead,Another whom I hate,Whom I here lock and chainWith devil’s power again.I hold this man fast boundThat none shall set him freeUntil I so command,And bound he shall remainTill he will marry me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Signorina, have you lost a handkerchief?”

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

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

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

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

The lady laughed and replied:

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

“‘La donna chi prendeTosto si rendeE poi si vende.’”“She who will take will give herself away,And she who gives will sell herself, they say.”

“‘La donna chi prendeTosto si rendeE poi si vende.’”

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

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

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

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

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