“To this I may add,” writes Flaxius, “that there is an English legend of a certain skull which always returned to a certain window in a tower.  Apropos of which there is a poem called The Student and the Head in ‘Hans Breitmann in Germany’ (London: T. Fisher Unwin, 1895), prefaced by a remark to the effect that the subject is so extensive as to deserve a book—instancing the head of the physician Douban in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ with that of Orpheus, which spoke to Cyrus, and that of the priest of Jupiter, and another described by Trallianus, and the marvellously preserved head of a saint in Olaf Tryggvason’s Saga, and the Witch’s Head of Rider Haggard, with many more, not to speak of the talking Teraphim heads, and Friar Bacon’s bust.  With which a thoroughly exhaustive list should include the caput mortuum of the alchemists

“‘And the dead-heads of the Press.’”

“Columna Florentina.—Prope Sanctæ Trinitatis ædem ingens et sublimis columna erecta, cujus in fastigio extat justitia.  Eam erexit Cosmus Magnus Dux, cui per urbem deambulanti, illic de victoria renunciatum fuit quam Malignani Marchio in Senarum finibus anno 1555 contra Petrum Strozium obtinuit.”—Templum Naturæ Historicum, Darmstadt, 1611.

“Vesti una Colonna,
Le par una donna.”—Italian Proverb.

The central spot of Florence is the grand column of granite which stands in the middle of the Piazza di Santa Trinità, in the Via Tornabuoni, opposite the Palazzo Feroni.  It was brought from the Baths of Caracalla in Rome, and erected in 1564 by Cosimo I., “in commemoration of the surrender of Siena in 1554, and of the destruction of the last liberties of Florence by the victory at Monte Murlo, 1537, over those whom his tyranny had driven into exile, headed by Filippo and Piero Strozzi.  It is surmounted by a statue of ‘Justice’ in porphyry, by Ferruci,” says Murray’s Guide-Book—the Italian declares it to be by Taddi, adding that the column was from the Baths of Antoninus, and was a gift to Cosimo I. from Pius IV.

There is a popular legend that once on a time a poor girl was arrested in Florence for having stolen a chain, a bracelet, or some such article of jewellery of immense value.  She was thrown into prison, but though there was collateral or indirect evidence to prove her guilt, the stolen article could not be found.  Gossip and rumour constituted ample grounds for indictment and trial, and torture did the rest in the pious times when it was generally taught and believed that Providence would always rescue the innocent, and that everybody who came to grief on the gallows had deserved it for something or other at some time, and that it was all right.

This is an Italian form of “The Maid and the Magpie,” known the world over from ancient times.  The scales suggest a droll German story.  There was in front of a certain palace or town-hall, where all criminals were tried, a statue of Justice holding a pair of scales, and these were not cast solid, but were a bonâ fide pair of balances.  And certain low thieves having been arrested with booty—whatever it was—it was discovered that they had divided it among themselves very accurately, even to the ounce.  At which the magistrate greatly marvelling, asked them how they could have done it so well, since it had appeared that they had not been in any house between the period of the theft and their arrest.  Whereupon one replied: “Very easily, your Honour, for, to be honourable, honest, and just as possible, we weighed the goods in the scales of Justice itself, here on the front of the Rath-haus.”

It is for every reason more probable that the bird which stole the jewel of the column was a jackdaw than a magpie, and it is certainly fitter that it should have been thus in Florence.  “It is well known,” says Oken in his “Natural History” (7 B. Part I. 347), “that the jackdaw steals glittering objects, and carries them to its nest.”  Hence the ancient legend of Arne, who so greatly loved gold, that she sold her native isle Siphnos to Minos, and was for that turned by the gods into a daw (Ovid’s “Metamorphoses,” vii. 466).  As a mischief-making, thieving, and chattering bird of black colour, the jackdaw was naturally considered evil, and witches, or their imps, often assumed its form.  In fact, the only really good or pious bird of the kind on record known to me, is the jackdaw of Rheims sung by Ingoldsby Barham.

According to Kornmannus, the column was placed where it now stands, because Cosimo was in the Piazza Trinità when he heard the news of the surrender of Siena.

After I had written the foregoing legend, I found the following:

La Colonna di Santa Trinità.

“Of evenings they assembled round the rock at the foot of the column in a great company, and had great merriment and love-making.  Then in the crowd a couple would descend, or one after another into their vaults below, and then come again, often taking with them mortals who were their friends or favourites.

“Their chief was a matron who always held a pair of scales.  Now when they were to judge the fate of any one, they took with great care the earth from one of his footprints, and weighed it most scrupulously, for thereby they could tell whether in his life he had done more good or evil, and it was thus that they settled the fate of all the accused in the prisons.

“And it often came to pass that when prisoners were young and handsome, these fate or fairy-witches took them from their cells in the prison through subterranean ways to their vaults under the Trinità, and passed the time merrily enough, for all was magnificent there.

“But woe unto those, no matter how handsome they might be, who betrayed the secrets and the love of the fate.  Verily they had their reward, and a fine long repentance with it, for they were all turned into cats or mice, and condemned to live in the cellars and subterranean passages of the old Ghetto, which is now destroyed—and a nasty place it was.  In its time people often wondered that there were so many cats there, but the truth is that they were all people who had been enchanted by those who were called in olden time le Gran Dame di Firenze—the Great Ladies of Florence.

“And the image holding the scales is called la Giustizia, but it really represents the Matrona, or Queen of the Fate, who of old exercised such strict justice with her scales in Florence.”

What is most mystical and peculiarly classic Italian is the belief that the earth on which a human being has trod can be used wherewith to conjure him.  This subject is treated elsewhere in my “Etruscan Roman Traditions.”

The great stone at the base of the column was a kind of palladium of the city of Florence.  There are brief notices of it in many works.  It would be curious if it still exists somewhere and can be identified.

“A great palladium, whose virtues lie
In undefined remote antiquity;
A god unformed, who sleeps within a stone,
Which sculptor’s hand as yet has never known;
Brought in past ages from some unknown shore;
Our fathers worshipped it—we know no more.”

“The spirit of Antiquity, enshrined
In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,
In pictures speaking with heroic tongue,
And with devout solemnities entwined.”

—Wordsworth, “Bruges.”

Or’ San Michele is a very beautiful church in the Italian Gothic style in the Via Calzaioli.  It was originally a market or stable below and a barn or granary above, whence some derive its name from Horreum Sancti Michaelis, and others from the Italian Orto, a garden, a term also applied to a church-congregation.  “The statues and decorations on the exterior are among the best productions of the Florentine school of sculpture.”  As that of Saint Eloy or San Eligio, the blacksmith, with great pincers at an anvil, in a sculpture representing a horse being shod, is the most conspicuous on the façade, the people have naturally concluded that the church was originally a stable or smithy.  The legend of the place is as follows:

La Chiesa Or’ San Michele.

“This was originally a stable and coach-house (rimessa), and there was a hayloft above.  Every night the horses were heard to neigh, and in the morning they were found all curried and well managed, and no one knew who did it; but none of the grooms ever shed any tears over it that ever I heard of.

“Now, the master of the place had a son, a priest named Michele, who was so holy that he worked many miracles, so that all began to call him a saint.  And after he died he appeared to his parents in a dream, and told them that the stable and barn should be transformed into a church, and that he would read mass therein thrice a day.

“One day one of the grooms of the stable found that a horse could not move a foot, so he ran to call the manescalco, or blacksmith, who led the horse to his forge.  And when he took the hoof to examine it, lo! it came off at the joint and remained in his hand.  Then the smith said that the horse should be killed, because he was now worthless.  But the horse struck his stump on the hoof, and the latter joined itself to his leg as firmly as ever it had been.  But in doing this the old shoe fell off, whence it comes to this day that whoever finds an old horse-shoe gets luck with it.

“When the smith had shod the horse anew, he tried to lead it back into the stable, but it refused to enter.  Then it was plain that this was a miracle worked by San Michele.  So they removed all the horses and hay from the building, and made of it the fine church which is now called La Chiesa di Or’ San Michele.”

There is a vast mass of tradition extant relative to the Horse, enough to make a large volume, and in it there is a great deal which is so nearly allied to this story as to establish its antiquity.  Karl Blind has found an old Norse spell, in which, by the aid of Balder and Odin, the lameness of a horse’s ankle or pastern joint can be cured.  There is another version of this story, which runs as follows:

The Smith and Saint Peter.

“It is a good thing in this world to be bold and have a good opinion of one’s self; yes, and to hold your head high—but not so high as to bend over backwards—else that may happen to you which befell the celebrated cock of Aspromonte.”

“And what happened to him?”

“Only this, Signore—he was so cocky, and bent his head so far backwards, that his spurs ran into his eyes and blinded him.  Now, the cock reminds me of Saint Peter, and too much cheek of the ferrajo spacciato, or the saucy smith, who wanted to equal him.

“‘Thou hast boasted that thou art the best smith in the world, and canst work such wonders in shoeing as man never beheld.  Canst thou not shoe this horse without taking him to the forge?’

“‘Neither thou, nor I, nor any man can do it,’ replied the smith.

“Saint Peter took the hoof in his left hand, gave it a rap with the side of his right across the joint, and the hoof fell off.  Then Saint Peter carried it to the anvil, fastened a new shoe on it, returned and put it on the horse again, who stamped with it as if nothing had happened.

“Now the smith, like all boasters, was a great fool, and he only thought that this was something which he had not learned before, and so cried boldly, ‘Oh, that is only the Bolognese manner of taking hoofs off and putting them on—we do it much better here in Florence!’  So he seized the horse’s hoof, and with one blow of a hatchet cut it off.

“‘And now put it on again,’ said Saint Peter.  The smith tried, but it would not stick.

“‘The horse is bleeding to death rapidly,’ remarked the Saint.

“‘I believe,’ said the smith ruefully, ‘that I am a fool in folio.’

“‘Più matto che un granchio—as crazy as a crawfish,’ solemnly added one of his assistants.

“‘Pazzo a bandiera—as wild and witless as a flapping flag,’ quoth another.

“‘Matto di sette cotte—an idiot seven times baked,’ chimed in Saint Peter.

“‘A campanile—a church bell-tower of a fool,’ contributed his wife, who had just come in.

“The poor horse continued to bleed.

“‘You are like the mouse,’ added a neighbour, ‘who thought because he had dipped the end of his tail in the meal, that he owned and could run the mill.’

“Why do they say, as foolish as a crawfish or lobster?” I inquired.

“Because, Signore, the granchio, be he lobster or crawfish, carries his head in the scarsella, which is a hole in his belly.  Men who have their brains in their bellies—or gluttons—are generally foolish.  But what is the use of boasting of our wisdom?  He who has neither poor men nor fools among his relations was born of the lightning or of thunder.”

There is another story current among the people, though it is in print, but as it is a merry one, belonging truly enough to the folk-lore of Florence, I give it as it runs:

“You have heard of Piovano Arlotto, who made this our town so lively long ago.  It was rich then, indeed.  There are more flowers than florins in Florence now: ogni fior non fa frutto—all flowers do not bear fruit.

“Well, it happened one day that Piovano, having heard a good story from Piero di Cosimo de’ Medicis, answered with another.  Now the tale which Messer Piero di Cosimo told was this:

“Once there lived in Florence a poor shoemaker, who went every morning to the Church of San Michele Berteldi—some say it was at San Bartolommeo, and maybe at both, for a good story or a big lie is at home anywhere.

“Well, he used to pray before a John the Baptist in wood, or it may have been cast in plaster, or moulded in wax, which was on the altar.  One morning he prayed scalding hot, and the chierico—a boy who waits on the priest, who was a young rascal, like all of his kind—overheard him say: ‘Oh, Saint John, I pray thee make known to me two things.  One is whether my wife is good and true to me, and the other what will become of my only son.’

“Then the mass-boy, who had hidden himself behind the altar, replied in a soft, slow, strange voice: ‘Know, my son, that because thou hast long been so devout to me, thou shalt be listened unto.  Return hither to-morrow, and thou wilt be answered; and now go in peace.’

“Then the mass-boy, who was hidden as before, replied: ‘Oh, my son, I am sorry to say that thy wife is no better than she should be—ha fatto fallo con più d’uno—and everybody in Florence except thee knows it.’

“‘And my son?’ gasped the shoemaker.

“‘He will be hung,’ replied the voice.

“The shoemaker rose and departed abruptly.  In the middle of the church he paused, and, without a sign of the cross, and putting on his cap, he cried: ‘What sort of a Saint John are you, anyhow?’

“‘Saint John the Baptist,’ replied the voice.

“‘Sia col malanno e con la mala Pasque che Iddio ti dia!—Then may the Lord give you a bad year and a miserable Easter-tide!  You never utter aught save evil, and it was for thy evil tongue that Herod cut thy head off—and served thee right!  I do not believe a word of all which thou hast told me.  I have been coming here every day for twenty-five years, and never asked thee for anything before; but I will make one more vow to thee, and that is—never to see thy face again.’

“And when Messer Cosimo had ended, Piovano Arlotto replied:

“‘Then he departed, and coming home, learned that his son had died.

“‘The next morning, in grief and anger, he entered Orto San Michele, and, without any candle, he went directly to the picture, and, without kneeling, broke forth in these words: “Io ti disgrazio—I dislike, disown, and despise thee, and will return here no more.  Five-and-twenty years have I worshipped thee and never asked for anything before, and now thou dost refuse me my request.  If I had only gone to the great crucifix there, I daresay I should have got all I wanted; but this is what comes of trusting to a mere child, for, as the proverb says, Chi s’impaccia con fanciulli, con fanciulli si ritrova—he who troubles himself with children will himself be treated as a child.’”

It is worth remarking, as regards the tone and character of this tale, that such freedom was commonest when people were most devout.  The most sceptical critics generally agree that these stories of Piovano Arlotto are authentic, having been dictated by him, and that he had a very exceptional character in his age for morality, honesty, and truth.  He himself declared, without being contradicted, that he was the only priest of whom he knew who did not keep a mistress; and yet this story is simply an average specimen of the two hundred connected with his name, and that they in turn are identical in character with all the popular wit and humour of the time.

Regarding the image of the Holy Blacksmith, Saint Eligius or Eloi, the authors of “Walks in Florence” say that it is attributed to Nanni di Banco, and is meagre and stiff, but has dignity, which accords admirably with the character of most saints, or their ideals.  It is evident that the bon roi Dagobert was considered as the type of all that was free and easy—

“Le bon roi Dagobert
Mettait son culotte a l’envers.”

There is yet another explanation of this bas-relief, which I have somewhere read, but cannot now recall—more’s the pity, because it is the true one, as I remember, and one accounting for the presence of the female saint who is standing by, evidently invisibly.  Perhaps some reader who knows Number Four will send it to me for a next edition.

It is worth noting that there is in Innsbruck, on the left bank of the Inn, a blacksmith’s shop, on the front of which is a very interesting bas-relief of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, representing Saint Peter or Eligius with the horse in a smithy.

There is another statue on the exterior of this church, that of Saint Philip, by the sculptor Nanni de Banco, concerning which and whom I find an anecdote in the Facetie Diverse, a.d. 1636:

This is the story as popularly known.  In it Nanni is called Giovanni, and it is not true that he was an unworthy, inferior sculptor, for he was truly great.  There is another legend of Or’ San Michele, which is thus given by Pascarel, who, however, like most writers on Florence, is so extravagantly splendid or “gushing” in his description of everything, that untravelled readers who peruse his pages in good faith must needs believe that in every church and palazzo there is a degree of picturesque magnificence, compared to which the Pandemonium of Milton, or even the Celestial City itself as seen by Saint John, is a mere cheap Dissenting chapel.  According to him, Or’ San Michele is by right “a world’s wonder, and a gift so perfect to the whole world, that, passing it, one should need say (or be compelled to pronounce) a prayer for Taddeo’s soul.”  Which is like the dentist in Paris, who proclaimed in 1847 that it was—

      “Presque une crime
De ne pas crier, ‘Vive Fattet!’”

The legend, as told by this writer, and cited by Hare, is as follows:

“But as regards a vast proportion of the ‘sweet and light’ writing on the Renaissance and on Italy which is at present fashionable,” writes Flaxius, “I am reminded of the ‘esthetic axe’ems’ of an American writer, the first of which were:

“‘Art is a big thing.  Always bust into teers wen you see a pictur.’

“‘Bildins and churches arn’t of no account unless they drive you clean out of your census.’”

“Il spirito usci dal fiume a un tratto,
E venne come Dio l’aveva fatto,
E presentando come un cortegiano
Alla donna gentil la destra mano,
‘Scusate,’ disse si io vengo avanti
E se vi do la mano sensa guanti.”—Paranti.

The following, as a French book of fables says, is “a poem, or rather prose rhymed:”

The foregoing is not literal, nor do I know that it is strictly “traditional;” it is a mere short tale or anecdote which I met with, and put into irregular metre to suit the sound of a rushing stream.  I take the liberty of adding to it another water-poem of my own, which has become, if not “popular,” at least a halfpenny broadside sold at divers street-stands by old women, the history whereof is as follows:—I had written several ballads in Italian in imitation of the simplest old-fashioned lyrics, and was anxious to know if I had really succeeded in coming down to the level of the people, for this is a very difficult thing to do in any language.  When I showed them to Marietta Pery, she expressed it as her candid opinion that they were really very nice indeed, and that I ought for once in my life to come before the public as a poet.  And as I, fired by literary ambition, at last consented to appear in this rôle, Marietta took a ballad, and going to E. Ducci, 32 Via Pilastri, who is the Catnach of Florence (I advise collectors of the really curious to buy his soldo publications), made an arrangement whereby my song should appear as a broadside, the lady strictly conditioning that from among his blocks Signore Ducci should find a ship and a flying bird to grace the head and the end of the lyric.  But as he had no bird, she took great credit to herself that for five francs she not only got a hundred copies, but also had specially engraved for the work and inserted an object which appears as flying to the right hand of the ship.  The song was as follows:

I must in honesty admit that this my début as an Italian poet was not noticed in any of the reviews—possibly because I did not send it to them—and there were no indications that anybody considered that a new Dante had arisen in the land.  It is true, as Marietta told me with much delight, that the printer, or his foreman, had declared it was a very good song indeed; but then he was an interested party.  And Marietta also kindly praised it to the skies (after she had corrected it); but then Marietta was herself a far better poet than I can ever hope to be, and could afford to be generous.

The reader will pardon me if I avail myself of the opportunity to give another Italian ballad which I wrote on a theme which I also picked up in Florence.

Il Giardino d’Amore, o La Figlia del Re, e il Contino Stregone.

The Garden of Love, or The King’s Daughter and the Wizard Count.

“The picturesque height of San Miniato, now the great cemetery of the city which dominates the Arno from the south, has an especial religious and saintly interest.  The grand Basilica, with its glittering ancient mosaic, shines amid the cypresses against the sky, and whether it gleams in the sunlight against the blue, or is cut in black on the primrose sky of twilight, it is equally imposing.”—“Echoes of Old Florence,” by Leader Scott.

To the old people of Florence, who still see visions and dream dreams, and behold the wind and the stars at noonday (which latter thing I have myself beheld), the very ancient convent of San Miniato, “the only one in Tuscany which has preserved the ancient form of the Roman basilica,” and the neighbourhood, are still a kind of Sleepy Hollow, where witches fly of nights more than elsewhere, where ghosts or folletti are most commonly seen, and where the orco and the nightmare and her whole ninefold disturb slumbers a bel agio at their easiest ease, as appears by the following narrative:

San Miniato fra le Torre.

“This is a place which not long ago was surrounded by towers, which were inhabited by many witches.

“And believing the cat to be a witch, they took it, and first tying the two hind-paws, cut off the fore-claws (zampe, claws or paws), and said:

“‘Fammi guarire
La mia creatura;
Altrimenti per te saranno
Pene e guai!’

“‘Cure my child,
Or there shall be;
Trouble and sorrow
Enough for thee!’

“This happened once, and the next day the mother was sitting out of doors with her child, when she saw a woman who was her intimate friend at her window, and asked her if she would not wash for her her child’s clothes, since she herself was ill.  But the other replied: ‘I cannot, for I have my hands badly cut.’

“Then the mother in a rage told this to other women whose children had been bewitched or died.

“Then all together seized the witch, and by beating her, aided with knives crossed, and whatever injuries they could think of, subdued her and drenched her under a tower with holy water.  And the witch began to howl, not being able to endure this, and least of all the holy water!

“When all at once there came a mighty wind, which blew down the witch-tower, and carried away the witch, and killed all the uncanny animals which dwelt in the ruins.  And unbelievers say that this was done by an earthquake; but this is not true, for the witches were really the cause (chagione) of its overthrow.

“And though many old things are destroyed and rebuilt, there are many cats still there which are assuredly witches.

“And in the houses thereabout people often perceive and see spirits, and if any one will go at night in the Piazza San Miniato fra le Torri, especially where those old things (chose vecche) were cleared away, he will see sparks of fire (faville di fuocho) break out, and then flames; and this signifies that some diabolical creature or animal is still confined there which needs relief (che a bisogna di bene), or that in that spot lies a treasure which requires to be discovered.”