It would be difficult to determine how much of the original composition of Scot these verses preserve, and how much they owe to later hands. We cannot be mistaken, however, in remarking their uniform tone of melancholy and apprehension, with the burden of its constantly recurring ‘corruet,’ or in taking this as a true index to the state of the author’s mind.

Pipini records two other prophecies of Michael Scot which serve to confirm this observation in a high degree.[246] The astrologer, he says, forecast the manner of the Emperor’s death, which was to take place ad portas ferreas, at certain gates of iron, in a town named after Flora. This prediction was generally understood of Florence; the rather perhaps that the church of Santo Stefano there was called ad portam ferream; and Frederick accordingly avoided coming to that city.[247] During his last campaign in 1250, however, he fell sick at the town of Fiorentino or Firenzola in Apulia, and lay in a chamber of the castle. His bed stood against a wall recently built to fill up the ancient gateway of the tower, while within the wall there still remained the iron staples on which the gate had been hung. Uneasy at the progress of his disease, and hearing something of these particulars, the Emperor fell into deep thought and then exclaimed, ‘This is the place where I shall make an end, as it was told me. The will of God be done; for here I shall die,’ and soon afterwards he breathed his last.

The other prediction which the chronicler attributes to Scot relates to the occasion of his own death. This, he said, would take place by the blow of a stone falling on his head. His calculations were so exact as even to furnish him with the precise weight of this instrument of fate. Being in church one day, with head uncovered at the sacring of the Mass, a stone, agreeing in all particulars with his prediction, was shaken from the tower by the motion of the bellrope and wounded Scot to death.

There is much in these tales which lies apart from the course of a sober biography; belonging rather to that legendary and mystic fame of the philosopher which we shall immediately proceed to consider. Something, however, in which all these prophecies agree deserves our attention here, and that is their sombre and menacing character. ‘Ruinam predixit,’ says Pipini, referring to Scot’s verses on the Italian cities, and his thoughts, whether engaged with Frederick’s fate or his own, seem at this time to have followed the same dark and ominous course. Death and destruction now filled all his mind, much as if he had been a Highlander gifted with the fatal power of the Taisch: a seer to whom all things looked darkly, and all men wore a shroud, longer or shorter, to mark the time and the manner of their end.

With Michael Scot’s account of his own fate Pipini joins another curious matter, that of the cervilerium.[248] This was a plate or cap of steel meant to be worn under the ordinary covering of the head as an additional defence, and the chronicle says that Scot invented and wore it that he might be safe from the danger he foresaw. Taking this together with the prophecies, both general and personal, we can find no better explanation than that which bids us see in the whole what indicates a case of ecstatic melancholy such as would seem to be the sad heritage of not a few finer natures sprung of the stock from which Michael Scot descended. We hear the same sad note in the strange jingle he wove so long before in the preface of his Physionomia: ‘Nos ibimus ibitis, ibunt. Omnia pereunt, praeter amare Deum,’ and one would fain hope that in his frequent fits of depression Scot may have indeed found rest in what he thus declares to be the only abiding portion of the soul. The wild account of his illness at Cordova, and of the dreams which then visited him is not to be neglected in this connection. Perhaps the cloud then first fell which in after-years returned upon him with such redoubled gloom. Thus the traits of Scot’s youth fit well the picture we are now constrained to form, and the whole gives promise that here at last we may have touched upon the man himself as he was, physically, mentally, and spiritually. A slight worn body spent with arduous study, like a sheath which the sword has almost broken through; a soul possessed with the sense of Divine things, yet sad, and subject to strange illusions; a conscience morbidly awake and painfully scrupulous; a mind to which almost every branch of knowledge was familiar, and not incapable of striking out here and there in a path of its own: if these be not Michael Scot, scholar in the court and courtier in the schools, then it may safely be said that no indications exist which can ever reveal to us this striking personality as he lived and moved in the world.

We seem to see in him a Pascal of the thirteenth century; and this all the more that Michael Scot resembled that great genius not only in the mystical and superstitious side of his nature but in his devotion to mathematical science. How piquant is the contrast between this mighty and gifted child of the mist and the northern hills and those sunny southern lands of grape and fig, of white cliff, marble column and laughing summer sea, where most of his life was spent. No wonder that those among whom Michael Scot lived found him somewhat of a mystery at all times, and, especially in these later days of his burdened spirit, took him for a Mage, weaving his dark sayings into regular prophecies. The Latin races have never been famous for their power to comprehend the northern character. How much less was it likely they should in the case of one who seems to have presented every feature of that racial type in its extremest form? In our own day this incapacity takes the way of accusing as madness all that it cannot fathom of Celtic or Teutonic ways. In the times of Scot the same impatience found a more modest expression. He was incomprehensible, therefore he must be inspired; gifted with the prophet’s divine and incommunicable fire.

We may take it for granted that much of Michael Scot’s dissatisfaction and depression upon his disappointment in seeking ecclesiastical preferment arose from the feeling that he had made a great sacrifice in vain. The best years of his life, and the most strenuous labours of his mind, had been given to his version of Averroës not without the hope that he was here laying the foundation of a great literary and philosophic fame. Moved by a prudence, which was not altogether selfish since it concerned the Emperor’s reputation and policy quite as much as his own, he had submitted to necessity, and saw his translation suppressed for the sake of avoiding offence. The sacrifice was great and doubtless keenly felt, and when in spite of this policy he found himself still without the position he had confidently hoped for, with what bitterness must the reawakening of his literary ambition have been attended. Near ten years had been lost since his return from Spain, and still Scot’s Averroës slept, unknown to the schools, in the honourable but unprofitable seclusion of the Imperial closet. With the death of these hopes of preferment, however, all reason for this unfortunate reserve came to an end so far as Scot was concerned. As soon as he had once made up his mind to think no more of a great ecclesiastical career he was free to urge his master with all insistence to carry out their long-cherished plan, and secure undying fame for both by publishing the new Aristotle in the Universities of Europe.

Nor was there anything in the policy of the time which made Frederick unwilling to further a project which he had all along designed. From the moment of his elevation to the See of Rome Gregory IX. had displayed a firm and unbending temper towards the Emperor. Frederick felt the first instances of his harshness in 1227, when, returning sick and feeble from the baths of Pozzuoli, he found himself excommunicated because he had not sailed to Palestine with the Crusade. This severe sentence was renewed in 1228. Frederick reached the Holy Land that year, but only to meet a mutinous spirit, encouraged among the Crusaders there by the Pope’s orders. On his return in 1229 the sharp edge of discipline was again drawn against him, and we need not wonder if such repeated severity at last convinced the Emperor that there was no hope of living at peace with Rome, nor any reason to study further accommodations with one who seemed determined to be his enemy. The moment had now come when restraints, long submitted to for the sake of policy, being removed, Frederick might well bethink him of his former plans so long held in reserve, and take measures to carry out his purpose of enriching the learned world with the prohibited books of Averroës.

This plan not only promised to fulfil a long cherished desire and mortify an implacable foe, it must also have presented itself in the light of a welcome concession made to a deserving servant of the Crown. Michael Scot had laboured long to form the works in question. His interest, as well as every other reason, now demanded that they should lie no longer concealed. The fame he was certain to gain by this publication would be the best consolation, perhaps the only one now possible, for his disappointments in the ecclesiastical career. To employ him actively in the matter may well have appeared not only just, considering his previous interest in it, but the best cure for a spirit sadly disordered and depressed. We need not wonder that Frederick at last fully formed his resolution, or that he chose Michael Scot as the means of carrying out a publication that was now definitely determined on.

An imperial circular announced to the learned the nature and origin of these new versions.[249] This letter was designed to secure for them such general interest and attention as was due to works of the first importance. Opening with the avowal of his devotion to the cause of letters, a confession which he supported by quoting from the Metaphysica, Frederick touched upon the manifold cares of state which the conduct of his affairs in the Empire involved. He added that he had never allowed these to occupy his whole attention, but had still devoted part of his time to the pursuits of learning. His mind, he said, had been particularly attracted to the works of Aristotle with the commentaries of the Arabian philosophers, especially those concerning mathematics, and the books called Sermoniales. Finding that they were inaccessible to Latin scholars, owing to their obscurity and the foreign tongues in which they were written, he had commissioned learned men to translate these works, desiring them to preserve in their versions the exact style as well as sense of the original. The treasures thus procured he would not keep in obscurity, but designed to publish them for the general good. He addressed himself to the most famous schools of Christendom as the proper means of obtaining the diffusion of this wisdom among those who were able to profit by it.

Which then were the universities intended by the Emperor? That of Naples certainly in the first place, for it was his own creation.[250] Bologna, also, we may believe, judging by the estimation in which we know him to have held that still more ancient seat of learning.[251] Copies of Frederick’s letter are indeed extant, which actually bear the address, ‘To the Masters and Scholars of Bologna.’ Nor can we think that he forgot Paris, the great centre of European culture. At least one text has preserved this the most natural of all directions:—‘To the Doctors of the Quadrivium at Paris.’[252] Thus far then the course of Scot’s journey on this important business is plain. In it he but reversed the progress he had made in early years, revisiting in the contrary order the scenes of his former studies. His own remarkable fame, the widespread curiosity concerning the books he brought, and his official character as Frederick’s Ambassador of Letters, must have secured him everywhere a cordial and distinguished reception.

There is reason to think that his travels did not end when he had reached Paris. Tradition says he crossed the Channel and visited both England and Scotland, where his medical skill was highly appreciated. It is indeed to an English author that we owe the knowledge of this journey performed by Michael Scot. The words of Roger Bacon are of capital importance here, not only telling us of Scot’s travels, but showing the nature of the work he carried with him in that progress, and the enthusiasm with which these books were received. ‘In the days of Michael Scot,’ he says, ‘who, about the year 1230, made his appearance with certain books of Aristotle and commentaries of learned men concerning physics and mathematics, the Aristotelian philosophy became celebrated in the Latin Schools.’[253] At the time of which he speaks, Bacon, born in 1214, may probably have been at Oxford pursuing his studies. It is not necessary to dwell upon the support which this brings to the tradition of Scot’s visit to England. We may take it as almost certain that Oxford was one of the universities where he appeared and was made welcome.

The tradition that he thereafter pursued his journey to Scotland rests rather upon arguments derived from the probability of the case than from direct evidence. Scot had been a lifetime absent from his native land, and, finding himself so near it, a strong impulse must have urged him to revisit the scenes of his boyhood. Nor is it easy to account for the fact that his fame, though he spent so much of his time abroad, attained, and yet retains, such a currency in the North, except upon the supposition that he did actually yield to this attraction and thus once more made himself a familiar figure in the land of his birth.

One matter of great interest is at least certain. Scot’s death occurred just at this time, when he was in the very height of his fame and influence, and probably while he was still in the North. The account, so often repeated and reprinted, which makes him live almost to the close of the century need not occupy our attention more than a moment. Already incredible from the time when Jourdain discovered that Scot’s version of Alpetrongi had been produced in 1217, such a notion becomes more than ever impossible since we have been able to carry the time of his mature literary activity back to the year 1210. Vincent of Beauvais, writing about 1245, talks of ‘old Michael Scot’ in such a way as to suggest that he had by that time been long in his grave. But the convincing evidence, though hitherto little noticed, is to be found in the poem of Henry d’Avranches, from which we have already quoted some lines in another connection. This author remarks regarding Michael Scot:

which shows that the time of his death must have been earlier than 1235, the date when Abrincensis composed his poem.[254]

The question is thus reduced to the narrow limit of five years; since Bacon says Scot was alive and busy in his great mission in 1230. Within this period he must have passed away, and probably his death happened nearer the earlier than the later date; considering the tone in which Henry d’Avranches speaks of the departed sage. He may well therefore have died while on the borders of Scotland. This idea agrees curiously with the fact that Italy has no tradition of his burial-place, while on the other hand northern story points to his tomb in Melrose Abbey, Glenluce, Holme Coltrame, or some other of the great Cistercian foundations of that country. Satchells, who visited Burgh-under-Bowness in 1629, found a guide named Lancelot Scot, who took him to the parish church, where he saw the great scholar’s tomb, and found it still the object of mysterious awe to the people there.[255] The resting-place of Michael Scot will never now be accurately known, but there is every reason to suppose that it lies not far from that of his birth, in the sweet Borderland, amid the green hills and flowing streams of immemorial story.

Here then we leave the life that has been the subject of our study, and not without the tribute of a certain envy paid to so happy a fate as that of Michael Scot. Like another and far greater man, whose sepulchre also was not known among his people, Scot died in the fulness of his powers and fame, while yet his sight was not dim, nor his natural force abated. He was denied indeed the entry to those broad kingdoms of knowledge which later times enjoy, but we may truly think of him as one who stood in his own day upon a height from which something of that fair land of promise could at least be divined, and manfully did his part in leading the progress of the human mind onward to those more perfect attainments now within the reach of every patient scholar.

We may recollect in closing this inquiry that the Abbreviatio Avicennae was published in 1232 at Melfi. This treatise, though it came in the Latin version from the hand of Scot, did not fall within the scope of the publication made so widely in 1230; since the Emperor’s object at that time was to acquaint the world with the commentaries of Averroës. The manner in which the Abbreviatio saw the light was somewhat remarkable. Henry of Colonia was the scholar selected by Frederick for the work of transcribing it from the imperial copy. A regular diploma passed the seals authorising him to do this work, and from that writ we find that he completed it at Melfi, on the vigil of St. Laurence in the house of Master Volmar the imperial physician.[256] We may surely see in these facts a further likelihood that by this time Scot was already dead. Another holds his place as court-physician, another wields his pen, or at least furnishes the copy from which the world at large first came to know one of his most important and characteristic works. May we not take it then, that in ordering this diploma to be drawn, Frederick desired to show his concern at hearing he had lost so faithful and able a servant, and his anxiety that no time should elapse before the publication of his remaining works? Thus regarded, the Abbreviatio was a wreath laid on the grave; a tribute to the translator’s memory, while in itself it was a seal set to the fame of Michael Scot as in his day the chief exponent of the mighty Aristotle, and one who by these labours succeeded in directing for many ages the course of study in the European Schools.

CHAPTER IX
THE LEGEND OF MICHAEL SCOT

Hitherto we have taken little notice of the fame by which Michael Scot is most widely known in literature; preferring to speak first of the authentic facts and real employments of his life, so far as these can now be ascertained. It would be improper, however, to close our investigation without taking some account of that darker reputation which has so long represented him to the world as a magician and dealer in forbidden lore. If we have deferred so long the consideration of this matter, the reason may be found in the fact that there seems to be no truth in such stories. They live only in legend, and in the literature of romance, and must therefore be held apart by a firm line from the domain of sober historical inquiry.

This conclusion, be it observed, is not based upon the prevailing opinion of the present day that such arts are impossible, nor has it thence been reached by way of the inference that because magic is impossible, therefore Michael Scot cannot have meddled in it. Such was not at all the view held in the thirteenth century. Then scholars as well as the unlearned, and clergy as well as laity, believed firmly in the possibility, nay, the reality, of what they regarded as an unwarrantable interference with the order of nature. This belief makes it a fair subject of discussion in regard to any one of that age whether or not he may have practised forbidden arts. The question in Scot’s case is a highly curious one, and, without further apology, we now proceed to examine it in detail.

The most famous schools of magic in those days were fixed by popular tradition in the Spanish cities of Toledo and Salamanca, especially the former. Magic, indeed, was generally spoken of as the scientia Toletana. The Morgante Maggiore of Pulci may furnish us with a fair example of the common belief:[257]

and again:

Caesar Von Heisterbach, the anecdote-monger of the century, relates more than one diverting tale of necromantic prodigies, the scene of which he lays at Toledo. The most remarkable of these stories tells how some Germans came thither to learn magic.[258] Their teacher in this art called up certain spirits, who appeared first as armed men, and then in the form of lovely maids. One of the students was thereby allured and carried off. The others drew their swords and threatened the master with death, until, overcome by fear, he used his power to secure their companion’s return.

From the favourite locality of these legends we may infer that the magic then in vogue was that of the Arabs, which, especially in Spain, had now begun to supplant the ancient and primitive European superstitions. This magic was not a mere ritual of spells, such as that of the Chaldean monuments, but rather a complete theurgy, like the magic of Egypt; the corruption of an ancient and elaborate religious system.[259] The Arabian mage pretended to bow the superior powers which other men could only worship, and boldly bade them do his will. It is hardly necessary to say that such a system did not originally belong to the Arabs, who had been, until the days of Mohammed, a rude and savage people. They learned it in Syria and Egypt, where the theories of Porphyry and Iamblichus still held sway.[260] In their hands this magic became enriched with many new conceits, such as the nimble fancy of these children of the East knew well how to interweave with all that they touched. The stars, they held, were the centres of supreme influence, but had certain correspondences with earthly things; with herbs, with stones, and even with sounds. These were in a sort the offspring of heaven, for plants of power were precious things put forth by the sun and moon; the minerals were condensed and congealed by the same heavenly agency in a planetary hour, and earthly voices, even the cries of dumb animals, were but the far echo of the music heard in heaven, the music of the spheres.

So far, indeed, this was but common doctrine, shared by all the science of the time, and eminently expounded in every astrological system. The magic founded upon it began with the notion that this close correspondence between heaven and earth might carry an influence able to react in an upward, contrary, and unnatural direction. Plants and precious stones, rightly employed, might prove able to bind the stellar powers on which all depended. Names and forms of conjuration might control the superior spirits which the stars represented. Hence arose a whole system of magical practice, in which, from the circle of the sorcerer—a symbol representing on earth the motion of the upper spheres—the vapour of mingled herbs and minerals rose to heaven above the glowing brazier, accompanied by recited spells. It is curious to notice that when, after several ages, this essentially Eastern and theurgic necromancy[261] gave place to the witchcraft of the North, with its dark demonolatry, the essential idea of the Arabian magicians still survived. Its influence may be traced in the importance always attached in popular belief to the reversal of natural practice, as a means of securing supernatural power and effect. Hence the bizarre details which crowd the witch trials of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries: how hags walked backwards, or withershins, that is, against the course of the sun, or changed a prayer into a spell by muttering it in a contrary sense.

The Arabian magic as understood in Spain during the thirteenth century is very fully expounded in a curious work called Picatrix.[262] This book explains that the fundamental idea of the art was reaction leading up to transformation or magical change, adding that this reaction may be seen in three different regions of being; first among the elemental spirits themselves, next between these and matter, and, last, the reaction of one kind of matter upon another, as in alchemy. The second of these kinds of reaction admits the influence of earthly things upon the heavenly spirits, and is the foundation of that kind of magic which the Picatrix proceeds to expound, in details which are often much more curious than edifying. This book has special value as showing the intimate relation between magic and the ordinary studies of those times. Aristotle is often quoted in it,[263] and the position of necromancy with regard to other branches of science is clearly defined. It is not hard to see that, when thus understood, this art must have allied itself closely with astronomy and astrology on the one hand, and with alchemy on the other. In the account given by Bacon of Avicenna’s philosophy, he says that the third great division of that author’s works, and one which had never appeared in Latin, was that devoted to the most hidden parts of natural philosophy.[264] The science of those days left an acknowledged place for the occult and the mysterious among its doctrines. This place was filled by magic, a study forbidden indeed by the Church, but generally recognised as occupying a real though secret department among the other sciences and arts. The tradition we so often meet with that masters of necromancy actually taught the art of magic in Toledo, Salamanca, and perhaps Padua, seems but a reflection in later times of what was then the genuine belief of European scholars.

There is thus no reason why Michael Scot should not have devoted himself to what was the subject of actual and serious study during the times in which he lived, and especially so in the country where his chief literary labours were carried on. Were we to follow the mere likelihood of the case, his interest in astronomy and alchemy would lead us to think it very possible he might have studied an art that was so closely connected with these. But to change such a possibility into a certainty, or even a probability, something more convincing than any a priori argument must be found. If no actual proof of Scot’s magical practice be forthcoming we must be content to leave the matter where we found it; in the realm of dim and unsubstantial tradition.[265]

The true criterion here must doubtless be sought in the evidence furnished by contemporaries regarding the fact alleged. In the case of Michael Scot such evidence is forthcoming, but we may say at once that it proves upon examination to yield a distinctly negative result. His fame in those days was such that he is mentioned by several important writers of his own age, such as Bacon, Albertus Magnus, and Vincent of Beauvais. None of these has a word to say of Scot’s reputation as a necromancer. Some may urge that an argument from silence is unsatisfactory; but does it not gain great force from the consideration that two of these witnesses are decidedly hostile to Scot? Bacon, especially, seems to have lost no opportunity of blackening his character. To these men Michael Scot was a sciolist, a mere pretender to knowledge, ignorant even of Latin; the very charlatan of the schools. He was a plagiarist too; one who passed off the work of another man as his own; nay, darker than all, he was a heretic, or so Albert would make him; a philosopher who interpreted and exceeded the forbidden doctrines of Averroës. Is it not certain that, if Scot had really practised magic in spite of the prohibitions of the Church, we should have heard of this charge from these active and bitter detractors? Our conclusion from their silence is therefore neither far to seek nor hard to defend. These tales, we must hold, were not current in the lifetime of Michael Scot, nor for many years after. They had no foundation in fact, but were the fancies of the following generation, and thus passed into the settled tradition which has ever since persistently associated itself with the philosopher’s name.

But this conclusion raises another question. How did such a tradition arise, and what were the points of attachment to which these stories clung? The ground for the legend of Michael Scot would seem to have been prepared by the close connection between him and his master the Emperor Frederick II. Every student of those times knows well the storm of invective and the weight of calumny which fell upon that great monarch as the consequence of his feuds with the See of Rome. He was officially declared to be no Christian but the mystic Beast of the Apocalypse, vomiting blasphemies. He was accused of having produced the apocryphal work De Tribus Impostoribus. His private life became the subject of grave scandal and repeated censure. Men were taught to believe that he revelled in a harem of Saracen beauties, and was addicted to infamous immorality, as well as to forbidden arts. These accusations were current, not only in Frederick’s own lifetime, but long afterwards. They may be studied at large in the Papal Epistolaries,[266] and a striking example of their current popular form is found in the following barbarous lines which we borrow from an obscure author[267] who used his pen in the service of the Guelfs:

When we remember that Michael Scot was the man whom Frederick loved to consult and employ, we understand what effect this depreciation of the master’s fame must have had on that of his servant. If the Emperor made Beelzebub and Ashtaroth his gods, Scot must soon have been recognised as the go-between in this infernal business.

Such an impression would naturally be heightened by the recollection of the years which had been spent by Michael Scot at Toledo and Cordova. We have already noticed the dark reputation which attached to the former of these places. It is only needful here to add that Scot’s ecclesiastical character would by no means hinder the unfavourable inference that must have been drawn from his lengthened residence in the chief seat of magical study. St. Giles before his conversion, and Gerbert, afterwards Pope Sylvester II., were commonly reported to have learned the black art at Toledo. As to Cordova, the Picatrix mentions the discovery of a magic book in the Church there,[268] which shows that the supernatural fame of Toledo attached itself also to this city.

It is far from improbable that the nature of Scot’s studies in these places may have inclined men to believe in the stories told of him as a necromancer. He spent his time upon Arabic texts, and, with the fanatical clergy, not to speak of the common people whom they taught, the Moors and all their works were accursed. No one could meddle much with them save at the cost of such accusations of diabolic dealing. Nor was it merely the language but also the very subject of Scot’s studies that was suspicious. Since the days of the Alexandrian school there had grown up round the name of Aristotle a strange legend which represented him as a magician; none other than the great sorcerer Nectanebus of Egypt, the true father, by an infamous sleight, of Alexander of Macedon.[269]

Nectanebus, so the tale ran, was King of Egypt, and learned in all the magic arts of that mysterious land. When war threatened he would fill a vessel with water and float upon it enchanted ships of clay. Thus could he divine the success or failure of his country’s arms. One day, however, as he was busy in this spell, the old gods appeared to guide the craft he had designed as models of the hostile fleet. Nectanebus gave up all for lost, shaved his head, and in the disguise of a philosopher, fled to Pella in Macedonia, where he lived by practising the arts of an astrologer and prophet. Olympias consulted him to know whether she might hope to give an heir to her husband Philip, then absent from his capital. Nectanebus bade her expect the honour of a visit from Jupiter Ammon himself, and, dressing in the horns and hieratic robe proper to the character he assumed, became, by her whom he seduced, the father of Alexander the Great. The child was born amid thunder and lightning, and was soon committed to the care of Nectanebus who became his tutor: a clear point of connection with Aristotle, who really filled that office. One day tutor and pupil walked on the edge of a cliff, when the philosopher uttered a prophecy to the effect that Alexander was fated to kill his own father. The boy, who fancied that Philip was meant, took the words so ill that he flung his tutor over the rock, and thus instantly fulfilled the prediction. This tale can be traced from its appearance in the Pseudo-Callisthenes through the series of Byzantine chroniclers—Syncellus, Glycas, John Malala, and the author of the Chronicon Pascale—to the later romances where it is repeated and amplified. The whole Middle Age believed it. Not till the fourteenth century did a doubt of its truth appear,[270] and that it was current in the west of Europe at the time of which we write appears plainly in the preface to the Secreta Secretorum, which has the following significant remark, ‘which Alexander is said to have had two horns.’[271] The real meaning of the legend probably lay in a patriotic desire to vindicate for Egypt, though subdued by Alexander, the honour of having originated the Greek philosophy.[272] The thirteenth century, however, knew nothing of such explanations; cherishing the tale rather on account of the wild mystery which it breathes. No wonder then if the labours of Michael Scot as an exponent of Aristotle gave some force to the popular idea that he dealt in forbidden arts.

Need we point out that the same may be said of his fame as a Master in astrology and alchemy? We have seen how close was the relation in which these sciences stood to the magic of the day. As to mathematics, for which Scot was so renowned, it is to be observed that the kind of divination called Geomancy, which was performed by casting figures in a box filled with sand, was remarkably like the method of working sums which is still practised among the Moors.[273] We may add that the facility with which difficult problems could be solved by the new methods of calculation borrowed from that people must have seemed little less than supernatural to those as yet unacquainted with the secrets of algebra.

It seems probable indeed that at least one starting-point of Michael Scot’s legendary and romantic fame may be looked for in the very quarter to which we have just begun to direct our attention. There is in the author’s possession a manuscript which promises to throw some light on the obscurity of this matter.[274] It consists of sixteen quarto pages written on parchment in a hand of the seventeenth century, and contains a short preface, followed by two distinct works. One of these professes to be an Arabic original, and the other a version of the same in Latin, said to come from the pen of Michael Scot. The title of the work deserves special attention. It is as follows: ‘Almuchabola Absegalim Alkakib Albaon; i.e. Compendium Magia Innaturalis Nigrae.’ Now, although the so-called Arabic of the manuscript quite defies the best efforts of scholarship to decipher it, this word almuchabola is perfectly authentic, familiar even, being the common term in that language for what we call algebra.[275]

This then seems to afford an actual example of the way in which the Moorish science of numbers might be mistaken for something magical. When we examine the manuscript more closely the suggestion which its title affords becomes still stronger. Here and there, amid the strange characters of an unknown tongue,[276] are designs of a curious kind; parallelograms enclosed in bounding lines of red, and containing erratic figures also in red, that show luridly against the black background with which the outlines are filled. The Latin version explains that these are the signs of the demons whom the accompanying spells have power to summon or dismiss. No one, however, who compares them with the graphic statements of mathematical problems in the margin of the Liber Abbaci can fail to be struck with the resemblance.[277] The one book seems, in regard of these figures, but a degenerate copy of the other, made by some scribe who did not understand the matter he had in hand, and who darkened the ground of his designs to heighten the fancied terrors of the subject.

It would not be easy to miss the meaning of this mistake. Michael Scot had probably written or translated a treatise on algebra. We may remember how well such a conjecture agrees with the tone of Pisano’s dedicatory letter to him, in which he submitted the Liber Abbaci to Scot’s revision, and acknowledged him as a supreme master in this branch of science. It is difficult to account for this fame save by supposing the existence of an unknown work by Michael Scot on the veritable Almuchabola, of which this pretended treatise on magic is all that now survives. The mistake that gave it so corrupted a form could hardly have been made as late as the seventeenth century, when such things were well understood. The manuscript, though dating from that time, is probably only a copy of one much older. The preface, indeed, mentions the year 1255 as the epoch of translation, and, although Michael Scot had then lain more than twenty years in his grave, this date would suit well as the birth-hour of a legend which, though certainly later than Scot’s own day, had yet made considerable progress in the popular mind before the close of the century. This explanation of the matter receives some indirect support from a remark of Bacon’s. ‘It is to be noticed,’ he says, ‘that many books are taken for magical works which are in reality nothing of the kind, but contain true and worthy wisdom.’[278] He adds that there are several ways of concealing one’s doctrine from the vulgar, such as the use of Hebrew, Syriac, and Arabic characters, and the Ars Notoria or shorthand. There is much reason to think it was in this very way that Michael Scot had suffered. A mistake like that indicated by Bacon was probably the real origin of his mysterious reputation as a magician.

As soon as the mistake had once been made, and the notion of Scot’s magical powers had fairly taken possession of the popular mind, it was greatly reinforced by the association of his name and memory with the still living and adaptable Arthurian legend. Alain de l’Isle, who lived as late as 1202, says that the tales proper to this romantic cycle were so heartily believed in Brittany that any one casting doubt upon Arthur’s return would have been stoned by the people.[279] From the Trouvères the legend passed to the Troubadours of the south of France. When the Normans established themselves in Sicily, these latter poets, represented, it is said, by Pietro Vidal, and Rambaldo di Vaqueiras, carried to this new home of their race the materia poetica which had so long engaged the best talents of France. The religious war which desolated Provence in the beginning of the thirteenth century completed the dispersion of the Troubadours. Many found a refuge in Italy and Sicily. They communicated an emotional impulse which led to the formation of the Italian language as a means of literary expression. Through them the inheritance of the Arthurian tales was secured to the people of the South, who soon began to localise the chief incidents of this romantic cycle in the island of Sicily.[280]

Gervase of Tilbury tells us that near the town of Catania lies the burning mountain of Etna, called by the people Mongibello, and famed among them as the abode of King Arthur, who, they said, had lately been seen there. The matter fell out thus. The Bishop of Catania’s palfrey escaped one day from his groom, and was lost. The man sought his charge everywhere, and at last ventured to enter an opening he perceived in the hollow part of the hill. Here he found a narrow winding path which led to a pleasant land within Etna, and to a palace, the home of Arthur. He entered the palace and found the King lying on a royal couch. Arthur bade him welcome, listened to his story, and called for the steed to be brought that the Bishop might have his own again. He further told his visitor that, having been wounded in battle with Modred and Childeric king of Saxony, he had come to this retreat that he might heal him of his mortal sickness. Gervase adds that Arthur, not content with restoring the horse, paid tithe to the Bishop as one of the dwellers in his diocese, ‘which was a wonder to all that heard it.’[281]

Caesar von Heisterbach has the same tale in his collection, but repeats it with some variations. In his pages the pleasant land of Avalon, with its peaceful palace, becomes a dark abode of fire, answering more nearly to the actual phenomena of the mountain. Arthur hence issues a dread summons to the owner of the palfrey, who in this tale is a Canon of Palermo, bidding him appear in that infernal region within a fortnight. The churchman obeys by dying at the time appointed.[282] The terror which enters into this form of the story is even heightened by Stephen of Bourbon when he comes to repeat it.[283] On the other hand the easy, pleasant, semi-pagan tone observed in Gervase of Tilbury lives again in the French romance of Florian and Florete.[284] Here we see the kingdom within Etna before Arthur came thither, and find it a land of faery, where the King’s sister Morgana holds her flowery court. The Fata Morgana, as she is called, is still remembered on these southern coasts. When the mirage appears in the Straits of Messina, and houses and castles are seen hanging in thin air, the people call them by the name of that mysterious princess. They think that the sides of Etna have become transparent, and that what they behold is the realm of faery with the Fata Morgana’s palace in the midst.

These legends show that Avalon, first dreamed of in the far North, had by this time been carried southward to find a new locality under Etna, and that already the mystic king, who dwelt with his court in the land of shadows till he should again return to earth, had taken a firm hold of the southern fancy. It was but a step more then, and one very easily taken, when men began to see in the Princes of the Hohenstaufen, and the chief figures of their court, the heirs of this legend in some of its most important features. Frederick Barbarossa, for example, was commonly said to pass the ages between death and life in a hollow hill. The Germans identified this abode with the Kyffhauser, and expected the Emperor’s return in the spirit of the tales told of Wodan, Frau Holda, and Frau Venus, in their national mythology.[285] It was even reported that a bold shepherd armed with the mysterious key-flower had forced the secret, entering these recesses of the hill and beholding Barbarossa as in life, with his red beard growing through the marble table at which he sat asleep. The romantic heritage next fell upon Barbarossa’s grandson Frederick II. It was long before the adherents of the Empire who had staked so much upon their great champion’s bold defiance of the Papacy could bring themselves to believe that he was really dead. In 1250 his corpse was carried in solemn procession from Fiorentino, where he died, to Palermo, the place appointed for his burial. There he soon lay in the ancient sarcophagus brought from Cefalù; his robe embroidered about the hem with Cufic characters, and the sceptre and apple of empire in his powerless hands;[286] but still the Ghibellines could not give up the hope that one day he would wake again, and lead them to the victory they looked for.

This expectation was much strengthened by a prophecy then current under the name of the Abbot Joachim. ‘There cometh an Eagle, at whose appearing the Lion shall be destroyed: yea a young Eagle who shall make his nest in the den of the Lion. Of the race of the Eagle shall arise another Eagle called Frederick. He shall reign indeed, and shall stretch his wings till they touch the ends of the earth. In his days shall the chief Pontiff and his clergy be despoiled and dispersed.’[287] On the other side a Guelf poet, whose name we do not know, associated Frederick II. with Arthur in the following lines: