But even in this version there are classic traces.  The cleaning out of the Augean stables by Hercules is one, and the spell of oblivion another.

I do not know what the origin may be of the head of the sorcerer rising from the surface of the earth with ears like mushrooms, implying that they were very large; but I find in an edition of the “Meditations of Saint Augustin,” Venice, A.D. 1588, illustrated with rude, quaint pictures, one in which the holy father is kneeling before a crucifix, while there rises from the ground before him a great and terrible head with one very long ear.  By it lies the usual skull, one-fifth its size.  Were two women substituted for the saint, it would be a perfect illustration of the strange scene described in the story.  It is, to say the least, a singular coincidence.

“An iron man who did on her attend,
His name was Talus, made of yron mould,
Immoveable, resistlesse—without end.”

Spenser: Faerie Queene, v. c. i.

There once lived a Princess who was beautiful beyond words, but wicked beyond belief; her whole soul was given to murder and licentiousness; yet she was so crafty as to escape all suspicion, and this pleased her best of all, for deceit was to her as dear as life itself.  And this she managed, as many another did in those days, by inveigling through her agents handsome young men into her palace by night, where they were invited to a banquet and then to a bed, and all went gaily till the next morning at breakfast, when the Princess gave her victim in wine or food a terrible and rapid poison, after which the corpse was carried away secretly by her servants to be thrown into the river, or hidden in some secret vault; and thus it was the lady sinned in secret while she kept up a white name before the world.

Now it came to pass that a young man, who was a great friend of Virgil, was taken in the snare by this Princess, and put to death and no more heard of, when the great poet by his magic art learned the whole truth.  Then for revenge or punishment he made a man of iron with golden locks, very beautiful to behold as a man, with sympathetic, pleasing air, one who conversed fluently and in a winning voice; and yet he was all of iron, and the spirit who was conjured into him was one without pity or mercy.

Then Virgil bade the Iron Man walk to and fro past the palace of the Princess, and she, seeing him, was more pleased than she had ever been before, and at once sent out a messenger, who invited him to enter by a secret gate, which he did, and was warmly received, and treated with a great display of love.  And in the morning at breakfast, as the Princess hesitated to give him the deadly drink, for she had at last fallen madly in love, he said:

“Well, where is the poison?  Don’t keep me waiting!  Quick, that I may drink!”

“Do you call that stuff poison?  Why, it would hardly kill a mouse.  Give me stronger, I say—stronger!  I live on poison, and the stronger it is the better I like it.”

Hearing this, the Princess felt from head to foot as if her blood were all turned to ice, for now she knew that she was lost, and her punishment at hand.

“And now,” said the Iron Man, “since all the poisoning and treachery and putting away of young gentlemen is at an end, you must come with me;” and with this he took her under his left arm and went forth.

At her screams all her retainers came armed, and after them twenty soldiers, but all were of no avail against such an enemy, whom they could neither pierce with steel nor restrain by strength; and escaping with her, he mounted a black steed, which a Moor was holding outside, and with his victim flew over the land till they came to a dark and savage place in the mountains.  And here he bore her into a vast cavern, where many men were seated round a table, and as she looked she saw that they were all the lovers whom she had put to death.  Then they all cried:

“Ecco la nostra moglie!  Behold our wife!  Behold our Drusiana!”

And another said:

“Let us give her to drink, and let us drink to her!”

And they gave her a full goblet, which she could not help swallowing, and the wine was like fire, the fire of hell itself in all her veins.  The men assembled round burst into laughter at seeing her suffering, and one shouted:

“Drink, Princess, drink!
Thou feelest the same fire,
Only in greater measure,
Hotter, wilder and fiercer,
Which thou didst feel before,
When thy blood boiled with passion,
And with love of secret murder;
Then thou didst feel it a little,
Now thou shalt feel it greatly;
Once it ran drop by drop,
Now in full goblets and frequent.”

“We give thee again in thy heart
What thou didst give to us:
The heat of love which burned in us,
Burned in us and in thee,
And the cold of desire when satisfied.
Thou hadst no mercy on us:
We have as little for thee.”

The connection of Virgil with the classic Talus, or Iron Man, and so many other ancient legends, as shown in these which I have gathered, renders the more striking the assertion that “after the sixteenth century the Vergilian legends disappear, and become known only to scholars,” as worded by E. F. M. Beneche in his translation of Comparetti’s work.  The truth is, that as the age of credulity and mere marvels passed away among the higher classes, the learned ceased to collect or take an interest in heaping up “wonders upon wonders.”  But the people went on telling and making tales about Virgil, just as they had always done.  And the full proof that there was not a soul who for centuries took the least interest in folklore or popular tradition in Central and Northern Italy is to be found in the fact that, while such material abounds in the English, French, and especially German literature of later ages, there is hardly a trace of it in a single Roman or Tuscan writer till of late years.  Even at the present day there is small search or seeking in Northern Italy for the rich treasures of old Roman tradition which still exist among the people.

“Mercurium omnium Deorum antiquorum vigilantissimum ac maxime negotiis implicatum, scribit Hesiodus in Theogonià.”—Natalis Comitis: Mythologia, lib. v., 1616.

Virgilio replied:

“Go at midnight to the hill of Vallombrosa when the moon is full, and call the fairy Bellaria, who will aid thee.”

Giovanni went to the hill and called to Bellaria, but she made no reply.  So he returned to Virgilio, who said:

“It is not enough to simply call to her, she must be scongiurata—called by an incantation.”

Then Giovanni, having learned this, thus conjured her:

Then Bellaria thus evoked Mercury:

And in an instant there came all together in one the flash and roar and thunderbolt, and Giovanni di Bologna beheld Mercury flying in the heaven, and said:

“E troppo leggiadro, troppo bello!
Non posso dipingere una Stella
Ne il vento, ne un balén,
E finito la mia speranza.  Amen!”

“Thou art too little and light, by far!
I cannot paint a shining star,
Nor the wild wind or lightning—then
All hope is lost, ah me!  Amen!”

Then the beautiful Bellaria said:

“Grazia à Dio!
Io ho l’ ideà!”

“Thanks to God divine!
The idea is mine!”

And so Giovanni made the beautiful statue of Mercury in bronze; and so long as the Tuscans worshipped their idols it was wont to dance, but after they ceased this worship, it danced no more.  [At present, the beautiful statue of Mercury in bronze is in the Bargello.]

It is said that Bellaria is the sister of Mercury, and that both fly in the air.  When the Fate or fairies, or good witches die, Bellaria descends, and then bears their souls to heaven.

“Mercurio, Mercurio!
Tu che siei il mio Dio!
Fammi questa grazia
Che io ti chiedo,
Se questa grazia a me concedi
Tre cose fammi vedere;
Tuono, lampo e vento infuriato!”

“Mercury, Mercury divine!
Who ever art a god of mine!
Grant me that which I do need,
And if’t be given me indeed,
Cause me then three things to see—
   The lightning’s flash,
   The thunder crash,
And the wind roaring furiously!”

And where the water from the running stream has been poured it must be carefully covered over, so that no one can tread thereon, or else from that time the favour of Mercury will cease.

It would seem as if this story were originally intended to imply that the sculptor, unable to give a higher conception of vivacity or motion, represented the mobile god as in the moment of descending on earth, still preserving the attitude of flight.  This conception was probably too subtle for the narrator, who describes the image as having been a kind of marionette, or dancing Jack.  “Whate’er it be, it is a curious tale.”

The connection of Mercury with moving water is also remarkable.  He bears serpents on his caduceus or wand; and among other ancient myth-fancies, a rushing river, from its shape or windings and its apparent life, was a symbol of a serpent.

      “just alighted
On a heaven-kissing hill,”

and the probability is indeed of the strongest.  Many judges good and true are of the opinion that, as regards motive or conception, this is the best statue ever made by any save a Greek, as there is assuredly none in which the lightness of motion is so perfectly expressed in matter.  I believe, however, that Giovanni di Bologna was indebted for this figure to some earlier type or motive.  There is something not unlike it among the old Etruscan small bronze figurini.

THE DOUBLE-FACED STATUE, OR HOW VIRGILIO CONJURED JANUS.

“Now by two-headed Janus!
Nature hath formed strange fellows in her time!”

Shakespeare.

“There were in Rome many temples of Janus, some unto him as bifrons, or double-faced.  Caylus has published pictures of Greek vases on which are seen two heads thus united, the one of an elderly man, the other of a young woman.”—Dizionario Mitologico.

There was once in Florence, in the Tower della Zeccha, a statue of great antiquity, and it had only one body, or bust, but two heads; and one of these was of a man and the other of a woman, a thing marvellous to behold.

And Virgil, seeing this when it was first found in digging amid old ruins, had it placed upright and said:

“Behold two beings who form but a single person!  I will conjure the image; it shall be a charm to do good; it shall teach a lesson to all.”

Thus he conjured:

Then Virgil touched the statue with his rod, and it replied:

“Tutti quelli che mi pregherano.
Di cuore sincera, amanti o sposi,
Tutti quelli saranno felice!”

“All of those who’ll come here to adore me,
Be they lovers, be they married couples,
I will ever make them truly happy.”

The conception of a head with two faces, one male and the other female, is still very common in Italy.  In the cloister of Santa Maria Novella in Florence the portraits of a husband and wife are thus united on a marble monumental tablet.  And in Baveno, among the many graffiti or sketches and scrawls made by children on the walls on or near the church, there is one which is evidently traditional, representing Janus.  This double-headed deity was continued in the Baphomet of the Knights Templars.

In the older legends are two tales declaring that Virgil made and enchanted two statues.  This appears to be a variation of the story of Janus.

“Virgilius also made a belfry.”—The Wonderful History of Virgilius the Sorcerer of Rome.

“To be a crow and seem a swan,
To look all truth, possessing none,
To appear a saint by every act,
And be a devil meanwhile at heart,
To prove that black is white, in sooth,
And cover up the false with truth;
And be a living lie, in short—
Such are the lives men lead at court.”

Old Italian saying cited by Francesco Panico in his “Poetiche Dicerie” (1643); article, Courtiers.

“Above all lying is the lie as practised by evil courtiers, it being falsehood par excellence.  For they are the arch architects, the cleverest of artists at forming lies, pre-eminent in cooking, seasoning, serving them with the honey of flattery or the vinegar of reproof.”—Francesco Panico (1643).

On a time Virgilio remained for many weeks alone at home, and never went to court.  And during this retirement he made seven bells of gold, and on every one there was engraved a name or word.

On the first there was “Bugiardo” (or lying), on the second “Chiacchiera” (or tattling gossip), on the third “Malignità” (or evil spite), on the fourth “Chalugna” (or calumny), on the fifth “Maldicenza” (or vituperation), on the sixth “Invidia” (or envy), and on the seventh “Bassezza” (or vileness).

And these he hung up in a draught of air, so that as they swung in the breeze they rang and tinkled, first one alone, and then all.

One day the Emperor sent a messenger to Virgilio, asking him why he never came to court as of old.  And Virgilio wrote in reply:

“My dear Emperor,

“It is no longer necessary that I should come to court to learn all that is said there.  For where I am at home I hear all day long the voices of Falsehood, Tattling, Evil Spite, Calumny, Vituperation, Envy, and Vileness.”

“So Virgilio keeps a court of his own!  Yes, and a finer one than mine, for all his courtiers are clad in gold.”

VIRGIL AND THE THREE SHEPHERDS.
A Legend of the Monte Sybilla, near Rome.

“And, warrior, I could tell to thee
The words which split Eildon Hill in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone;
But to speak them were a deadly sin,
And for having but thought them my heart within
A treble penance must be done.”—Scott.

Miss Roma Lister, when residing in Florence, having written to her old nurse Maria, in Rome, asking her if she knew, or could find, any tales of Virgil, received after a while the following letter, written out by her son, who has evidently been well educated, to judge by his style and admirable handwriting:

“Rome, January 28, 1897.

“Quid sibi vult, illa Pinus, quàm semper statis diebus in deum matris intromittis sanctuarium?”—Arnobius, i. 5.

There was once a young man named Constanzo, who was blessed, as they say, in form and fortune, he being both fair in face and rich.  Now, whether it was that what he had seen and learned of ladies at court had displeased him, is not recorded or remembered, but one thing is certain, that he had made up his mind to marry a poor girl, and so began to look about among humble folk at the maids, which indeed pleased many of them beyond belief, though it was taken ill by their parents, who had but small faith in such attentions.

But the one whom it displeased most of all was the mother of Constanzo, who, when he said that he would marry a poor girl, declared in a rage that he should do nothing of the kind, because she would allow no such person to come in the house.  To which he replied that as he was of age, and the master, he would do as he pleased.  Then there were ill words, for the mother had a bad temper and worse will, and had gone the worst way to work, because of all things her son could least endure being governed.  And she was the more enraged because her son had hitherto always been docile and quiet, but she now found that she had driven him up to a height which he had not before dreamed of occupying and where he would now remain.  But she vowed vengeance in her heart, saying: “Marry or not—this shall cost thee dear.  Te lo farò pagare!”

Many months passed, and no more was said, when one day the young gentleman went to the chase with his friends, and impelled by some strange influence, took a road and went afar into a part of the country which was unknown to him.  At noon they dismounted to rest, when, being very thirsty, Constanzo expressed a desire for water.

And just as he said it there came by a contadina, carrying two jars of water, cold and dripping, fresh from a fountain.  And the young signor having drunk, observed that the girl was of enchanting or dazzling beauty, with a charming expression of innocence, which went to his heart.

“Constanza,” the girl replied.

“And I am Constanzo,” he cried; “and as our names so our hearts shall be—one made for the other!”

“But you are a rich lord, and I am a poor girl,” she slowly answered, “so it can never be.”

But as both had loved at sight, and sincerely, it was soon arranged, and the end was that the pair were married, and Constanza became a signora and went to live in the castle with her lord.  His mother, who was more his enemy than ever, and ten times that of his wife, made no sign of anger, but professed love and devotion, expressing delight every day and oftener that her son had chosen so fair a wife, and one so worthy of him.

It came to pass that Constanza was about to become a mother, and at this time her husband was called to the wars, and that so far away that many days must pass before he could send a letter to his home.  But his mother showed herself so kind, though she had death and revenge at her heart, that Constanzo was greatly relieved, and departed almost light of heart, for he was a brave man, as well as good, and such people borrow no trouble ere it is due.

But the old signora looked after him with bitterness, saying, “Thou shalt pay me, and the hour is not far off.”  And when she saw his wife she murmured:

“Now revenge shall take its shape;
Truly thou canst not escape;
Be it death or be it dole,
I will sting thee to the soul.”

Then when the hour came that the countess was to be confined, the old woman told her that she herself alone would serve and attend to all—e che avrebbe fatto tutto da se.  But going forth, she found a pine-tree and took from it a cone, which she in secret set to boil in water, singing to it:

And soon the countess gave birth to a beautiful daughter with golden hair, but the old woman promptly took the little one and bathed it in the water in which she had boiled the pine-cone, whereupon it became a golden pine-cone, and the poor mother was made to believe that this was her first-born; and the same was written to the father, who replied to his wife that, whatever might happen, he would ever remain as he had been.

The mother-in-law took the pine-cone and placed it on a mantelpiece, as such curious or odd things are generally disposed of.  And when her son returned she contrived in so many ways and with craft to calumniate his wife that the poor lady was ere long imprisoned in a tower.

“O cara madre mia!
Luce degli occhi miei!
Cessa quel pianto,
E non farmi più soffrir!”

“O mother, darling mother,
Light of my eyes, I pray
That thou wilt cease thy weeping,
So mine may pass away.”

Yet, after he had shut his wife up in the tower, Constanzo had not an instant’s peace of mind.  Therefore, to be assured, he one day went to consult the great magician Virgil.  And having told all that had happened, the wise man said:

“Thou hast imprisoned thy wife, she who is pure and true, in a tower, and all on the lying words and slanders of that vile witch your mother.  And thou hast suffered bitterly, and well deserved it, as all do who are weak enough to believe evil reports of a single witness; for who is there who may not lie, especially among women, when they are jealous and full of revenge?  Now do thou set free thy wife (and bid her come to me and I will teach her what to do).”

So the count obeyed.

Then the mother took the pine-cone and threw it up three times into the air, singing:

“Pina, mia bella pina!
Dei pini tu sei regina!
Dei pini sei prottetrice,
D’ un pino pianta la radice!
E torna una fanciulla bella
   Come un occhio
   Di sole in braccio
   A tuo padre
   Ed a tua madre!

“Pine, the fairest ever seen,
Of all cones thou art the queen!
Guarding them in sun or shade,
And ’tis granted that, when planted,
Thou shalt be a charming maid,
Ever sweet and ever true
To thy sire and mother too.”

This legend was gathered in and sent to me from Siena.  As a narrative it is a fairy-tale of the most commonplace description, its incidents being found in many others.  But so far as the pine-cone is concerned it is of great originality, and retains remarkable relics of old Latin lore.  The pine-tree was a favourite of Cybele, and it was consecrated to Silvanus, who is still known and has a cult in the mountains of the Romagna Toscana.  This rural deity often bore a pine-cone in his hand.  Propertius also assigns the pine to Pan.  The cone was pre-eminently a phallic emblem, therefore specially holy; in this sense it was placed on the staff borne by the specially initiated to Bacchus.  It was incredibly popular as an amulet, on account of its supposed magical virtues, therefore no one object is more frequently produced in ancient art.  A modern writer, observing this, and not being able to account for it, very feebly attributes it to the fact that the object is so common that it is naturally used for a model.  “Artists,” he says, “in fact prefer to use what comes ready to hand, and to copy such plants as are ever under their eye.”  So writes the great dilettante Caylus, forgetting that a thousand objects quite as suitable to decoration as the pine-cone, and quite as common, were not used at all.

The golden pine-cone appears in other tales.  Wolf (“Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie,” vol. i., p. 297) says that in Franconia there were once three travelling Handwerksburschen, or craftsmen, who met with a beautiful lady, who when asked for alms gave to each a pine-cone from a tree.  Two of them threw the gifts away, but the third found his changed to solid gold.  In order to make an amulet which is kept in the house, pine-cones are often gilded in Italy.  I have seen them here in Florence, and very pretty ornaments they make.

VIRGIL’S MAGIC LOOM.

“I heard a loom at work, and thus it spoke,
As though its clatter like a metre woke,
And echoed in my mind like an old song,
Rising while growing dimmer e’en like smoke.

“And thus it spoke, ‘God is a loom like me,
His chiefest weaving is Humanity,
And man and woman are the warp and woof,
Which make a mingling light of mystery.’”

The Loom: C. G. L.

Then Ermelinda saw that there was magic in the loom, of which Gega knew nothing, so she resolved to do all in her power to obtain it.  And this she effected firstly by flattery, and giving the innocent girl extravagant ideas of her beauty, assuring her that she had an attractiveness which could not fail to win her a noble husband, and that, having laid by a large sum of money, she should live on it in style till married, and that in any case she could go back to her weaving.  But that on which she laid most stress was that Gega should leave her old lodging and get rid of her dirty old furniture, and especially of that horrible, crazy old loom, persuading her that, if she ever should have occasion to weave again, she, with her talent, could do far better with a new loom, and probably gain thrice as much, all of which the simple girl believed, and so let her false friend dispose of everything, in doing which Ermelinda did not fail to keep the loom herself, declaring that nobody would buy it.

“Now,” said the latter, “I am content.  Thou art very beautiful; all that thou needest is to be elegantly dressed, and have fine things about thee, to soon catch a fine husband.”

Gega assented to this, but was loth to part with her old loom, which she had promised Nunzia should never be neglected; but Ermelinda promised so faithfully to keep it carefully for her, that she was persuaded to let her have it.  Then the young girl took a fine apartment, well furnished, and bought herself beautiful clothes, and, guided by her false friend, began to go to entertainments and make fashionable friends, and live as if she were rich.

Then Ermelinda, having obtained the old loom, went to work with it, in full hope that she too could spin silk out of cotton, but found out to her amazement and rage that she could do nothing of the kind—nay, she could not so much as weave common cloth from it; all that she got after hours of fruitless effort was a headache, and the conviction that she had thrown away all her time and trouble, which made her hate Gega all the more.

While Mamma Nunzia was living she, being a very wise woman, had taught Gega with care the properties and nature of plants, roots, herbs, and flowers, saying that some day it might be of value to her, as it is to everyone.  So whenever they had a holiday they had gone into the fields and woods, where the girl became so expert that she could have taught many a doctor very strange secrets; and withal, the Mamma also made her learn the charms and incantations which increase the power of the plants.  So now, having come to her last coin, and finding there was some profit in it, she began to gather herbs for medicine, which she sold to chemists and others in the towns.  And finding a deserted old tower in a wild and rocky place, she was allowed to make it her home; and indeed, after all she had gone through, and her disappointment both as to friends and lovers, she found herself far happier when alone than when in a town, where she was ashamed to meet people who had known her when she lived in style.

One evening as she was returning home she heard a groaning in the woods as of someone in great suffering, and, guided by the sound, found a poor old woman seated on a stone, who told her that she had hurt her leg by slipping from a rock.  And Gega, who was as strong as she was kind and compassionate, carried the poor soul in her arms to the tower, where she bound an application of healing herbs to the wound, and bade her remain and welcome.

“Nor did I do it in the hope of aught,” replied Gega.

“And yet,” said the sufferer, “I might be of use to you.  If, for example, you have lost anything, I can tell you how to recover it or where it is.”

“Ah!” cried Gega, “if thou canst do that, thou wilt be a friend indeed, for I have lost my fortune—it was a loom which was left to me by Mamma Nunzia.  I did not regard her advice never to part with it, and I have bitterly repented my folly.  I trusted it to a friend, who betrayed me, for she burned it.”

“No, my dear, she did nothing of the kind,” replied the old woman; “she has it yet, and I will make it return to thee.”

Then she repeated this invocation:

When in an instant they were borne away on a mighty wind and found themselves in the old room, and there also they found the loom, from which Gega could now weave at will cloth of gold or silver as well as silk.

Then the old woman looked steadily at Gega, and the girl saw the features of the former change to those of Nunzia, and as she embraced her, the old woman said: